Audio Shiur: The Avodah on Yom Kippur

Audio Shiur:
The Avodah on Yom Kippur


The Avodah represents the pinnacle of service on Yom Kippur. The Mishnah dedicates seven out of eight chapters to the service in the Beit Hamikdash. What actually happened? Why was it so dangerous? What message did Rabbi Yehudah Hanasi convey to us about religious leadership through the language of the Mishnah? And does God control every single thing that happens in the world?

Click here to navigate to the shiur on YUTorah.org.

Click on the player below to play the Shiur or right click here to download)




Did you know that this shiur is available as a free podcast on iTunes? Click here to subscribe - and leave a comment and rating so more people will find the shiur! Thanks!

Audio Shiur: An Overview of Tefillat Yom Kippur

Audio Shiur:
Audio Shiur: An Overview of Tefillat Yom Kippur

General themes built into the Tefillah of Yom Kippur.

Click here to navigate to the shiur on YUTorah.org.

Click to play the Shiur (or right-click to download)

Why Must I Say "I'm Sorry"?

Judaism is anything but easy. While most nations celebrate their New Year with drinking, partying and staying up late, we spend our New Year coronating God as king of the world, while we also engage in an extended process of self-evaluation and introspection. The entire period culminates with…that's right, a day of fasting spent entirely in shul.

Moreover, Teshuvah can be quite complicated. While repentance suffices for the sins I committed against God, the same cannot be said for the sins I committed against someone else. The Mishnah in Yoma (8:7) tells us that, עבירות שבין אדם למקום, יום הכיפורים מכפר – "Yom Kippur atones for sins between man and God". (Of course, you have to repent for Yom Kippur to work its magic.) But what about עבירות בין אדם לחבירו – "sins between man and his fellow man? Teshuvah is not enough. For these sins, we must do more.

שבינו לבין חברו אין יום הכיפורים מכפר, עד שירצה את חברו.  את זו דרש רבי אלעזר בן עזריה, "מכול, חטאותיכם, לפני ה', תטהרו" (ויקרא טז,ל)--עבירות שבין אדם למקום, יום הכיפורים מכפר; שבינו לבין חברו--אין יום הכיפורים מכפר, עד שירצה את חברו. 

Yom Kippur does not atone for [sins] between man and his fellow man until he appeases his friend. Rabbi Elazar ben Azaria extrapolated this idea from the following verse: 'From all your sins, before God, you shall be purified." (Vayikra 16:30) Yom Kippur atones for sins between man and God. [But] Yom Kippur does not atone for [sins] between man and his fellow man until he appeases his friend.

Indeed, Rambam (Hilchot Teshuvah 2:9) adopts this approach in Mishneh Torah, stating that you must first appease the victim of your sin before Yom Kippur can offer atonement.

We've always taken this fact for granted. After all, it makes intuitive sense, at least at first. How can God forgive you if you haven't even apologized to the person you hurt? And yet, the more I think about it, the less sense it seems to make. Why indeed should I have to apologize to the person I hurt? Let's assume that I stole money from a neighbor. I feel terrible about it, and vow never to repeat my sin. Moreover, I return the money, leaving an anonymous envelope full of cash on his doorstep. I've made him whole. I confessed my sin to God, and will truly never commit that sin again. Why should I have to then go to the neighbor and confess? Why should my atonement hinge on his goodwill (or lack thereof), state of mind, and sensitivity?

Moreover, it's not so clear that the verse that Rabbi Elazar ben Azaria quotes says what we think it says. The verse he quotes says,

כִּי-בַיּוֹם הַזֶּה יְכַפֵּר עֲלֵיכֶם, לְטַהֵר אֶתְכֶם:  מִכֹּל חַטֹּאתֵיכֶם, לִפְנֵי ה', תִּטְהָרוּ.

For on this day shall atonement be made for you, to cleanse you; from all your sins shall you be clean before the Lord.

Read the last phrase again: "From all your sins shall you be clean before the Lord." It doesn't say "some". It says "all." This would seem to go against both the Mishnah and the Rambam. Yet, the translation really hinges on how you read the verse, and where you pause during the reading. I'll explain:

Option 1: If you read the phrase: מִכֹּל חַטֹּאתֵיכֶם, לִפְנֵי ה', תִּטְהָרוּ (with a pause after the word חטאתיכם), then the phrase means "from all your sins shall you be clean before the Lord."

