While there are five actual areas of abstinence mandated by our tradition on Yom Kippur, for the purpose of "innui nefesh," "affliction of the soul," none figure as prominently as the injunction to desist from food and drink throughout the 25-hour period. By fasting we in a very real way put these principal areas of life support on hold for an entire day. In a real sense we suspend our system of sustenance to create by its absence a dress rehearsal with our own demise. We thus become more attuned to the tenuousness of our existence, long enough to feel pangs of hunger but not long enough to endanger our physical well-being. On a different level, denial of earthly needs on Yom Kippur, coupled with the purity of atonement, puts us on par with God’s ministering angels.

However, the denial of one’s regular diet by fasting on Yom Kippur is part of a larger fascination I believe we Jews have with food and its cosmic significance. In a real way when we consider the incidence of food and its related rituals in Jewish life it becomes clear that, in our tradition, "food is theology." We are what we eat. Aside from the laws of kashrut, which while not given to absolute comprehension still underscore, as a Divine statute, one’s subservience to God’s will, there are many situations in which we are guided and influenced by how and when we eat. For one, there are the traditional foods of the Pesach seder experience through which we recreate the tastes and textures of slavery and freedom. On Passover we actually "eat history." We ingest the lessons of the past and in so doing each year we organically assimilate this important narrative of our collective memory. The special holiday foods that compose the Seder Rosh HaShanah, or what has been termed "simana milta," speak to the sentiments, hopes, and aspirations that accompany the dawn of a new year.

Over time other seder rituals have developed representing other agriculural phenomena or historical events, be it the Seder Tu B’Shevat, which plays out through food the drama of the seasonal shifts and the rhythms of life and nature, or the Seder Yom Ha’Atzmaut, which connects us to the land and lore now more closely felt through our active involvement with the modern Jewish state. There are other dictates of our diet that speak to the experience of loss and the promise of renewal. Just prior to the fast of the Ninth of Av we eat alone, digesting a meager meal consisting of cold hard-boiled egg and bread dipped in ashes. The egg’s round shape represents the cycle of life that involves both death and regeneration. Life continues even in the midst of loss. Similarly, the seudat havraah, the meal of consolation, eaten by a grieving family upon return from the cemetery, to mark the beginning of shiva, is defined by its round foods. This practice dates back to the story of Jacob and Esau and the events surrounding the sale of Esau’s birthright. The lentil soup that Esau craved upon return from his hunting in the fields was actually part of the meal of consolation that Jacob had prepared for his father, Isaac, who had just buried his father, the patriarch Abraham.

And so we are taught by taste and text that there is a relationship between food and theology that is far more profound than the gastronomic Judaism of later generations. We are reminded that the source of energy for all things is God, but that the Almighty generally works through the forces of nature, through the food chain and all that it entails. The Psalmist thus writes: "You open Your hand and satisfy all that lives" (Psalms 145:16). But we do not perceive God with our intellect and emotions alone, but with our viscera as well. Hence we are challenged to "taste and see [experience] how good is God" (Psalms 34:9). Theology and cuisine are inextricably connected. To be fully human is not to deny one’s appetites but rather to harness one’s hungers. The sacred feast and fast, each at its appointed time, form a measured approach to one’s need for holiness. "Shulchan domeh l’mizbeach," one’s table is akin to the altar in the Holy Temple. And Yom Kippur comes as a yearly reminder that "man does not live on bread alone." It serves as a necessary respite from our earthly efforts and physical penchants. It reminds us of the dual nature of our human quest.

In this vein we can better understand and recognize the celebratory side of Yom Kippur. A great religious master once proclaimed that "on Yom Kippur I am so happy that I cannot eat." It is similarly told of the Rav, z’’l, the late rabbinic leader Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, that upon Yom Kippur’s conclusion someone would have to urge him eat, as he had become so involved with the drama of the liturgy and the spirit of the day. Hunger and satiety, want and plenty: Together these are the lenses through which we can focus on God. Fasting and feasting are thus derived from the same recipe for life. In Jewish life, "food is theology."