Food, Fasting, and Forgiveness:
A Sermon for Yom Kippur

A few thoughts on tigers, tofu, Yom Kippur, and space.

I was recently flipping through the channels on my TV and I came across what I think was the Discovery Channel, or the Animal Channel, or some such nature channel.  They were showing a program on tigers, and I tuned to see a magnificent Bengal tiger running, leaping through empty space, desire propelling her beautiful musculature.  The tiger’s overpowering strength crushed her prey to the ground.  While the unlucky goat was still alive and struggling, the tiger began to feast, gorging on the warm, bloody flesh.  She ate and ate.  Long after her hunger had been satiated, long after there seemed no more empty space left inside her, she stuffed more and more into her stomach.  Finally, she slowly stood up, shook herself, and began to stagger away, her belly full and grossly distended, almost dragging in the dust.  What a change had come over that animal.  The speed and agility that had propelled her through empty space was now gone, her own being weighed down, heavy, slow, and listless as she carried the weight of the undigested goat.

Haven’t we all done that?  Gorged ourselves well past the point of being full? (Isn’t that what summer picnics, birthday parties, Thanksgiving and holiday dinners are for?)  I confess I was guilty of that this summer.  For many years, my partner Jim and I have spent at least some of our vacation in Provincetown Massachusetts; a bustling beautiful beach town perched on the far tip of Cape Cod.  One of our favorites places in Provincetown is a little restaurant, tucked away on a second floor balcony.  Its name is Tofu-A-Go-Go. The owners there prepare the most wonderful vegetarian meals.  With appetizers and salads and main courses, I always order much more than I need.  But the best part of Tofu-A-Go-Go is the desert.  Because of dietary restrictions, I can’t eat any refined sugar or dairy or wheat.  That leaves out most deserts.  But not at Tofu-A-Go-Go!  They cook cherry pies, peanut butter cookies, big blueberry muffins, and strawberry tortes, all non-dairy and not sweetened with sugar.  It is heaven!  Long after there seems no more empty space, I will stuff more and more moist morsels into my mouth.  Finally finishing, I look a lot like that Bengal Tiger, dragging myself along, weighed down, heavy, listless—so very, very full.

Being full of food passes after an hour or two.  Soon the tiger is up and leaping; soon I am walking briskly along the beach.  The fullness from food passes, but not so the fullness and weight of our undigested lives.

We live lives that are very full—lives we stuff with lots of appointments and projects and deadlines and emails and phone calls and faxes and schedules and obligations.  We’ve been handed lives that are very full—full of family and children and grand children, aging parents, aging spouses, aging selves, bills and budgets and visits to the doctor and mortgage payments and pension checks and credit cards and shopping trips to Home Depot.  We are battered by lives that are very full—full of headlines screaming ‘Earthquake!’ and sound bites shouting “Terror!” and political reports heralding ‘scandal!’  We are burdened with lives that are very full—full of unmet needs, depression and loneliness. We live lives that are very full—full of lost confidence, regret, shame . . full of the fear of death.

There is so much in us and around us that we cannot begin to digest it all.  Is it any wonder we sometimes feel like we simply drag ourselves along, weighed down, so heavy.

An Ancient Wisdom Story: A blackbird found a large piece of food in the village and lit out into the sky with the food in its beak.  The food filled her mouth.  A flock of blackbirds chased after her and raucously attacked the food, pulling at it with loud cries and heavy flapping of wings.  Weighted down, the blackbird finally let go of the last piece, and the frenzied flock left her alone.  The bird swooped and dived and thought, “I have lost the food but I have regained the peaceful sky.”

Letting go of something we’ve been holding, finding the peaceful sky, creating more space in life—these are the gifts within the Jewish High Holiday of Yom Kippur. Yom Kippur, also known as the Day of Atonement, begins on Wednesday at sundown.  During this most solemn time, our Jewish sisters and brothers acknowledge and ask forgiveness for the wrongdoings, the unskillful choices, that they have layered on their lives through the past year.  It is day full of reflection, remembrance, confession, and reconciliation. It is a day to admit to yourself, to others, to the Holy, and most importantly, to those you’ve wronged, that you take responsibility for your actions.  It is a day to empty oneself from the fullness of the past.

A central ritual in Yom Kippur is making a twenty-five hour fast—twenty-five hours with no eating, no drinking and no sex.  Now, the idea of that kind of fast can sound brutal to many people, like a punishment for wrongdoing.  But the concept behind fasting is not to deprive a guilty person of something good.  Rather, the fast is used to create a sacred space within the otherwise full life of a person.  So, what is usually filled with food, snacks, cookies, coffee, soda, beer, internet porn, or sexual fantasies and obsessions is suddenly transformed into an open and empty space. Symbolically—and literally—a space is opened up.   The Spirit of Life can enter.