Option 2: If you read it without a pause after the first two words the meaning changes dramatically: מִכֹּל חַטֹּאתֵיכֶם לִפְנֵי ה', תִּטְהָרוּ – "from all your sins [committed] before the Lord, you shall be clean."

Which reading is grammatically correct? When we check the trop (טעמי המקרא), 

מִכֹּל֙ חַטֹּ֣אתֵיכֶ֔ם לִפְנֵ֥י ה֖' תִּטְהָֽרוּ

we see that there's a zakef katan – a small pause – after the words מכל חטאתיכם. Option 1 is correct. The Torah seems not to distinguish between different types of sins. At least according to the simple text, Yom Kippur offers atonement whether we apologize or not.

This, I believe, is why the Mishnah notes that Rabbi Elazar ben Azaria extrapolated this idea from the verse. It's not the simple meaning. It's a drush, and the Mishnah says so explicitly. The Mishnah continues:

אמר רבי עקיבא, אשריכם ישראל, לפני מי אתם מיטהרין ומי מטהר אתכם--אביכם שבשמיים:  שנאמר "וזרקתי עליכם מים טהורים, וטהרתם . . ." (יחזקאל לו,כה), ואומר "מקוה ישראל ה'" (ירמיהו יז,יג)--מה המקוה מטהר את הטמאים, אף הקדוש ברוך הוא מטהר את ישראל.

Rabbi Akiva says: Fortunate are you O Israel! Before whom do you purify yourselves? [And] who purifies you? Your Father in Heaven! As it is said: “I will sprinkle upon you pure water and you shall become purified” (Ezekiel 36:25), and it is further said: “The hope of Israel is the Lord” (Jeremiah 17:13), just as a mikvah purifies the defiled, so too, does the Holy one Blessed is He, purify Israel.

It's a famous quote, and a beautiful idea. But is it just a nice ending to the Masechet (it is the last Mishnah of Yoma), or is Rabbi Akiva chiming in on the previous issue? One could suggest that Rabbi Akiva is in fact arguing with Rabbi Elazar ben Azaria, and suggesting that Yom Kippur purifies everyone, for every sin – regardless of what category the sin falls in. In fact, this is exactly what the Sefer Meor Einayim (quoted by the Tosfot Yom Hakippurim) suggests:

וראיתי בספר מאור עיניים (דף קכד ע"ב) דפירש דראב"ע סבירא ליה דמי שיש לו עבירות שבין אדם לחבירו אין הקב"ה מכפר לו אפי' על עבירות שבין אדם למקום. ור"ע חולק עליו וס"ל דאפילו על עבירות שבין אדם לחבירו הקב"ה מכפר אף על גב שלא ריצה את חבירו ואין דבריו מחוורין אצלי.

I saw in the book Meor Einayim who explained that Rabbi Elazar ben Azaria held that God does not offer atonement to someone with sins between himself and his fellow man – even for the sins he committed against God. Rabbi Akiva argues with him and it is his opinion that God atones even for sins committed against one's fellow man, even though he did not appease his friend. And [Meor Einayim's] words are not clear to me.

While the Tosfot Yom Hakippurim (and Rambam and pretty much everyone else) disagrees with Meor Einayim, the opinion is fascinating. Why indeed should my atonement hinge not only my asking for, but my receiving my friend's forgiveness? It's not enough just to ask; I have to actually make strenuous efforts to secure his forgiveness. Why is it so important that the person I hurt forgive me?

This is a great question to ask ourselves as we struggle to pick up the phone, call and offer a sincere apology before Yom Kippur.

Audio Shiur: Why Should I Care if My Friend Forgives Me?

Audio Shiur:
Why Should I Care if My Friend Forgives Me?

We take it as a given that we have to apologize to those whom we've hurt in order to achieve atonement on Yom Kippur. But an interesting reading of a famous Mishnah might very well indicate otherwise. Why is it so hard to say we're sorry?


Click here to navigate to the shiur on YUTorah.org.

