Author: Rabbi Sara Sapadin

Categories
Conversion General CCAR Healing Rituals spirituality

Handwashing Ceremony for Online/ Virtual Conversion

As the COVID-19 pandemic rages on and social distancing remains in effect here in New York City, we are still faced with many rituals we cannot complete in person. One of these rituals is the Beit Din/Immersion process for our conversion students, which we usually would convene at the mikvah. Given that our community had a number of students who were ready to complete their conversion studies, but no solid estimate as to when we could safely return to the mikvah, we wanted to give these students an option to ritualize their conversions virtually. (It should be noted that all of our students will have the opportunity to go to mikvah in the future, should they wish.)  

Clearly, we could conduct the Beit Din via Zoom, but what ritual could we employ to mark the moment?  I had two basic criteria: 1.) The ritual must be comfortably completed while in quarantine. 2) It must incorporate water, thereby echoing the mikvah though not necessarily approximating it. As such, I created this handwashing ceremony to accompany the virtual Beit Din. The bonus with this ritual is that the handwashing blessing can be woven quite seamlessly into these students’ lives going forward. Please feel free to use this ritual and/or adapt as you see fit.

Items needed: 
-Ritual Hand Washer or Pitcher or Cup
-Towel

  1. Take a moment to consider this water ritual. Think about the waters that have flowed through the history of Judaism, and continue to flow through us still. God created the earth by separating the waters. God remade the Earth with the flood generations later in the time of Noah. God redeemed the Israelites from slavery and ushered them to freedom, as they moved through the parted waters of the Red Sea. Our Patriarchs and Matriarchs often met at the well.  Relationships were initiated by the water, marriages made in its reflection. Isaac dug wells to connect to the memory of his father.  Jacob discovered his inner strength at the well.  It is said that Miriam was accompanied by a well of water, and it is said that water sustained our people through those long days and nights in the desert.  Water renews. Water revives. Water nourishes the body, mind and soul. Today, this water bridges past to present, as you immerse your hands in its flowing stream.

  2. Take the ritual washer in your hands. Think about its significance for this moment, and then reflect on a time when you might use it again.  How are the two connected? How will this washer tell part of your unique Jewish story? 

  3. Fill up the washer with water. (Ensure you have a clean towel nearby).

  4. Close your eyes. Breathe in this moment. Honor the work, the time, and the energy you have expended to reach this milestone. Honor your agency in this process. Recall your journey. Let the memories flood your mind as you think of those who have joined you on this path, those who have supported you, and those who have served as your guides.  Acknowledge them in your heart.

  5. Now, as you prepare to wash, recite these words from Ruth (Ruth 1:16, 17): “Ruth said: Entreat me not to leave you, or to return from following after you.”

  6. Lift up the washer in your right hand.  As you pour from right to left, recite these words (from Ruth) with each pour:

    -Pour 1: “For wherever you go”
    -Pour 2: “I will go”
    -Pour 3: “Wherever you lodge, I will lodge.”

  7. Now move the washer to your left hand.  As you pour from left to right, recite these words (from Ruth) with each pour:

    -Pour 1: “Your people will be my people”
    -Pour 2: “And your God my God.”
    -Pour 3: “Where you die, I will die, and there I will be buried.”

  8. With your hands wet, lift them up and allow the water to drip freely from them. (Our prayer is called “n’tilat yadayim” for the lifting of the hands). One way our handwashing prayer has been interpreted over the years is through the lens of action; we wash to remind ourselves that the work of our hands is essential to the work of repairing the world. Our hands have the power to do good. Our hands have the power to build bridges. Our hands have the power to help and heal and comfort.   

    With your hands raised before you:

    -Reflect on the power and capability of your own hands.  
    -Reflect on your evolving identity and how your Jewish identity will impact the work of your hands.  
    -Reflect on the tradition and heritage you now officially carry.  How will your acceptance of Judaism inform your choices, your priorities, and your perspective?


  9. Recite N’tilat Yadayim:

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה, יְיָ אֱלֹהֵינוּ,
מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם,
אֲשֶׁר קִדְּשָנוּ בְּמִצְוֹתָיו
וְצִוָּנוּ עַל נְטִילַת יָדָיִם.

Baruch ata Adonai, Eloheinu Melech haolam, asher kidshanu b’mitzvotav vitzivanu al n’tilat yadayim.

