Categories
Books Prayer

The Story Behind “Come, Rain” by Alden Solovy

“Come, Rain” is not only a prayer for rain, it’s a metaphor for the blessings of love. Love waters our lives, our hopes, and our dreams.

It was a sleepless night. Cold. Blustery. I tossed and turned in a one-man tent at a campground overlooking the Kinneret, the Sea of Galilee.

The rain came in waves, one storm following another with brief periods of calm. Between the storms, the jackals howled in the distance. Then the wind would rise and the rain would begin again.

In Israel, rain is considered a blessing, a tangible sign of God’s love and dedication to the covenant with the Jewish people. “If, indeed, you obey My commandments … I will grant rain for your land in season, the early rain and the late …” (Deut. 11, translation from Mishkan Hanefesh, Yom Kippur, p. 34). When the rains come, surely blessings will follow.

This Grateful Heart: Psalms and Prayers for a New Day

That night, unable to sleep, I put on my headlamp, sat up in my tent and took out the small black moleskin notebook I use for writing new psalms, meditations, and prayers. As yet another wave of rain blew over the campground, I began to write, welcoming the blessings of rain. I imagined myself as the ground – parched and barren – yearning for blessings. The rain would water the dry land. The rain would also water my aching heart.

It was a hard night. On one hand, I was off hiking and camping with dear friends. It was the second night of a charity hike supporting Tsad Kadima, a wonderful organization that provides education and other services for kids and adults with cerebral palsy. I was with my closest companions in Israel. On the other hand, I was feeling particularly lonely and distant from my family and other dear ones back in the States. I have an amazing life here. At the same time, I’m a world away from my daughters.

“Come, Rain” is not only a prayer for rain, it’s a metaphor for the blessings of love. Love waters our lives, our hopes, and our dreams.

The rain was relentless that night. I wrote “Come, Rain” in one draft. Like the rain itself, this prayer simply poured out. It’s one of two prayers for rain that appear in This Grateful Heart: Psalms and Prayers for a New Day. The other prayer, “For Rain,” is simpler, both in language choice and in message.

“Come, Rain” and “For Rain” can be used as meditations on changing seasons, either in personal prayer or communal worship. Several other seasonal prayers are also included in This Grateful Heart: one for each of the four seasons, as well as a “Harvest Prayer.”

Watch Alden Solovy recite “Come Rain” in Jerusalem. 

—

Alden Solovy is a liturgist, author, journalist, and teacher. He has written more than 600 pieces of new liturgy, offering a fresh new Jewish voice, challenging the boundaries between poetry, meditation, personal growth, and prayer. His writing was transformed by multiple tragedies, marked in 2009 by the sudden death of his wife from catastrophic brain injury. Solovy’s teaching spans from Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion in Jerusalem to Limmud, UK, and synagogues throughout the U.S. The Jerusalem Post called his writing “soulful, meticulously crafted.” Huffington Post Religion said “…the prayers reflect age-old yearnings in modern-day situations.” Solovy is a three-time winner of the Peter Lisagor Award for Exemplary Journalism. He made aliyah to Israel in 2012, where he hikes, writes, teaches, and learns. His work has appeared in Mishkan R’Fuah: Where Healing Resides (CCAR Press, 2012), L’chol Z’man v’Eit: For Sacred Moments (CCAR Press, 2015), Mishkan HaNefesh: Machzor for the Days of Awe (CCAR Press, 2015), and Gates of Shabbat, Revised Edition (CCAR Press, 2016). He is the author of This Grateful Heart: Psalms and Prayers for a New Day, to be published by CCAR Press in 2017.

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.

—

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

Categories
Convention

Atlanta Here We Come!

Atlanta here we come! In just a few weeks we will gather for our annual convention. I can’t believe that it has been two years since my installation in Philadelphia.  The months have literally flown by as I have traveled not only across the U.S. but also visiting our colleagues in South America, Europe and Israel! The CCAR is truly a global organization.  What an incredible privilege it has been to serve our Conference and all of you.  I am looking forward to greeting you in the Peach State and to celebrating the accomplishments of our CCAR and welcoming and installing our new President, David Stern.

Our annual convention is the highlight of every year and this year will be no different. I know that our Program Committee under the leadership of Wendi Geffen and our local Atlanta colleagues alongside CCAR Program Manager, Victor Appell, have worked to ensure that this gathering will be memorable. I am very excited about the emphasis on civil rights and social justice that awaits us in Atlanta; touring The Center for Civil and Human Rights; hearing from the President of the Southern Poverty Law Center and NAACP; meeting with pastors from the historic Ebenezer Church and of course a visit to The Temple! Our convention will help us frame and reframe for our rabbinates the call of our prophetic tradition to speak truth to power and to lift up the dignity of every person.