A Jewish fable: There was a man who wanted to speak with his Rabbi.  He phoned and said: “Rabbi Levy, I need to talk with you right away.  My heart is so troubled.  I need something more in my life.  I need to find my purpose, my reason for being here.  I’m not getting any younger, you know, I want to know life’s meaning.  I want to feel my joy!”  “Wonderful, my son,” said Rabbi Levy, “I could meet with you this afternoon.”  “I have an appointment with my broker,” said the man.  “How about tomorrow morning at 9 AM?” asked Rabbi Levy.  The man replied: “No can do, I’ve got a meeting scheduled at the office.”  “How about Saturday, after service.”  “I’ve got a brunch with my brother.”  Said Rabbi Levy: “My son, how can you expect to receive anything if your hands are already full?”

Aren’t we all here because, in some way, we are looking to receive something?  Aren’t we all looking, in some way, for something to come into our lives?  Perhaps we want to experience a sense of peace, of gentleness, of being content with what we have.  Perhaps we want a connection to community, to feel that we belong somewhere.  Perhaps we want to make a friend.  Perhaps we want to be reminded that hope is still alive in the world.  Perhaps we just want to feel better for one day.  Perhaps we want some quiet reflection time.  Maybe we want our children or grandchildren to learn another way of looking at the world, and secretly wish that we could learn that, too.  Perhaps we just want to see our old friends.  Perhaps we want to be in a place that will hold us as we grow older, and offer gentle hands as we come to die.  Perhaps we want to know there is something bigger bigger than us, something we can hold onto, maybe something that could hold onto us.  Perhaps we want to believe in ourselves again.  Perhaps we want to be forgiven.  Perhaps what we want is something so deep and personal that we’ve never whispered to another person.  Or perhaps we don’t even know what draws us here.

How can we expect to receive anything if our hands are already full?”

On this day of Yom Kippur, I suggest that we must create the spiritual and emotional space our lives so desperately need.  Let us take a lesson from our Jewish sisters and brothers. Let us make our own fast, make our own emptying, so we can regain the peaceful sky.

What could that space look like in your life?  What could you do, symbolically, or literally, to make more space, to open up your life?

—Beginning Wednesday evening, as Jews around the world fast from eating, could you skip a meal, and use that time, and that empty feeling, to reflect, to connect, to question, to listen?

 If a literal fast doesn’t speak to us, is there another way to open up space in our life?

—Is there something we’ve been holding onto, something we could let go of?
—Is there a confession we need speak, to ourselves or to another?
—Is there an apology we could make?
—Is there something or someone we need to forgive?
—Is there a closet we could clean out?
—Is there a truth we need to admit?
—Is there a drink we can put down?
—Is there a celebration we can plan?
—Is there an invitation we could give?
—Is there a phone call long past due?
—Is there a word we can speak?
—Is there a decision we can make?
—Is there an appointment we can cancel?
—Is there a walk we can take?
—Is there a nap we could enjoy?
—Is there a bath we can soak in?
—Is there a sky we can gaze into?
—Is there a hand we can hold?

One moment claimed won’t solve our lifetime.  But one conscious moment of space can become a beginning.  For there is great power in creating space—the space to feel our emotions: our anger, our joy, our impatience, our confusion, our delight.  There is great healing in creating space—the space to mourn the loss of our youth, our idealism, our health, our marriage, our child.  There is great energy in creating space—the space to dance wildly, to sing loudly, to shout joyfully.  There is great wholeness in creating space—the space to accept the things we cannot change; to change the things we can; and the wisdom to know the difference.

We began with the story of a tiger on TV; let us end with the story of a tiger in a zoo. 

This tiger was named Mohini, and she lived in the 1950’s at the national zoo in Washington DC.  Mohini was a regal white tiger, and was housed in the lion house, which was a cement 12 feet by 12 feet cell with iron bars.  Mohini spent her days pacing restlessly back and forth in these very cramped quarters.  Eventually, the biologists and naturalists at the zoo felt sorry for her, so they built Mohini this natural habitat.  And it was really quite extraordinary.   It covered several acres, with ponds and trees and grasses and different habitats within it.  It had a great open space for her to run and roam.  And so with excitement and anticipation, the staff released Mohini into her new environment, her new home.  But instead of moving around in the space, she immediately sought refuge in a corner of the compound.  And she lived in this little corner of the compound for the rest of her life, and she just paced and paced in that corner until there was an area cement 12 feet by 12 feet that was worn down with no more grass.  And that was her whole life. (as told by Tara Brach, July 2002, Omega Institute)

Will it be our whole life as well?

Blessed Be.  Amen.

© Copyright 2005 Rev. Tim Kutzmark