Blessed are Adonai our God, Sovereign of all, who has sanctified us with Your commandments, and commanded us concerning the washing of the hands.

10.  Dry your hands and rejoice in the moment!

Together we will offer the Shehecheyanu, our prayer of gratitude for having reached this milestone:

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה, יְיָ אֱלֹהֵינוּ,
מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם,
שֶׁהֶחֱיָנוּ וְקִיְּמָנוּ
וְהִגִּיעָנוּ לַזְּמַן הַזֶּה.

Baruch atah, Adonai Eloheinu, Melech haolam, shehecheyanu, v’kiy’manu, v’higiyanu laz’man hazeh.

Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Sovereign of all, who has kept us alive, sustained us, and brought us to this season.


Rabbi Sara Y. Sapadin is a rabbi and mother of four. Sara currently serves Temple Emanu-El in New York City as an associate rabbi. She is a contributor to The Sacred Calling: Four Decades of Women in the Rabbinate (CCAR Press). 

Categories
Passover Pesach

This Passover, I Want to Break Free from the Busyness of Life

I never seem to be ready for Passover.  It always springs upon me, this rite of spring, and I’m always left feeling like I’ve just barely recovered from Purim and the sensory overload that repeat exposure to carnivals can cause (because let’s be real: one can only handle so many bounce houses).  But then Passover arrives without delay, completely unsympathetic to my protest or pleas, wholly indifferent to my fatigue.

No matter how prominent its place on my calendar, Passover still comes in like a tempest, turning me upside down and inside out when it finally hits.  And inevitably, I look around only to realize I have a house full of chametz and nary a box of matzah in sight.   It’s ironic because I am surrounded by signs of Passover’s approach in nearly every aspect of my life, both personal and professional.  I’ve got seders at work and seders at my children’s schools, matzah covers coming home in backpacks and more homemade haggadot (beautiful, precious, sweet and so appreciated!) than I know what to do with.

But while the countdown to seder ticks loud and clear, life often seems to tick louder, preventing me, or perhaps distracting me, from all I need to do, from everything I need to prepare.  This year, especially, life has felt inordinately full with all the requisite personal responsibilities: the birthday parties to plan, the doctors appointments to make, the dentists and orthodontists to consult; the school functions and the charity events and the family gatherings; the overstuffed sports schedules and labyrinthine after school schedules; the chess, the piano, the ballet, the art; the everyday hustle we know as life, along with all of my professional responsibilities as well.   It’s hard to see beyond the daily grind; and it’s even harder to make way for a holiday as all-encompassing and routine altering as Passover.

This year, I confess, I feel particularly compressed by the endless, relentless activity in my home and in my life, and by the incalculable physical, mental and emotional exertion this life demands.  Sometimes it feels like the more I do, the smaller my life becomes, reduced as it is to going and coming, coming and going.  Life is defined by straight, rigid lines, rather than curved, flexible arcs, and it is tightly bound by schedules, timetables and agendas.   It’s a paradox, really, that more does not always yield more, but rather, more often yields less.

As Passover approaches, I admit I feel constricted by the narrowness of this intensely crowded life, a life, albeit, that is filled with so much good and so much blessing.  Yet I worry I’m racing as fast as I can, but falling further and further behind.   It’s hard to stop.  It’s hard to unwind a life that, even with its challenges, feels so ingrained and so familiar.   Sometimes I wonder, where do I even begin?  To be quite honest, I don’t really know.

But I do know the story of Passover and I do know that our ancestors moved through the straits of bondage to discover a freedom they had never known.  They left the narrow places that constrained them and made their way into a vast, open wilderness where promise awaited them.   This is the story we tell every year around the seder table, and in so many ways, this is the story of our lives.

I am so grateful to live a life of freedom and to enjoy the liberties so many yet yearn to call their own.  But I know there is a life on the horizon that is even more expansive and even more bounteous, even more free.  It is a life that is full—not of endless activity and motion and striving, but one of possibility and generosity and love, a life that is waiting for me, for all of us; as our promise.   The challenge of reaching that place is as simple as it is hard: how to leave the narrow spaces we know so well and journey forward into the unknown?

—

Rabbi Sara Sapadin serves Temple Emanu-El in New York City as Adjunct Rabbi. 

