Author: Rabbi Betsy Torop

Categories
High Holy Days Holiday

Going Beyond the Shanah Tovah Email

I miss Rosh Hashanah cards.  They used to begin arriving in my mail box about three weeks before Rosh Hashanah.  Sometimes I knew I was one name on a list of thousands.  Other cards were a message from a great aunt or a member of my community who wanted to tell me something personal.  I always felt a bit ashamed of this enjoyment because I have never sent cards at the New Year.  To have one more thing to do, one more list to compile, seemed way beyond my practical and emotional capacity at this time of year.   But I looked forward to receiving them, and then hanging them as the major form of decoration in the Sukkah.

Now I receive New Year’s greetings in the form of emails.  I deeply appreciate that emails are significantly better for the very world whose creation we celebrate on Rosh Hashanah.  Still, receiving a greeting in an email has a different flavor.   It lacks the distinctive signature, the feel and texture of the paper, the option to place it where it can be seen as a small connection to the broader circle of Jews ushering in a New Year. An email is transient and ephemeral, gone when the delete button is pushed.  In an in-box that is too often overflowing, somehow the greeting becomes just one more thing to click on, one more item to get through.

I know that my feeling is not about cards vs. email.  It’s about connection.  While there is shared commiseration on Facebook about sermons not yet written and the challenge of finding just the right story, for those who are leading services there is an element of loneliness in the work we do this time of year.  The decision about what our particular community needs to hear from the pulpit rests with each individual rabbi.  Are there consequences in my particular location and community if I say something that may be controversial or unpopular?   Sitting in front of a blinking cursor, an open machzor is a solitary task.

We hold personal burdens as well, burdens that are not so easy to talk about with each other.  Is my rabbinic leadership being evaluated based on my Kol Nidrei sermon or the perceived ‘quality’ of the worship?  Is my authenticity lessened when I preach about spiritual preparation and can’t seem to make the time for my own Elul introspection?   What do I do with the guilt I carry about the impact this time of year has on my family?

We may face many of the same questions, but we do so in our own silos, by ourselves.  This need not be the case.  We know from you that you want to reach out to each other, to help and support, in a way that goes beyond the superficial email.  As a rabbinic community, we can live up to that intention.  Amidst the stress of the season, it’s a blessing to hear the voice of another rabbi – the rabbi you talked with at convention but haven’t spoken to since, the new colleague who came to town who you don’t really know yet, the classmate you haven’t seen in a year, a friend.  The nourishment that occurs of those moments of relationship is a way to prepare for the sacred days that lie ahead.  You can’t hang a phone call in a sukkah, but the connection will stay with you long after the sukkah has come down.

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Rabbi Betsy Torop is the Director of Rabbinic Engagement and Growth for the Central Conference of American Rabbis. 

Categories
High Holy Days Holiday

It Will Have to Wait until After The High Holy Days

“It will have to wait until after the High Holy Days.”

My children are used to that refrain.  From late August until early October, many of their requests are answered with the familiar phrase:  after the holy days.  The shopping trip to replace the sneakers, the movie they want to see, the party they need help planning – these are the seeming extras that my family is asked to put on hold while I write sermons, work with the soloist, supervise the distribution of honors and listen to Torah readers.   No matter how much we resolve to start preparing earlier, those of us who lead services on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are often subsumed by the overwhelming number of tasks that confront us.

This is a time of year when those who are closest to us are asked to make sacrifices because of the sacred responsibility that many of us have to lead our communities in worship during these powerful days.  Our partner or spouse bears a heavier load of household responsibilities.  Our aging parent reluctantly agrees to skip the weekly lunch.  The new man or woman that we have begun to date is asked to wait a few weeks to go out again.   And it goes on and on.

We know from the work we are doing through surveys and focus groups, that many of us feel this tension, particularly in this season. The feelings of guilt that build up when High Holy Day preparation takes us away from our loved ones only adds to the stress that we feel, stress that impacts those we love and live with.  It is, in the truest sense of the word, a vicious cycle that seems impossible to break.

And then there is guilt. Knowing that my children expect the refrain, “it will have to wait until after the Holy Days” does not make saying it each year any easier.  Now that they are older, they are often the ones to say, “I know that this will need to wait”.  And still, I feel guilty.  The feelings of guilt that we carry about this ever-present tension are especially ironic at this time of year.  We often counsel people about the guilt they carry, about the difference between forgetting and letting go.  So many people are weighed down by their wrongdoings, by relationships that are wounded.  We strive to help them let go of self-recrimination, the ever-present guilt that prevents them from moving forward.  In other words, we encourage them to forgive themselves that they may more freely open their hearts to new possibilities and change.

Yet as with so many things, what we strive to help others achieve is much harder to achieve for ourselves.   There is no simple solution to the feeling of being pulled in all directions, of feeling guilty by the sense that we are failing someone as we work to please everyone. But we have learned from you that reaching out helps.  Know that you are not alone in your feelings, and it might help to remind yourself of that by calling a friend.  It is not admitting failure to do so and in fact, your openness may help the person you call by bringing a common feeling in to the open.  And finally:  forgive yourself.   In so doing, may your heart soften and open to allow true change, healing and growth.

