The religion thing. It nags at me: Nag. Nag. Nag. Especially during the Jewish high holy-days.

It’s not like I grew up religious or anything. Mine was a secular
Jewish upbringing on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. In other words,
I was brought up by atheist Jews who were, nonetheless, very committed to
their Jewish heritage.

That meant Passover seders and the occasional trip to a synagogue for
a service or a Bar Mitzvah. When I was ten years old, my  parents
decided that my sister and I needed to go to Sunday school. They wanted to "give us some of that old time religion," I guess.

Whatever. It seemed hypocritical to me. And yet, it was probably a good experience even if we weren’t happy about it.

Having to go to Sunday school meant no more Sunday morning bike rides in
Central Park a cherished weekly family activity. Biking to the Sheep’s Meadow,
the Bandshell, the boathouse was one of the great pleasures of my
youth. Sitting in the basement of a synagogue discussing anti-semitism and Zionism was not.

We dropped out after a year.

And yet. And yet. Since childhood, I’ve yearned for a spiritual
connection. For reasons I don’t really understand, I wanted to fast on
Yom Kippur, to eat only matzoh during the 8 days of Passover, to see the Hanukkah candles glow night after night. I once kissed a Bible after it fell on the floor.

I believe it was some sort of spiritual connection I was after. No
doubt I felt exceedingly Jewish and exceedingly connected to the
history and the culture. But I guess I wanted more. And as a parent, I
have struggled to instill a sense of Jewishness in my inter-faith
children. I have tried to give them a real sense of their roots, their
history, their connection to Judaism.

I think I have suceeded to some extent. While my kids do celebrate
Christmas with their Presbyterian relatives out in California, they
also celebrate many Jewish holidays with their Jewish relatives in New York. A little bit of this, a little bit of that. They know that I meditate daily: a practice I value deeply and they have grown used to the small Buddha figurines around the apartment and my Tibetian singing bowl. This will either
create great confusion or a multi-cultural melange that will be quite
valuable.

For me, I have never really found what I was looking for or an institutional religious environment I felt
comfortable in. And believe me I’ve tried. Over the last many years,
I’ve been a wandering Jew on the high holy days, going from one
synogogue to the next, seeking an environment for me and my family that
I wanted to make a commitment to. I won’t name names, but I’ve been to
quite a few congregations in Brooklyn, many of which were excellent.

But still, something keeps me from being anything more than a high
holy-day Jew. That’s when the urge hits me. Nag. Nag. Nag. I never
make plans in advance or make a reservation. But I usually find myself
on the eve of Yom Kippur racing off to a Kol Nidre service somewhere.
It’s my favorite service of all — for the music and the solemn, deep
spirit of the evening.

The ritual of atonement seems essential to me. To take stock of the past year and atone (if not to God, then to myself) for what I am not proud of. It’s such an important way to start the year; to help yourself grow as a human being.

So this Wednesday night as usual, I felt the urge to participate.  I thought about it on and off all day and at 7 p.m., I
googled Kolot Chayenu and found out that the Kol Nidre service was set
to begin at 7:30.

Kolot Chayenu is a progressive Park Slope congregation of 250
members which bulges to such a big size on the high holydays, that
they rent the Mission for Today Church on Sixth Avenue between
3rd and 4th Streets right around the corner from me.

Fortunately, my daughter wanted to come along and we dressed up and ran
over there in a teeming rain. We got there just as the service was
beginning and saw a lot of people we knew; there was a warm and familiar feeling in the room. We were lucky enough to find a seat in the last rown right behind a
pillar. Still we were able to hear the cantors beautiful voice. There were other singers, as well as a violinist and a clarinet player.

My daughter got antsy about an hour and a half into the service; it was uncomfortable sitting on my lap. Last
year she lasted the full three hours. I didn’t get to hear the most
beautiful and moving part of the music, but I enjoyed what I heard and,
as usual, I was glad to be there.

This year, as usual, I felt part of and not part of the service at Kolot Chaynu. I guess that’s  how I take my Judaism.  I am comfortable with marginality: that sense of belonging and not belonging (how Jewish) at the same time. Something compels me to connect with my fellow Jews on
this night so that I can hear the stirring  melody of Kol Nidre. Even if it means
racing out of the apartment just minutes before the service: something compels me to belong.