Categories
High Holy Days Holiday

A Rosh HaShanah Reflection on Birth and Possibility

I love asking my kids, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” because I am always so enamored and tickled with their answers.  One wants to be a policeman, a fireman, a goalie for the Rangers and a professional soccer player—and maybe a basketball player—all at the same time.  Another wants to be a thunderstorm (really!) or maybe one of the Beatles.  And the earnestness, with which they answer me, always cuts right to the core.  My kids, like most children, dream in Technicolor, believing they can do most anything and be most anyone.  There are no limits they cannot overcome, no voices casting doubt on their glorious reveries; they just dream big and wide and free.

What would it take for us to dream those dreams?  What would inspire us to set our sights higher than the sky?  How might we learn to open ourselves up rather than close ourselves off? Emily Dickinson once wrote, “I dwell in possibility;” and while I am certain our children dwell there too, do we?

On Rosh Hashanah, we do.  On Rosh Hashanah, we are beckoned to that Dwelling Place, urged to step in and experience the wonder of limitless possibility.  We call this day Hayom Harat Olam– the day the world “burst into being.” [1] This is the day of the world’s beginning, but it marks our beginning as well.  On this day there is no telling what we can do or who we can become; our potential is endless, limited only by the stretch of our own imagination.

Indeed, this is our day– to create, to renew, to repair. Yes, this is our day to pave new paths, to chart new courses, to begin again. It is Rosh Hashanah, (after all,) Hayom Harat Olam, a consecration of birth itself.

Our Tradition claims that Adam was born this day,[2] along with Isaac and Samuel.[3]  Some even add Sarah and Joseph to the list as well.  This also is said to be the day when our ancestors were freed from Egypt, the day a new nation was born.

Creation is not an end, we learn, but a beginning.[4] This day is not only about cataloguing the birth stories of our history; it is about catalyzing these beginnings in our own lives. Against this incredible tapestry of birth, we stand poised to write our own stories of renewal.

In our highly rational world, the cycle of life still remains a pristine miracle.  How does a tiny seed become a mighty tree?  And how does the lowly caterpillar turn into the majestic butterfly?  It’s a delicious mystery that we are privy to, each and every day.

In birth, we bear witness to a marvel far beyond our comprehension. In birth we are granted a taste of the Divine.  For with every new life, another element of God’s blueprint is revealed.  And with every new life, the order of the world shifts and a new equilibrium is formed.  In a single moment, everything can change, and everything does.

Creation, we learn, is ongoing. As the Hasidic teacher Simhah Bunam of Poland, describes it: “God created the world in a permanent state of reishit, beginning.

The world is always incomplete. Continuous creative effort is needed to renew the world, to keep it from sinking again into primeval chaos.”[5]

Thus we understand why birth is so present during these days of Awe.  We are the agents of God’s handiwork on this earth, constantly implementing pieces of God’s design with every creative act we perform. We are participants in the act of Creation.

We are responsible for executing God’s master plan.

Birth is no longer a privilege; it is a mandate.  We are empowered to create life, to generate ideas, to revitalize ourselves.   We are given the opportunity to forge new paths and rebuild broken friendships.  This is our time to contribute to the world around us, and renew the life that God implanted within and among us, so very long ago.

We learn that the [Holy blessed One] said to Israel:  “Remake yourselves by repentance during the ten days between New Year’s Day and the Day of Atonement.  And on the Day of Atonement, I will hold you guiltless, regarding you as a newly made creature.”[6]

My friend once called birth “the sound of a gun at the beginning of a marathon….”[7] The gun has just fired.  As we commence the Ten Days of Awe, our journey begins. How will we renew ourselves during this time?   What will we contribute to the cycle of creation?   How will we emerge when these days of Repentance are through?

Let us feel encouraged by the limitless potential the High Holidays bring.  If there ever were a time to stretch ourselves, it is now.  If there ever were a time to grow, it is now. God is most accessible to us right now, during these Days of Awe.

We are shareholders in this world that God has created. God is our partner in the work we do.  HaYom Harat Olam- Now is the time to continue God’s sacred vision of creation.

L’Shana Tova U’Metukah!

—

Rabbi Sara Sapadin serves Temple Emanu-El in New York City as Adjunct Rabbi.