 

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Rabbi Betsy Torop is the Director of Member Engagement, Support, and Professional Growth for the Central Conference of American Rabbis. 

Categories
Convention

What I’ve Learned from 27 Years of CCAR Conventions

I remember my first CCAR convention vividly. It was 1991, the first year after my ordination. I was serving a congregation in Melbourne Australia, where there were fewer rabbis in the entire country than in my ordination class, and (at that time) no other women. The convention was in South Florida and my strongest memory is of a long afternoon by the pool with some of my classmates. I remember walking into a plenary knowing almost no one and feeling joy that I could retreat to the community of friends I knew best.

Fast forward many years. My rabbinic network is much larger. The WRN, regional kallot, several moves, my local rabbinic community, my work on CCAR conventions and the CCAR board have resulted in relationships I never imagined I would have. And one of the great blessings of my work as the CCAR Manager of Member Services has been the chance to meet and get to know even more of you.

And yet, there is still something about walking into a room full of rabbis at convention and thinking ahead to lunch and dinner that brings me back to the moment of entering my junior high cafeteria and feeling anxiety about finding a spot at a lunch table. That feeling that everyone must have “plans” and if I don’t make them I’ll be alone has never quite disappeared, despite my growing network. And asking to join even a good friend who has plans for dinner somehow makes me feel like a gate-crasher, despite being warmly welcomed.

In conversation with many of you, I have come to learn that I am not the only one who carries these feelings walking into convention. These feelings persist despite the great strides that the CCAR has made in nurturing a culture that truly embraces a desire to facilitate relationships. And over the years since my first convention in 1991 I have seen these changes. When I walk into an elevator, people look me in the eye and greet me. When I sit down in a plenary or workshop, the people sitting next to me introduce themselves and begin conversation. Programs deliberately work to create opportunities for meaningful dialogue not just with the friends that surround us, but with those whom we do not yet know. CCAR board members offer opportunities to members to go out to dinner together; these are sincere offers, reflecting a true desire to meet and get to know the members they serve.

The CCAR, however, is both an organization and a group made up of individuals.  We have to ask ourselves what our role is in helping to create an environment in which no one feels alone in a crowd. We can ask “What kind of work do you do?” instead of “How large is your congregation?” Put down the phone when someone sits next to us and after the introductions, consider asking, “What are you working on that excites you?” “How are you being impacted by the current political climate?” “What do you like to do outside of your work?”  If you go to the bar late at night and see someone walk in alone, ask them to join you.

I know that this feels artificial, like a youth group mixer.  And many of us are cynical about the impact of these efforts. As a congregational rabbi, I image that this is how members of my congregation feel when I encourage them not to just talk to their friends at the Oneg Shabbat, to go up to the individual standing alone near the door, who may be having the junior high school flash back. But there are really only two choices:  working to break down barriers, or being at least partially responsible for the loneliness that persists amongst those who are supposed to understand us best.

We’re all familiar with the response of the Israelites at Sinai – na’aseh v’nishmah (Exodus 19:8).  Let’s overcome our cynicism, shift our comfort zone and reach out with open hearts; the meaning and understanding of these actions will unfold and shape us for years to come.

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Betsy Torop is the CCAR Manager of Member Services and a congregational rabbi in Brandon, Florida.

Categories
congregations Rabbis

Five Minutes

“Rabbi, Do You Have Five Minutes?”

I am asked this question all the time.  As I am walking out of the Oneg  Shabbat, as I am finishing preparations for a class, as I am setting up for Torah Tots, someone stops me and says “Rabbi, do you have five minutes?”   In the early days of my rabbinate, I always said ‘yes’.  Standing in the hallway, I waited for the question about the meeting agenda, a mitzvah project, or availability for an unveiling.

Those questions rarely surfaced.  In the requested five minutes I have heard a story about an abusive partner (a fellow temple member), a deceased mother who died young when hit by drunk driver, and a myriad of medical diagnoses.  Impending divorces seem to often be shared after the request for five minutes.  Needless to say, these were never just five minute conversations, and rarely appropriate for the hallway.

I have gone through many stages in my understanding of this request.  At first I took it at face value and found myself surprised over and over again. Then I learned to realize that the request for five minutes was like a code. I had cracked the code and wasn’t surprised when a much more significant conversation was needed.  Not surprised, but annoyed nonetheless.  “Why can’t she make an appointment when I can give her my full attention?”  “Why doesn’t he realize that this is not a five minute conversation?”  “Surely he realizes that I am about to teach/on my way home/in between meetings?”

Why is it that people use a phrase that minimizes what is often far from minimal – death, loss, disappointment, heartbreak?   I have two thoughts – one that focuses on those making the “five minute” request, and one that is about us as rabbis.  Making an appointment to talk to the rabbi adds weight and gravity to the subject at hand.  To actually schedule a time, come in to the office, and sit behind a closed door is to acknowledge a depth of need that many may not yet be able to confront.   Asking for “five minutes” may be a gentle entry into a difficult subject, a way for the individual to try to hold on to the notion that the crises they confront is not as challenging as they fear.  In granting the five minutes that is really 45 minutes, we may gently usher those we care for along their path of growth and understanding.

