Who Needs Repentance?

Dear God,

During Yom Kippur services on Wednesday, I was a bit unfocused. Maybe I was a little out of practice, since I hadn't seen the inside of a synagogue since the last Yom Kippur. Maybe I was just too hungry to concentrate. (The doughnut I snuck at breakfast hardly did a thing--I hoped you weren't looking.)

A few thousand years ago, fasting to concentrate on one's wrongdoings may have seemed like a good idea, but today it is just one more way your Day of Repentance messes with my busy schedule. I won't lie to you, Lord, because of hunger (and because of this flu bug that I caught from my roommate) my mind wandered to just about every subject but repentance. Actually, I spent most of the service thinking about ways to bolster my Rhodes application, and staring at this girl down the aisle who looked like she'd make a great First Lady.

Yet I fear that this lack of focus--such a rare misstep on my part--may doom me. You may think I am not properly repented and that I don't deserve to be inscribed in the Book of Life. If my Hebrew school teacher was correct, that would mean that I'll die before the next Day of Repentance rolls around. With all due respect, Lord, you would be making a big mistake. In the prayer book, it is written that "prayer, repentance and righteousness will avert the severe decree." Well, I am righteous. One out of three ain't bad.

I could prostrate myself before you in this letter, talk of how repentant I meant to be during those few hours of service, enumerate my transgressions and show you that I do not deserve "the serve decree". But I figure that if I could convince Harvey C. Mansfield '53 to change my Moral Reasoning grade from a C+ to an A-, certainly I can get you to look at this a little differently.

Harvard prides itself on producing "tomorrow's leaders;" I am one of those leaders, a student of exceptional merit and promise. I don't bother to look back and evaluate. It doesn't matter if I lied about missing section three months ago, or if I swear too much, or if I've been too interested in the Bill and Monica scandal. I am too important to the future of our world to die. What is so important about repentance of the past when I am engaged in so many things to make the future better?

I am my generation's Leonardo--scientist, theoretician, artist, writer. The contributions I make do not register in far-off, esoteric reaches, but rather they impact at the mass level. Through my lab work combining vegetables with a frozen dairy subtitute, I have created Veggie-Yo, a vegetarian dessert option for the lactose-intolerant that had a successful trial run in the Harvard dining halls. My theory on the convergence of the sitcom and the hour-long drama--scorned when published in a Harvard Magazine--has led to such hits as "Ally McBeal". Critics for The Harvard Crimson have praised my acting work, particularly in the role of DJ Banquo in "Thane of New York: An Urban Macbeth". And my 1996 Commencement toilet paper installation in Harvard Yard drew attention from the highest administrators.

I know I carry importance not only because I see it in myself, but because it is evident in the eyes of others. Students look to me as a leader and purveyor of wisdom; professors regard with me awe. I'll never forget how Dean Epps looked at me as the Yard grounds crew took down my toilet paper installation hours before Commencement. "What you did here today is indescribable", he said. "I don't even know what to say". He had a note of reverence in his voice he must reserve only for heads of state and geniuses.

When I have already had so much impact at Harvard and show so much promise for the world, why should I worry about something as petty as repentance? I mean, for me, the sky's the limit: Rhodes scholarship, president of the United States, Nobel Prize, a fortune built on a full line of Veggie-Yo products. I don't have time to look back.

Go ahead, Lord, leave me out of your book. Add some other name to your rolls, the name of some insignificant pissant who is sorry for everything he does but cannot do anything for others. When the world conflagrates and I'm not there to save it, everyone will be sorry. Except for me. I'll never be sorry.

Marshall I. Lewy '99 is a history and literature concentrator in Leverett House. his column appears on alternate Fridays.