 

[1] Rabbi Alan Lew. This Is Real and You are Completely Unprepared, p. 116

[2] Vayikra Rabbah, 29:1

[3] http://telshemesh.org/tishrei/, August 12

[4] Rabbi Malka Drucker, http://www.malkadrucker.com/create.html

[5] quoted in Kol Haneshamah: Prayerbook for the Days of Awe, p. 492

[6] Pesikta Rabbati 40:5

[7] Edi Nelson

 

Categories
News

How Netflix’s Stranger Things Helped Me Understand the Un’Taneh Tokef

The Un’taneh Tokef calls to mind the profound uncertainties with which we live each day, and the reality that life often unfolds in ways beyond our control.   The words reflect the blinding fears we speak of only in the darkest hours of night and the questions we harbor deep inside: What is our fate and how does it all end?  Who among us will survive?  How do we proceed, knowing that the balance between life and death is far more delicate than we might ever have imagined?

The language of the prayer is blunt and unembellished: “Who by fire and who by water? /Who by sword and who by beast?/ Who by hunger and who by thirst?/ Who by earthquake and who by drowning? /Who by strangling and who by stoning?....”  With its harrowing imagery and chilling propositions, it leaves very little to the imagination.  As listeners, we are left to confront the image-reel in our minds, filled with horrors of wildfires burning out of control and floods overtaking cities, blood shed at the hands of man and beast, and violence populating the earth.

The Un’taneh Tokef speaks to the way we live and the realities we encounter, every day.  It reflects the suffering and the sadness, the destruction and the devastation, the terror and the loss we see all around us, all the time.  It speaks about the cruel nature of randomness and the inexplicable misfortune of chance.  Its words emphasize, unequivocally: Though we are a part of this world, we do not preside over it; and neither the whims of nature nor humanity can be foreseen.

The Un’taneh Tokef is, for some, an exercise in anguish and distress.  Many experience intense grief in the wake of its poetry, and helplessness in the face of its prognostications.  Indeed, the language is so graphic, I found myself searching, like many others before me, for different ways to decode its message.

How could I have predicted that my inspiration would come, from of all places a sci-fi television series?  But oddly enough, it was while watching Netflix’s Stranger Things, that I was moved to look at the Un’taneh Tokef differently.  There I was, scared out of my wits, when a light bulb flashed in my mind (and for those of you watching, I assure you it wasn’t a Christmas light!). Stick with me (and yes, spoilers do follow).

One of the fascinating hooks of this series is the revelation that our world exists, side by side, with a parallel universe called “The Upside Down.”  As Dr. Clarke, the show’s trusty science teacher, explains: “Picture an acrobat standing on a tightrope, and the tightrope is our dimension, and our dimension, has rules.  You can move forwards or backwards.  But right next to our acrobat, there is a flea. Now the flea can also travel back and forth, just like the acrobat, right?  But here’s where things get really interesting.  The flea can also travel this way, along the side of the rope.  He can even go, underneath the rope.”  Just beyond the surface, just below the rope, lies a completely separate universe that we never even knew existed!!  For this uninitiated student of sci-fi, this was WILD!

Now, what do parallel universes and “The Upside Down” have to do with the Un’taneh Tokef?  Well, I got to thinking about these parallel universes and unseen worlds and thought, what if we looked at the Un’taneh Tokef through this sci-fi lens as well?  Could it help us see the “unseen” elements of the prayer?  Could it help us delve deeper into the mire, knowing there is another side to every word printed on the page?  Could we find the life amidst the death, and the hope amidst the despair?  If we immersed ourselves in its words, investigated their many sides and corners, and turned them over again and again, could we come up with an alternate vision of the prayer?  I think so.

The “Upside Down” approach urges us to think beyond the page and behind the words, so to speak.  For example if the Un’taneh Tokef teaches us that life is unpredictable in frightening and unsettling ways, we can extrapolate and surmise that life must also be unpredictable in wonderful and reassuring ways, yes? Unpredictability is a neutral condition, neither positive nor negative.  Moreover, just as we cannot foresee the sadness and grief and misery that will befall us, neither can we predict the joy and gladness and wonder that will enter our lives.  Indeed, just as bad things will inevitably happen to us, it is also inevitable that good things will happen too (the law of averages has got to play a part in this scenario, don’t you think?).