But I think there is something even more significant in this interaction about how we see our rabbinic work and the message we convey to others.   What does it mean when we say we are busy, that we have a lot to do? Many of us list meetings to attend, classes to prepare and teach, money to raise, boards to train.  We would all say that being present for our community, sharing in their joys and sorrows is also ‘what we do’.  But being present outside of formal life cycle events often can’t be scheduled in the same way as the planning meeting for mitzvah day, and is what gets lost in the crush of an overburdened schedule.

The turning point for me in understanding this was a conversation that I had with a women who had asked for five minutes.  After our non-five minute conversation I asked her why she hadn’t made an appointment.  She said, “Rabbi, you are always so busy and I know how much you have to do.  I didn’t want to add to that.”  I have thought about these words often, and with some shame.  I am busy and I do have a lot to do – and one of the most important of those things I have to do is to be fully present for people like her and all those others who only ask for five minutes. How many times, in my busy-ness, have I failed to convey this?

I have tried to shift my mindset, to make space for the meaningful interactions that happen as people walk in with their kids for tutoring or religious school or to prepare mailings or wait for a luncheon. Being available in all of the in-between times doesn’t interrupt my work, it is my work – holy and sacred work for which I am profoundly grateful.

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Betsy Torop is the CCAR Manager for Member Engagement and the Rabbi at Congregation Beth Shalom, Brandon, Florida.

 

Categories
Ethics General CCAR Reform Judaism

What is – and isn’t – a Rabbi’s Job?

I never imagined that I would be a rabbi of a small congregation.  And yet, for the past ten years I have been the rabbi of a congregation of 150ish families.  (Sometimes it’s 135, sometimes 152 – one thing about the small congregation is that we tend to count obsessively.) There is much about life in a small congregation that I love.  I love that I know everyone – not just their names, but oftentimes their stories too.  I love that it’s easy to notice – and therefore reach out – when someone seems to disappear for a few weeks.  I love that everyone feels like they own the place – people congregate in the kitchen, unlock, set up, and lock the building for b’nai mitzvah, take out the trash on their way out on Friday night.  (Along with leading services on Shabbat morning, teaching book discussions and Hebrew classes, and deciding to take on projects like creating a misheberach tapestry).  

I sometimes struggle with my role as a rabbi in a community with little paid staff and a do-it-yourself ethic. We spend an inordinate amount of time stacking, moving and setting up chairs.  I have moved more chairs – put them into circles, straightened them, added more, taken some away – then I can count. Last Friday night, when cleaning up from the Oneg Shabbat, I was asked, “Rabbi, I think the vacuum cleaner bag is full.  Do you know where the new ones are kept?”  (Variations include, “Rabbi, there is a light burned out in the ladies room.  Do you know where the light bulbs are?”  “Rabbi, do you know how to un-jam the photocopier?”) 

Although I don’t know how to un-jam the photocopier, I do know where the light bulbs and vacuum cleaner bags are kept and sometimes there I am on a Friday night rummaging through the supply cupboard.  Other times, I smile and just say ‘’I don’t know” to these requests.  Sometimes, if it’s been a particularly taxing week, I’ll say, “I’m sorry, I must have been having coffee when that class was taught at rabbinical school.”  

RabbiTorop

Rabbi Torop (center) in the synagogue kitchen making pancakes

I often wonder why people think that being the rabbi means that I know the answers to any of these questions.  Is it because I am the most identifiable ‘staff’ member?  Is it because I am there more than anyone else?  Have I failed to sufficiently practice tzimtzum – and so I find myself at the center of everything, even while believing that I don’t want to be? Is there a gender element as well?

Ten years into my relationship with this synagogue, I still feel ambivalent about all of this ‘non-rabbinic work’.   On the one hand, there are only so many hours in the day and shouldn’t I spend them doing the things that I am uniquely able to do – teaching torah, preaching, pastoring? If I allow myself to be drawn into caretaking, not only is my ability to do other things diminished, but it makes it easier for others to step back, to abdicate responsibility.

On the other hand, what is ‘non-rabbinic work’?   I don’t feel that I am above the jobs of cleaning and copying and shlepping just because I am ‘The Rabbi’.  And surely, working hand in hand with members of our community, taking care of the basic needs as well as the loftier ones, is itself a form of teaching and role modeling?  There is no one paid to do this work – we are all responsible – and figuring how to apportion the responsibilities, share the jobs, and pick up the pieces that get neglected is a challenge that is surely part of creating community.  This is only one of many balancing acts that I struggle with in my small congregation – and if there was a class at rabbinical school in how to keep the proper balance, I must have been out having coffee when it was taught.

 

Rabbi Betsy Torop is a Rabbi at Congregation Beth Shalom in Brandon, Florida.