Click to register for Convention.

But even more than the workshops, tours, and professional development that will be offered this year I think there is one more component that will be more needed than ever: Chevruta.

I know that since the November U.S. election you all have worked tirelessly to support your many congregants who have so many questions. You have held their disappointments and anger. You have been torn between often speaking up about our Jewish moral tradition and worry that your more politically conservative members and donors will be alienated or that political incivility will tear apart the congregational bonds.  Many of you have written to me of your own personal worries and difficulties during this time.  I have received emails and phone calls about some colleague’s sense of isolation from their communities as if they are the lone voice in the wilderness. I know that Steve Fox and our staff have also received calls and emails about this and talked with many of you.

View the Convention Snapshot.

That is why our convention gathering will be so important. Because together in Atlanta we will comfort each other, lift each other up, inspire each other, teach each other, laugh with each other, breathe with each other and renew one another spirits. More than ever we need to be together.

So if you are hesitating about whether or not to come, just do it! Register and join us for a celebration of everything that is so good and holy about being rabbis.  Join us so we can strengthen our resolve to engage in our holy work of Torah that includes lifting up the souls and strengthening the moral fiber of the Jewish people!

I have been asked what I liked best about being President of the CCAR. And I always have the same answer.  I like rabbis.  I have met so many of you that I didn’t know before.  I have seen how you toil for God, Torah and Israel. I have deep admiration for the holy work you do, wherever you do so.  Whether in the hospital, or military, college campus, day school, congregation or organization, you, my colleagues have inspired me to see that the Jewish people lives and is strong and will be not just survive but continues to thrive.  I hope you will come to Atlanta so we can share in that communal strength with one another.

—

Rabbi Denise L. Eger is the founding rabbi of Congregation Kol Ami in West Hollywood, CA and is President of the CCAR. 

Categories
chaplains Rabbis

Reflections on 50 Years as a Rabbi

I was ordained a rabbi on the Shabbat before the Six-Day War erupted in Israel in 1967.  Little did I realize then how powerfully that event would transform American Reform Jews for generations. Since that time, we have reclaimed once-discarded traditional rituals and have embraced Zionism enthusiastically.

After ordination, I became an Army chaplain for two years, first at Ft. Belvoir, Virginia. In that capacity, I officiated at all Jewish burials at Arlington National Cemetery, many of which involved Vietnam casualties- a painful, frustrating assignment. I was told the name of the deceased and the grave site, but nothing more. Yet I was expected to eulogize the deceased when I arrived at the grave site. After that experience, I committed myself to learning as much as I can about the deceased prior to the service to give him/her an appropriate final tribute.

While at HUC-JIR, I envisioned becoming a congregational rabbi, with an emphasis on scholarship, preaching, and teaching and without much attention to social action. Vietnam changed all that.

At Ft. Belvoir, as a military officer, I became an outspoken opponent of the Vietnam War and was punished for my actions by being reassigned to Korea.

Discharged in June, 1969, I interviewed for seven pulpits, three of which were assistant-ships. During that process, I discovered that I am not temperamentally suited to be an assistant rabbi and needed a solo congregation. My first pulpit was Temple B’nai Israel, in Galveston.

I continued my anti-war protests, in Galveston and received considerable affirmation from many members of my congregation. While engaged in social justice causes, I still maintained a commitment to scholarship. In 1975, I received my DHL degree, having written a dissertation on the noted medieval biblical commentator, Obadiah Sforno.

In 1976, I became Senior Rabbi of Temple Beth-El in San Antonio, where I served for 26 years. I succeeded Rabbi David Jacobson, who had served the congregation for 38 years. He and his wife, Helen, were revered community leaders who supported and encouraged me during my tenure. I have tried to do the same with my successors.

From 1984 to 1990, I was editor of the Journal of Reform Judaism (now the CCAR Journal), and am grateful I could disseminate the wisdom and insights of my colleagues through this medium.

I often felt the sting of subtle anti-Semitism during my formative years. Therefore, I pledged to devote my life to combating bigotry and prejudice and to advancing interfaith understanding wherever I served. Fortunately, both Galveston and San Antonio are renowned for their healthy inter-religious climate.

I have also tried to avoid the turf battles which plague many Jewish communities and to cultivate mutually respectful relationships with rabbinical colleagues and members of all other local synagogues.