The “Upside Down” lens doesn’t re-write the prayer or negate the plain meaning.   But it opens the prayer up to a broader context and a wider plane of interpretation. It is a tool, an agent for mining deeper meaning and substance.  We know that the world can be a harsh and uncertain place; we live that every day.   We also know that death and destruction and devastation are ubiquitous; we need only open our doors to see such misery.  But, in this very same world, there is also a real chance we will stumble upon decency and kindness, and a real possibility of friendship and community and love.

That is what we find on the “Upside Down” of the Un’taneh Tokef—still a world of unpredictability, but one marked by hope rather than despair and love rather than fear.  “Let us proclaim the sacred power of this day,” we shall say, it is both awesome and full of dread.

Wishing you all a Shana Tova, a happy and healthy New Year.

—

Rabbi Sara Sapadin resides in New York City.  She most recently served Temple Israel of the City of New York.  Sara now volunteers as the CCAR RavBlog Member Volunteer.  Interested in writing something for RavBlog?  Email Sara.

Categories
Rabbis Torah

To Count and to Contribute

With the winds of the Red Sea still blowing past us, we begin the process of counting.  For one moment each day, we stop the journey, and stand witness to the forward march of time and the aggregation of our days.  We number these days, one to forty-nine, and we mark them, unambiguously, with blessing.  Every day, every hour, every minute counts in the space between Passover and Shavuot.  Time is precious, and what we choose to do with our time, even more so.

This point is made ever so clear when I take note of you, my colleagues, and the outstanding things that you are doing every day, every hour, every minute.  Everywhere I look, I see you innovating and creating, offering of yourselves and your talents, doing meaningful work and making a significant impact—upon individuals, families and the community at large.   I see you in the news and online, on Facebook and face-to-face; creating new social justice agendas, pushing for positive change, initiating necessary conversations, and standing up for what you believe, no matter how popular or unpopular the cause.  You, all of you, are making a difference.

Every one of you is remarkable.  Every one of you is worthy of blessing.  Whether you are in the pulpit or in Hillel, whether you are a chaplain or an educator, whether you specialize in community organizing or conversion, counseling or computers; whether you are pastoring to a community of thousands or taking care of your children; whether you are full-time or part-time, half-time or three quarter time; whether you find yourself off the beaten path or on it; whether you make your mark through articles written, sermons delivered, lunches packed, or petitions signed; whether you call yourself senior or associate, assistant, educator, executive, CEO, COO, CTO, pastor, chaplain, artist, maven, activist, actor, mom, dad, brother, sister, or simply “rabbi,” you COUNT.  You MATTER.  You have something absolutely extraordinary to offer.

All of which leads to my impassioned pitch to you, my dear colleagues.  As the newest member volunteer for RavBlog, I, along with the esteemed staff at the CCAR, am looking to add your voice to our RavBlog rolls.  We want to hear from you and read your thoughts, we want to learn from you and be inspired by you.  We want to feel with you and commiserate with you.  We want to be challenged by you and be inspired by you.  We want to laugh with you and cry with you.  We want to cook with you and craft with you.  We want to highlight your victories and give voice to your struggles. We want to dream with you and vision with you.  We want to hear from you, period!

Whatever you want to say, however you want to say it, we want to hear it, and share it.   We want to spark conversations—online, offline, and everywhere in between.  We want to create a platform for discussion and debate and dialogue.  We want to shed light on all the incredible things you do each day.

And so, to that point, I am asking you to help us grow and deepen RavBlog.  Help us highlight more of you and more of your exceptional projects and initiatives and ideas.  Help us expand our reach, not only to rabbis who haven’t yet subscribed, but also to interested family members, friends, congregants and community members.

Think about contributing and urge your colleagues to do so as well.

One of my personal goals is to cast a wide net, and to connect with as many of you as I can, in service of making RavBlog more representative of our multi-faceted rabbinate.  But rather than wait for me to find you, I wholeheartedly invite you all to reach out to me!  By all means, message me on Facebook or email me at sarasapadin@gmail.com with ideas, pitches, thoughts, questions, concerns, comments, and the like!

As we count our days and watch them pass, we recognize that there is no time like the present—to make our voices heard, to share our stories, and to contribute to this vibrant community of ideas.  I’ll bet you’ve got a terrific blog post just waiting to be submitted to RavBlog today!  I’m so looking forward to hearing from you.