Click to play the Shiur (or right-click to download)

Gazalnu - Vidyuy Validation for Yom Kippur

Consider the following question:
We send our youngest son to an afternoon playgroup once a week. The woman running the playgroup charges for her services on a days per week basis; if your child attends three days a week, you pay so much a month. Ours attends once a week, so we pay one-third (approximately) of that amount. She does not take into account off-days; they're built into the price. We knew this going in and did not object.
Until now. Rena pointed out to me last night that it happens to be that this year, the one day we send Petachya to group - Sunday afternoon - happens to be the one day of the week that there's quite a large number of off-days. During the first two months of gan, a full half of the days are off. The way she has organized the pay structure, we're basically paying full price for half the days.
On one hand, that's the way she sets up the schedule - a fact that we knew in advance. It's our bad luck that it just happens to fall out this way and we only send our child one day a week; if we sent him full-time, paying for every other Sunday wouldn't be such a big deal. But when you're only paying for Sundays, paying twice as much for half the does seems excessive.
I mention this issue because your position on whether we should pay or not will quite likely depend on your perspective. If you're me - and I am - it seems unfair to expect me to pay so much just because "that's the system." On the other hand, I'm sure the gan leader reading this wouldn't agree. In issues of money, perspective plays a primary role. Which brings us to viduy.

Reciting viduy each year returns us to the familiar. Ashamnu - we are guilty; bagadnu- we have rebelled, etc. There's a certain comfort in the familiarity of the viduy. We recite the same mantra each year, offering our sorrow and remorse for yet another year of sinfulness. In following the laundry list of viduy that our sages laid out for us, we take a certain solace. Even though we say the words, we didn't really do everything on the list. Sure, we spoke lashon hara. That one applies to everyone. But some of them we say even though we don't really think that we did the deed during the past year. While the rabbis left many of them vague and unspecific enough to include many common behaviors (kizavnu - "we have rebelled". Can anyone claim "not" to have rebelled against God during the past year in some way?), one particular sin seems misplaced on our individual lists: gazalnu: we have stolen. In the year of Madoff and tax evasion and financial scandal, most of come away feeling that at least that's one sin we're not guilty of. I've done a lot of things during the past year; but at least I'm not a thief.
But if that's true, why do I keep saying gazalnu - "we have stolen"? Sure, it's in the text. But when I say it, do I think it's true or not? Unless you really have stolen, which truth be told, most of us have not, we don't really think it's true. We're not thieves, or at least we don't think we are. But if not, then why do we say it? Or better yet, why did the rabbis include it in such a universal prayer?
Truthfully, we might not be as innocent as we think. My line of thinking begins with a Mishnah in Baba Metzia. The second chapter of Baba Metzia deals primarily with the return and care of lost objects: what must I return, what can I keep, how long must I watch it, etc? How do I know that I'm returning the item to its rightful owner? The Mishnah (7) explains:

אמר את האבדה ולא אמר סימניה לא יתן לו והרמאי אף על פי שאמר סימניה לא יתן לו שנאמר (דברים כ"ב) עד דרוש אחיך אותו עד שתדרוש את אחיך אם רמאי הוא אם אינו רמאי

If the [claimer] mentioned the item but did not offer identifying characteristics, he may not give it to him. And the liar - even if he gives identifying characteristics, he should not give him the item, for it is written, "Until your brother seeks him out", [meaning that you should not return the item] until you investigate whether the [claimer] is or liar, or whether he is not a liar.

In order to return lost property, it's not enough to simply announce the item and return it to the claimer with the right information. I also have to look into his background: is he honest? Would he lie to claim an item that does not belong to him? Is he the kind of person who would dishonestly take free money? It seems like an awfully difficult task for a person simply trying to return a cell phone. But the gemara makes the task even more difficult. The gemara notes:

תנו רבנן: בראשונה כל מי שאבדה לו אבידה - היה נותן סימנין ונוטלה. משרבו הרמאין, התקינו שיהו אומרים לו: צא והבא עדים דלאו רמאי את, וטול.

The Rabbis taught: Originally, anyone who lost an item, would just offer the identifying marks and take it. When the liars multiplied, they instituted that they would say to him: go bring witnesses that you are not a liar, and take your item.

