The tradition of fasting — be it for Yom Kippur, Tisha B’Av, or the Fast of Esther — is not unique to Judaism; Muslims fast for the entire month of Ramadan, Christians fast during Lent, and Hindus have a variety of fast days depending on which deity they pray to. Nor is the accompanying concept of a metaphysical hunger, a craving for meaning and spirituality, during these ritualised periods of fasting. We, as Jews, are meant to feel our spiritual hunger during these fasts, an insatiable longing for knowledge and meaning that permeates our religious and daily practices. 

The fast of Yom Kippur, though, is not just a fast of the body, nor the mind, nor the spirit. It is also a fast of greed, of lavishness, of pride, and of ego. It is a moment where we come together and claim responsibility and ownership of our misdeeds, of our shortcomings, and our failures. 

In this regard, many of us give to charity upon these days of fasting. Every Yom Kippur, synagogues across the country and world collect non-perishable food donations to donate to local food banks and other organizations. And this feels good — during our periods of hunger, we give to the hungry. It feels somewhat poetic, a way to fulfill our commandment of Tzedakah and to abide by Leviticus 23:22, “When you reap the harvest of your land, do not reap to the very edges of your field or gather the gleanings of your harvest. Leave them for the poor and for the foreigner residing among you.”

While many of us will break our fasts this year surrounded by friends, family, and loved ones, there are those amongst us who will not. Not just the lonely who have no invitation, but the outcast of our community, the queer, the stranger. There are many reasons Jews might feel disconnected from their Judaism. Perhaps they are transgender and have not had a B’nei Mitzvah while living as who they truly are. Or perhaps they could not get married in a Jewish wedding by their rabbi because they’re two women. Maybe they couldn’t go to summer camp with other Jewish kids because the camp didn’t have gender-neutral housing accommodations. Many queer Jews have been kept to the edge of the community, allowed in Jewish spaces but hardly without judgment, and rarely with open arms. 

In her 1999 book All About Love, author bell hooks notes a national spiritual hunger that is insatiated by simply attending services or engaging in other practices of organized religion. Her reasoning for this is “because it has accommodated secular demands, interpreting spiritual life in ways that uphold the values of a production-centered commodity culture. […] “Such thinking removes from all of us who are privileged the burden of accountability. Rather than calling us to embrace love and greater community, it actually requires an investment in the logic of alienation and estrangement.” This, while a contentious opinion, often rings true. We can become detached from our community when interaction becomes transactional, a fulfillment of a spiritual quota we have conditioned ourselves to believe is sufficient to nurture our souls.

Luckily, hooks offers a solution to this quandary, a single reminder that ignites every soul. “Love that is at the heart of every major religious tradition. […] A commitment to spiritual life necessarily means we embrace the eternal principle that love is all, everything, our true destiny.” Love isn’t passive. It’s not just a feeling, not an emotion. It is an active practice, a series of intentional actions focused on improving the lives of others; not only those we know, nor those we care for, but for all people, regardless of any form of differences that may arise. And so, our previous passive practices —of attending services, of digging out and donating our non-perishables, of kvetching about our rumbling stomachs — no longer suffice. Love, be it interpersonal, communal, or spiritual, requires constant, continued, and resolute effort. 

So, during our fast this Yom Kippur, let us remember that while our bodies are hungry for only one day, our hearts and spirits have been hungry for far longer. While we pound our chests for our sins and misdeeds, let us also pound our souls for our missed-deeds, our lovelessness and apathy. Let us remember when we did not actively love within our families, friendships, and communities. Let us repent for not loving enough, let us strive to love more, to love better, in 5786. And, as you bring your donations of canned corn or boxed pasta, bring that which so many of us strangers have been starved of. Bring a welcoming joy. Bring radical acceptance and belonging. And bring love.