—

Rabbi Sara Sapadin resides in New York City.  She most recently served Temple Israel of the City of New York.  Sara now volunteers as the CCAR RavBlog Member Volunteer.  Interested in writing something for RavBlog?  Email Sara.

Categories
News Passover Pesach

Dayenu: Enough is Enough

If the Passover seder had an anthem, my vote would be for Dayenu– the jubilant, infectious melody responsible for resuscitating seders everywhere, year in and year out.  Dayenu wakes us out of our seder stupors and inexplicably inspires all to join their voices in song: “Dai-dai-yenu, Dai-dai-yenu, Dai-dai-yenu, Dayenu, Dayenu!!!”

Dayenu—it would have been enough had God only delivered us from slavery, but God did more.  Dayenu—it would have been enough had God only given us Shabbat, but God gave more.  Dayenu—it would have been enough had God only bestowed upon us Torah, but God bestowed more.

When I reflect on Dayenu today, I struggle, because I see not enough emphasis on “enough” and too much emphasis on “more.”  What does “Dayenu” mean in a world where bigger is (usually) better and more is (often) what we are looking for?  How do we understand Dayenu in a society that prizes conspicuous consumption and fetishizes acquisition in every medium imaginable?  When we are conditioned to believe that more stuff and more riches and more power will lead to a happier life, how do we even begin to set limits and embrace moderation? How do we adopt the idea of “Dayenu,” or “just enough” in a society that can never seem to get enough (accolades, money, power, status, etc.)?

And what does “enough” mean in a world where our children are asked to be everything to everyone–studious, sporty, intellectually curious, musical, artistic, socially conscious, tech savvy, and how about entrepreneurial?  We want them to master a sport (or two or three), a language (or two or three), an instrument (or two or three) and a hobby (or two or three).  But we also want them to be well mannered, concerned for others, deeply connected to their friends and community, and passionate (and if that passion can be parlayed into a career, even better).  We cannot bear to waste the potential we see in them; we cannot bear to have them miss out on any opportunities availed to them.  We desperately want the best for them and we want them to be their best.

But when and where in this scenario do we say “Dayenu”—he is doing enough or Dayenu, she has enough on her plate?  When do we say “Dayenu,” this schedule is woefully too busy for a young adult and much too hectic for a child?  At what point do we say, “Dayenu” too much of a good thing is not good?  On the other hand, what would it mean to accept that “enough” is enough?  To be smart enough, athletic enough, pretty enough, strong enough, quick enough, funny enough, popular enough, or good enough—what would it mean to say, that is perfect?  What would it mean to teach our children, when you look in the mirror and see the person reflected back at you, that person is “enough”- to succeed in life, to excel in friendships, to create a solid foundation, to be a happy person.  You are enough, period.

And what about ourselves? The expectations we have for ourselves and our families and our congregations often have very little grounding in reality.  What is good enough for others is simply not good enough for us.  “Enough” is not a standard bearer; “enough” is not worthy of praise.  “Enough” is not gasp-inducing or eye popping. Enough is just adequate.  It is merely satisfactory.  It meets the criteria but it does not surpass.  We don’t want enough; we want extraordinary.  And yet, Dayenu…

There is nothing wrong with reaching for the stars.  There is nothing wrong with pushing oneself to succeed and surpassing expectations. There is nothing wrong with perseverance and determination and high-octane drive.  We need that passion to accomplish all we set out to do.  We require that motivation to ignite the spark within our souls.  But we meet a breaking point when the pursuit surpasses the prize, when we find ourselves on a relentless path towards the next best thing-at all costs.

When do we stop and say, Dayenu?  This rung is high enough, this place is good enough and this pace is quick enough?  When do we acknowledge ourselves and our families and our careers and say, we are enough—enough to appreciate and to accept and to cherish and to love?  When do we say, enough is enough with always wanting more, with never being satisfied, with never giving ourselves the opportunity to savor the moment?  When do we say, with true conviction, Dayenu?

We can look back to our Torah for a little help in the matter, and a little inspiration.  When Moses called upon the Israelites to bring gifts towards the erecting of the Mishkan, the holy Tabernacle, they responded with unbridled enthusiasm.  They brought and they brought and they brought some more.  Ultimately, Moses had to stop the flow of gifts; the people had brought too much; “their efforts had been more than enough for all the work to be done.”  (Exodus 36:7)  In this case, God only wanted enough, no more, no less, just enough.