Apparently, claiming lost items was simply too easy for many people to pass up. Someone would announce that he had found a cellphone, and I guess it was easy enough for someone else to guess its identifying remarks that false claims for lost property became a common problem. So the rabbis, with this new institution, force us to assume that everyone is a thief and a liar. "You want your phone back? Sure. Just go get me witnesses that you're honest and upstanding and I'll be happy to give it to you." The Tur, in rather stark language, sharpens the Gemara's point by adding the following sentence (See Tur Choshen Mishpat 267) "Nowadays, we are all assumed to be liars."
Reading through these halachot bothered me greatly. It's one thing to ask people to identify their lost cellphone. But it's entirely another to assume that every person is inherently dishonest until he proves otherwise. But there it is, in black and white, codified into Jewish law. We're all assumed to be liars and thieves, ready to steal and cheat at a moment's notice, unless we have witnesses who can vouch for our character. How troubling.
I shared my feelings with a friend of mine, who suggested that it really boils down to a question of perspective. Most of us wouldn't walk into a friend's house and steal his television. (Who knows - maybe mine is better than yours anyway.) That's black and white. But claiming lost property wasn't black and white. It didn't require outright theft, but just a little dishonesty. It's easy to see someone thing to himself, the owner probably gave up on it, so why shouldn't I get it instead of someone else? What about our gray areas - and there are a lot of gray areas.
Were those hours billable hours, or were they just shmoozing hours? Is shmoozing an assumed part of office work, or is it just wasting company time? After that meeting do I go back to the office to finish the day, or just go home, because by the time I get back to the office, I'll never get anything done anyway? These simple questions come up daily in office and work life, and they rarely have good, clear answers. Often the answer depends on your perspective. And our perspective is never objective. It is our nature to give ourselves the benefit of the doubt.
Ask yourself this question then: What does it mean about us if, when asked about a monetary case (and we were an objective third party) we would give one answer; but if we were asking the question about our own finances, we would give a very different answer? What does that make us? Liars? Thieves? Maybe not that harsh - but at least somewhat dishonest, if not disingenuous.
Which is certainly enough to justify our viduy on Yom Kippur.

Change of Place and Identity - Thoughts After Yom Kippur

About a year after we arrived in Michigan, Rena and I went out for dinner to celebrate my birthday. We took in a late dinner at Milk and Honey (ob"m), and then decided to head to a movie. I wanted to see the new Spiderman movie and the movie had already been out about two months, so we figured that the theater would be pretty empty.
It was. As we walked in, it was clear that not many people were out to see Spiderman on a Sunday evening eight weeks after its release. Not many - other than the two families from the Young Israel of Southfield (the other Young Israel in Michigan) that were sitting five rows behind us.
"Hey Rabbi! How's it going?" they asked good-naturedly. While I was somewhat taken aback, they didn't seem perturbed that I was in a movie theater.
"Should we call you the Spider-rabbi?" I didn't get it, but I think it was a half-hearted attempt at humor. Looking back, perhaps they themselves didn't expect to end up in a movie with a rabbi, and it was they who were uncomfortable, and not me.
At that moment, I turned to Rena and said, "You know what I just realized? That I can never do anything at all anywhere in this community, and not expect the entire communty to know about it."
And I was right - that's just the way it is for shul rabbis.

The frightening imagery of the Unetaneh Tokef prayer prominentls highlights the seriousness of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur: "Who shall live, and who shall die? Who by water and who by fire?" And yet, at the conclusion of the prayer, we find some consolation in the crescendo,

ותשובה, ותפילה, וצדקה מעבירין את רוע הגזרה

And repentance, prayer and charity remove the evil of the decree

(Parenthetically, we should note an important aspect of this phrase: first of all, it does not mean that these three acts remove the evil decree, as many mistakenly believe. If so, the prayer would have said, מעבירין את הגזרה הרעה. Rather, they remove the harshness - the evil of the decree. For a fascinating lecture on this issue and much more about Unetaneh Tokef, listen to this lecture by my teacher Rabbi Jacob J. Schacter at YUTorah.org)
Most authorities agree that the author of this prayer derived the highlight from a well-known gemara in Rosh Hashanah (16b):

ואמר רבי יצחק: ארבעה דברים מקרעין גזר דינו של אדם, אלו הן: צדקה, צעקה, שינוי השם, ושינוי מעשה. צדקה - דכתיב +משלי י+ וצדקה תציל ממות, צעקה - דכתיב +תהלים קז+ ויצעקו אל ה' בצר להם וממצקותיהם יוציאם, שינוי השם - דכתיב +בראשית יז+ שרי אשתך לא תקרא את שמה שרי כי שרה שמה, וכתיב וברכתי אתה וגם נתתי ממנה לך בן, שינוי מעשה - דכתיב +יונה ג+ וירא האלהים את מעשיהם, וכתיב +יונה ג+ וינחם האלהים על הרעה אשר דבר לעשות להם ולא עשה. ויש אומרים: אף שינוי מקום, דכתיב +בראשית יב+ ויאמר ה' אל אברם לך לך מארצך, והדר ואעשך לגוי גדול ואידך - ההוא זכותא דארץ ישראל הוא דאהניא ליה.