Since my retirement in 2002, Lynn and I have spent our summers at Chautauqua Institution. At this “adult brain and soul camp,” as Lynn calls it, in western New York State, I am a member of the staff of the Department of Religion. I was once named Theologian-in-Residence and have lectured there frequently. Chautauqua is the ideal setting for my interfaith work. Though its foundation is Christian, about 30% of its current participants are Jewish.

Serving as a rabbi for half a century has been a privilege and an honor. In no other calling does one gained instant entry into people’s lives, during their times of trials and triumphs.

Having been raised in western Pennsylvania, I still can’t believe that I have spent my entire civilian rabbinate in Texas. The Jewish people here are warm, gracious, and caring, but many are culturally more Texan than Jewish and tend to be more politically conservative than elsewhere.

I close with the insightful observation, “Dor dor v’dorshav– Each generation requires its own interpreters.” My rabbinate has been exceedingly rewarding and fulfilling. Yet, I realize that the Reform Jewish world has changed so significantly since my ordination 50 years ago that I doubt if I could be an effective pulpit rabbi today. Fortunately, HUC-JIR is producing a new generation of rabbis who are more attuned to the needs and aspirations of contemporary Reform Jewry.

—

Rabbi Samuel M. Stahl is celebrating fifty years as a CCAR Rabbi.

Categories
Convention Social Justice

A Turning Point in History: The Temple Bombing

We are excited to welcome over 500 colleagues to The Temple during our upcoming CCAR Convention in Atlanta. This year marks the 150th anniversary of our congregation. As part of the festivities, the Alliance Theater has commissioned a theatrical production of Melissa Faye Greene’s book, The Temple Bombing. We are thrilled to be performing the show, at The Temple, as part of the Convention.

On October 12, 1958, a bundle of dynamite blew through the wall of Atlanta’s oldest synagogue. Following 1954’s Brown v. Board of Education Supreme Court Decision, Rabbi Rothschild had become a public advocate for the progress of Civil Rights. The explosion and national support for The Temple community bolstered Atlanta city leaders’ resolve to investigate and prosecute the crime, paving the way for dramatic social change. This theatricalization celebrates a city that came together in the face of hatred to live the lessons of the civil rights era, lessons that still resonate 58 years after that fateful day.

Jimmy Maize’s The Temple Bombing transports us to a time in American history of unparalleled moral courage. In 1958, several Southern synagogues were bombed, causing many of the south’s 548,650 Jews to wonder whether they would soon become targets of religious bigotry. Maize paints an honest picture, drawing upon real biographies, of what it must have been like when our congregation and our rabbi were threatened.

Primarily, The Temple Bombing offers the world a unique glimpse into the heart and soul of our Rabbi, Jacob M. Rothschild: it is a portrait of moral courage. Rabbi Rothschild was a strong believer in interfaith dialogue, a champion of racial justice and integration, and one of the most respected religious leaders in the South.

As the play draws to a close, one can’t help but ponder a singular truth: Rabbi Rothschild knew then what we know today – that we must all stand up to bigotry and hatred. It is the height of gullibility to hope that the truly democratic forces, if left to work on their own at their normal pace, will correct the inequities so prevalent in our society.

The Temple Bombing is a wake-up call and an invitation to become an integral part of this turning point in history – to fulfill the promise of Rabbi Rothschild. Each of us has within us the God-given spark of creativity –the ability to transcend, to bring order to chaos, beauty to ugliness. Each of us has the power in our lives to give meaning or to withhold it. This task is, in no small part, the last, greatest hope in our humanity.

—

Rabbi Peter S. Berg serves The Temple in Atlanta, Georgia. 

Categories
News

Breathe In, Breathe Out: A Meditation With the Trees

Tell me, have you walked among the trees recently? I will never forget the quality of the silence in the redwood forest we used to visit when we lived in Northern California. It was similar to the silence of a sanctuary or cathedral. Bone deep, sacred. Just even thinking of walking on the pathway in that forest, I notice that I take a deep breath.

Which is interesting, in and of itself,  because the truth is that we literally DO breathe in the energy that trees release in the form of oxygen that we need to live.

And just as amazing is that the trees themselves breathe. They inhale the carbon dioxide that we exhale.

The psalmist somehow knew this, and this awesome sentiment is given a place in our morning prayers: Every living thing breathes and praises God: Kol Haneshema t’halal Yah.