God got it right with the Mishkan.  Passover gives us an opportunity to get it right with Dayenu.  This Passover, may we all go from strength to strength to…Dayenu.

—

Rabbi Sara Y. Sapadin resides in New York City.  She most recently served Temple Israel of the City of New York.  Sara now volunteers as the CCAR RavBlog Member Volunteer.  Interested in writing something for RavBlog?  Learn more. 

Categories
High Holy Days Rabbis

Inspired by Hannah: A Conversation for the New Year

I was ordained eight years ago in a beautiful and sacred ceremony.  Standing on the bimah before our beloved Rosh Yeshivah, bordered on the transcendental.  When he blessed me, I cried.  It was a moment I will carry with me always.

But my ordination marked more than the beginning of my rabbinate.  It also marked the beginning of my motherhood too.  Just three weeks prior to ordination, I had my first child, a baby boy.  My first taste of motherhood was unlike anything I could ever have predicted or imagined. My emotions were fierce and turbulent, and my attachment immediate and unwavering.

My ordination was the first time I had ever left my son, and I was a wreck.  Those early post-postpartum days wreak havoc on the mind and body, and I was feeling the strain of excess hormones, total exhaustion, and round-the-clock milk production.

I remember bringing my hand pump with me to ordination, in fact. I stashed it beneath my seat, and dashed to the bathroom when I couldn’t stand the pressure a single second more. I remember standing in the bathroom, robe open, shirt unceremoniously un-tucked and unbuttoned, trying desperately to collect as much milk as I could with this irritatingly inefficient apparatus.

I was sweating, worried on one hand that I was missing my ordination, but on the other that I was neither collecting enough milk nor relieving the pressure that was building steadily in my chest.  I hated the fact that my ordination ceremony was happening while I was stuck in the bathroom, but I hated even more that I had left my three week old at home. I was overwhelmed by this emotional face-off, and unnerved by my inability to mitigate this internal strife.

I was a new mother and a new rabbi at the very same time.  Two paths, some would say divergent, others, perhaps not, and two very separate worlds of responsibility and meaning.  These two worlds appeared simultaneously, with little signage and no GPS in sight.  How would my rabbinate pave the way for motherhood?  Or rather, how would motherhood pave the way for my rabbinate?  I set out in search of balance, a way to honor these two parts of my life.

Eight years and three more children later, I am still searching.  I have worked part-time and part-part time.  I have prioritized here and prioritized there, working nights so I could have days, and days so I could have nights.  I have wiggled and jiggled and maneuvered in more ways than I can count.  And while every way had its merit, no way was perfect.  I wonder if I stumbled upon the best way to achieve said balance or if some path has eluded me as of yet.  It remains to be seen.

These days, I am home, with no work to put a claim on my time besides the work I create for myself.  And yet, the personal versus professional dichotomy still remains. In between the diaper duty and the laundry and the dishes, I spend a lot of time thinking about the rabbinate, and how it fits in to the crumby corners of domestic life, and how it spills over from the lofty, dignified walls of the synagogue into the messy, sticky, soggy world of a family. What does it mean to be a rabbi when you are stuck cleaning a toilet?  Or changing a diaper?  What does it mean to be a rabbi when you’re carrying a baby, along with two backpacks and a lunch bag to boot?  What does it mean to be a rabbi when all signifiers of esteem and import and formality have been stripped away?  What does it mean to be a rabbi when the title you use most is “mommy”?  Where does “rabbi” fit in to this picture?

The truth is, I don’t know.  These days, I am not sure where “mommy” begins and “rabbi” ends.  I’m not certain I’ll ever know.  The view from where I stand is foggy at best.

I know I am not the first or the last to ask these kinds of questions. And I know my struggle to define my identity is not unique to me, or to mothers in the rabbinate, or even to mothers in general. But each of us speaks from a place that is unique, and each of us adds our own voice to the conversation.  In the New Year, I want to add to this conversation.  I want to be a part of this conversation.  I want to start a conversation.

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Rabbi Sara Sapadin resides in New York City.  She most recently served Temple Israel of the City of New York.