Said Rabbi Yitzchak: four things rend apart a man's decree, and they are: charity, crying out, changing of one's name, and changing of one's actions. Charity - as it is written, "and charity shall save [one] from death." (Proverbs 10) Crying out - as it is written, "and they cried out to God in their anguish, and from their desperation he removed them." (Psalms 107) Changing of the name - as it is written, "Your wife Sarai, her name shall no longer be Sarai, rather her name shall be Sarah," (Genesis 17) and it is written, "And I shall bless her and I will also grant her a son." Changing of one's actions - as it is written, "And the Lord saw their actions," (Jonah 3) and it is written, "and the Lord regretted the evil that He had spoken to do to them and he did not do it." Some also say, even changing one's place, as it is written, "And God said to Avram go forth from your land," (Genesis 12) and then, "and I will make you into a great nation." And the other opinion says, that is the merit of the Land of Israel that helped him.

We readily recognize three out of the four from the prayer: charity and crying clearly refer to charity and prayer from Unetaneh Tokef. Moreover, changing of one's actions seem to signify a sense of repentance - the teshuvah from the prayer. Yet, aside from the fact that the the final two (or one and a half) - change of place and change of name - never appear in the text of Unetaneh Tokef (a subject Rabbi Schacter addresses wonderfully), they seem to challenge our sense of what Teshuvah is all about.
I'd like to focus on one of the two - the change of locations, and ask a simple question; why should the fact that I relocate from one place to another have any bearing on my spiritual standing before God? What difference does it make whether I reside in Oak Park, Michigan, or Silver Spring, Maryland or Yad Binyamin, Israel, if I'm still the same person?
While intellectually the question makes a great deal of sense and I truly had difficulty answering these questions, this year I came to an appreciation for the teshuvah of "changing of one's place." This year I think I understand. I came to realize that teshuvah is much more than an intellectual process. It can encompass a great deal of emaotion turmoil, and probably should.

To what degree do we evaluate and justify ourselves by the way that those around us relate to us? After all, I've lived in a community for a number of years; I've been active and involved, made friends and business relationships. Not only do others know who I am - I know who and what I am by the way that they relate to me. When I walk into shul, or a friend's home or a business, they recognize me, acknowlege me and in a very real sense establish who I am in my own mind. I don't need to search for my place. I have a place both physically but metaphysically as well: I'm the philanthropist (or the tightwad); I'm the shul talker (or the guy who never talks in shul); I never listen to the rabbi's speech (or never miss a word). Everyone expects me to be who they recognize, and I don't disappoint. It's that very sameness - the expectations of those who surround us that keep us constant and steady.
But what if one day you woke up in your own community and no one recognized you. The lady at Starbucks didn't give you your regular cup, because she doesn't know what you want. Would you buy soemthing different, or just the same cup of coffee that you do every day? Probably get the same. But then your secretary didn't know how to handle your emails. And your coworkers didn't know what to expect from you. And your kids didn't know what set you off or made you happy. Would you still act and react the same way you always did? We'd be thrown for a loop, because we'd need to reevaulate our actions, interactions and reactions - because you could no longer take anything for granted.
And what if you had a position in your community, and woke up one day and it was gone. You were just a regular Joe like everyone else. Would you still act the same? Would you still have the same expectations of yourself, and everyone else around you?

That's what happened to me this year.

Perhaps the most difficult aspects of serving as a communal rabbi is the "fishbowl" phenomenon. Everyone's watching you. They're looking at what you do, what you buy, who you greet, who you don't. They see you even when you don't see them, and care not only about what classes you give and hospitals you visit, but what movies you watch - or whether you watch them at all. And while it's really hard to maintain that constant sense of vigilance and attentiveness at all times in public, there's another side to it as well.

You get used to the fact that people know who you are. When you walk into shul, they subtely acknowledge your presence; they're (usually) comforted that you're there. When you walk into a shiva house or hospital, they visibly relax. They wait for you to finish davening in shul, and for you to make kiddush before anyone starts eating. When you visit them for a meal, it's a big deal - an honor.

I don't kid myself. I'm quite aware that it's not me personally - but my position as their rabbi. (Although I do think I'm a good guy also.) But that status - those reactions - become part of your psyche. You assimilate them, not necessarily in an egocentric way, but as a matter of identification. Being a rabbi wasn't just my job - it became in a sense a very real part of my identity, not just for others, but more importantly, for myself.