In the Hebrew month of Shevat (usually corresponding to February) the rabbis of the Mishnah noticed that the trees begin to bud and the sap begins to flow. They created a holiday called Tu B’Shevat which we celebrate on the 15th day of Shevat. Originally it was a reminder of setting aside tithes for the poor from the corners of the fields. They called this holiday, “The New Year of Trees.”

In the soulful explosion of Jewish mysticism in Safed in the middle ages, Tu B’Shevat took on a more spiritual tone. Tu B’Shevat seders were created, honoring not only trees and fields, but all the gifts of nature that begin to wake up from their winter sleep in early spring.

To those of us who live outside the land of Israel in which this holiday originated, Tu B’Shevat has become an occasion to celebrate our connection with trees and seeds and herbs and all things that grow. On this day, we raise our consciousness about the environmental dangers we face right now.

As Jews, it’s central to our mission that we need to protect the planet. In the Garden of Eden, “God took Adam around to see the trees of the Garden of Eden, which included the Tree of Life and the Tree of Knowledge, and God said to Adam, ‘Behold My work. All this I create for you. Take care you do not destroy it, for if you do, there is no one left to repair it.’”[1]

Some of the most ardent environmentalists I know are people who have deep personal relationships with trees and nature. People who hike or walk or ski or run amongst the trees fall in love. When we love something, we fight hard to protect it.

The best way to create a relationship is to slow down, notice, and allow the wonder of what is before you to impact you.

 

A Mindful Way to Celebrate Tu B’Shevat:

Simply take a walk where you live – either by yourself or with a friend or best of all – a child. Quiet your speech so your other senses can awaken. If you can’t get to a forest preserve, walk around your block, or even your own yard. It’s not a walk to get anywhere – it’s a walk with the intention to pay attention. Especially notice the trees. They might be snow covered or devoid of leaves – accept them as they are.

Find one tree that attracts you.

Stand close up and observe the branches. Can you see any buds forming? Are there leaves hanging on from last year’s season, fluttering in the wind? Look closely at the bark on the tree – its color and texture. Look as if it’s the first time you’ve seen it. Notice the shape of the tree’s canopy. Are there any nests?  Check out the roots – are they visible? Breaking up a sidewalk? Covering the ground by stretching out wide?

And then – take some deep breaths, conscious of the fact that you and the tree you face are exchanging life. Experience what that feels like.

Now that you have a relationship with this tree, make sure you come back in a few weeks and visit your new friend. Again, notice the branches, the canopy, the bark, the buds or the leaves.

Martin Buber speaks of the shift in our relationship to a tree from an “it” to a “thou.” Surely this is what is needed in order to save the planet. When we love, we enter into an “I-Thou” relationship – we see the connections between us and how we are in fact, one breathing entity.

I can contemplate a tree. I can accept it as a picture . . . I can feel it as a movement . . . I can assign it to a species and observe it as an instance . . . I can overcome its uniqueness and form so rigorously that I can recognize it only as an expression of law . . . I can dissolve it into a number, into a pure relation between numbers, and externalize it. Throughout all of this the tree, the tree remains my object and has its time span, its kind and condition. But it can also happen, if will and grace are joined, that as I contemplate the tree, I am drawn into the relation and the tree ceases to be an It.[2]

This Tu B’Shevat, say Happy Birthday to a tree.  

—

Rabbi Jill Zimmerman is a rabbi in Los Angeles, focusing her rabbinate on mindfulness through the lens of Judaism and can be reached at RabbiJillZ@gmail.com

[1]As quoted by Rabbi Harold M. Schulweis, Rabbi, Valley Beth Shalom, https://www.jewishworldwatch.org/aboutjww2/sermon.html

[2] Martin Buber, I and Thou, Martino Publishing; 2010, pp. 57-58

Categories
Rabbis

Knowing Before Whom I Stand

Bashert: I believe that my encounters in the Rabbinate were meant to be! My paternal grandmother was my first spiritual teacher. Her wisdom shaped my vision for a better world, healed of hate, bigotry, and oppression. Her affirmations taught me to seize life’s opportunities, to open sacred windows.

Family expectations sculpted my intention to become a concert pianist.  My piano stood as a symbol of their plan for my future. My professors were sources of spiritual, religious, and musical wisdom, whose combined impact on my soul determined my destiny.  Hartford’s “classical Reform dean,” Abraham J. Feldman, influenced my consideration of career alternatives. Pianist Rudolf Serkin’s brilliance and humility, the impact of my teacher, Madame Dayas, of Cincinnati’s Conservatory of Music, and the insight of Dean Pelletieri at the Hartt School of Music, taught me to be true to myself. HUC-JIR Professors, Werner Weinberg, survivor of the Holocaust, and Samuel Sandmel, innovative scholar in Christian-Jewish dialogue, ignited my commitment to Torah study and interfaith relationships, defining my rabbinic choices.