And then I moved to Isreal, left the rabbinate, and moved to another country. To be honest, people here know that I was a rabbi; I've spoken in shul here, give a regular gemara shiur, given a few classes and answered questions. But even to those people, while I'm a rabbi, I'm not their rabbi. And to most people here and all the Israelis, I'm just a regular person. A nice guy - somewhat knowledgable - but nothing special.

Which is just fine. I like my anonymity. I enjoy dressing casually in shul and around the community. I love not having to look around at the supermarket to make sure that I didn't miss saying hello (and inadvertantly insulting) someone.

But it's also very, very painful. If I'm not "Rabbi Spolter" - if I'm just Reuven Spolter, then while I know who I am, I've lost a very real part of "what" I am. I have to reassess: do I learn enough? What's my place supposed to be in my new community? What is it reasonable to expect of myself?

These are all questions that I never asked myself as a rabbi, because they more or less answered themselves. And they don't anymore. This last Yom Kippur - during davening actually - I finally became aware of the extent of this loss of self-identity and how much it was affecting me. And that's when the questions truly came to the forefront. I think this is part of what the Gemara means when it refers to "change of place." It's that sense of confusion, self-awareness and reevaluation from losing the surroundings you took for granted. It's about asking questions you never thought to ask.

Answering these very questions are the essence of what teshuva is all about. And they don't stop at Yom Kippur.

Yom Kippur is just the beginnning.

Candle Lighting for Yom Kippur

As with all holidays, we light candles at the onset of Yom Kippur. Because Yom Kippur this year falls out on Shabbos, when reciting the brachah add in the additional words for Shabbos. Yet, particularly in our shul where most women come to shul on Yom Kippur eve, women must be especially careful when lighting to follow the halachah carefully.

Candle Lighting before Shabbos
Normally, when women light candles on Shabbos, they automatically accept the sanctity of Shabbos upon themselves immediately upon reciting the brachah. This is the reason why women first light the candles and then recite the brachah afterwards. If she recited the brachah (and accepted Shabbos) and then lit the candles, she would inadvertently be violating the Shabbos! But what if a woman wants to light candles a little early but still has some work she needs to take care of after lighting? Normally, it's not a good idea to do this, and it's much better to finish the work and then light the candles. But what if she wants to light candles and then ride to shul Friday night? If she accepts Shabbos when reciting the brachah, she wouldn't be able to get into the car. What should she do?
Many poskim permit a woman to light candles on condition that when she lights, she does not accept the Shabbos upon herself. But to do this, she must verbally state that she does not accept the Shabbos when she lights.

Candle Lighting before Yom Kippur
Unfortunately, making this verbal condition before lighting candles does not work on Yom Tov for a very simple reason: the brachot include the brachah of she'hechiyanu. When a person recites this brachah, he implicitly acknowledges the sanctity of the day, and may not perform any prohibited work afterwards. So what then should a woman who wants to light at home and then drive to shul before Yom Kippur do?

1. She should verbally state that she does not accept the sanctity of Yom Kippur upon herself when she lights candles and recites the brachah.
   
2. She should light candles normally, but recite only the first brachah on the candle lighting, and she should not recite the she'hechiyanu at home.
3. When she comes to shul, she should recite the she'hechiyanu together with the shul at the proper time. (In addition, a woman who lit normally and accepted the sanctity of Yom Kippur when she lit and walked to shul should not recite the she'hecheyanu in shul, as she has already said that brachah at home.)

I'd like to make one other obvious but important point: Erev Yom Kippur is a very, very busy time, and it's a struggle to eat the meal, give the kids their blessings, do kaparos, and all the other things we need to do and still make it to shul on time. Yet, with candle lighting at 7:14pm (one may light before 7:14pm -- any time after 6:16pm) and Kol Nidrei at 7:20pm, it's very important that every person take special care to arrive at shul with enough time to park, put away any muktzeh items and conclude any prohibited activity before sunset, at 7:32pm. It would be a terrible shame to begin the holiest day of the year by unintentionally violating the sanctity of the holiday.
If we make an extra effort to maintain the kedushah -- the holiness of Yom Kippur, we can then stand before God with the feeling of hope that He will bless us and inscribe us all with a year of health, blessing and prosperity.