The marriage of religious thought and social justice sparked my passions. Professor Sheldon Blank inspired my zeal for Reform’s prophetic vision. My rabbinate embraced involvement in the 1960’s Civil Rights movement. A cherished association with Rev. Fred Shuttlesworth, Dr. King’s successor, joined us in pursuit of “tikkun olam.”

The UAHC visionary and my congregant, Al Vorspan, taught me the merit of “chutzpah,” in molding better days. The discipline of piano practice nourished my ability to wrestle with God and humanity. The need to confront the imperfections of life awakened my spiritual pursuits. Our ordination, coincident with Israel’s Six Day War and the Vietnam conflict, and dramatic episodes in my Army chaplaincy, previewed my rabbinate.

While difficult, change insures the evolution of the “reform” attribute in Judaism.  No one owns a monopoly on religious truth, and rabbinic leaders must blend idealism and realism to nurture communities that welcome the Divine. Though disappointments and failures intrude, the Eternal Light demands our refueling.

My greatest gifts grew from seeds sown in various gardens. Ft. Hamilton’s Army Chaplain School and my chaplaincy at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center aroused concerns about theodicy. Counseling people from differing backgrounds required my creativity. My assistantship under the tutelage of Nathan Perilman, z”l, and Ronald Sobel at NYC’s Temple Emanu-El refined my rough edges.  The congregation of Lawrence, Long Island’s Temple Sinai prepared me for what was yet to come. Cincinnati’s Rockdale Temple, K.K. Bene Israel, challenged me to move a classical Reform congregation into the 20th century, becoming their first Senior Rabbi permitted to wear a kippah.  My struggle to position Israel’s flag on our bimah opened avenues for four congregational trips to Israel.  Officiating at the funerals of a rabbinic mentor, Victor Reichert, and at that of my treasured professor, Werner Weinberg, became transcendent moments. My collegiality with the Rev. George Hill, Rector of Cincinnati’s St. Barnabas Church, ushered in unforeseen collaborations that became instructive for the community. When I retired, the Church framed documents declaring me as “Sometime Rabbi In Residence.” Failing retirement, I accepted a “part-time” position at St. Augustine’s Temple Bet Yam, becoming their first Rabbi, conducting services in a Unitarian Church for 55 congregants.  Expanding to 125 families, we designed their first spiritual home, the façade of which proclaimed: “My House Shall Be Called a House of Prayer for All People.” Teaching at Flagler College in St. Augustine provided mentoring opportunities for a future Catholic and a future Episcopal priest.

My musical and spiritual beginnings nurtured the yearnings of my soul. The pathos of Beethoven and the precision of Mozart flowed into Judaism’s unrelenting wisdom. I learned to find fulfillment to dream impossible dreams. The Rabbinate was the right choice for me to compose new music for a rapidly changing world.  God willing, I shall fulfill my personal challenge to return to the piano, complete my reflections on Bashert, while exploring the world and nature.

When I peer in to the precincts of my soul, I am grateful for the blessings of that Light I shall never truly comprehend. My favorite Torah personality Jacob wrestled with the Almighty to become himself. In my way, I tried too.

—

Rabbi Mark Goldman is celebrating fifty years in the rabbinate.

Categories
News

Funny, You Don’t Look Like A Rabbi

How many times have I been told, “Funny, you don’t look like a rabbi!” Thirty-six years ago, when I was working as a hospital chaplain, that comment was often followed by, “You don’t even have a beard.” I would reply, “No, and I’m not circumcised, either.”

“Funny, You Don’t Look Like A Rabbi”, was the title of the program for the Annual Luncheon of the Jewish Women’s Foundation of Chicago on January 18, 2017. Actually, the full title was “Funny, You Don’t Look Like A Rabbi: Tales from The Sacred Calling: Four Decades of Women in the Rabbinate.” The special guest speakers were the book’s editors, Rabbi Alysa Mendelson Graf and Rabbi Rebecca Einstein Schorr, who carried on a conversation, talk-show style, sharing their personal stories and some of the stories from The Sacred Calling. I was invited to offer HaMotzi at the luncheon, as one of the contributors to the book, as the first female rabbi in Chicago, and as one of the small group who, twenty years ago, brain-stormed about the creation of the Jewish Women’s Foundation. As I listened to my brilliant and funny colleagues entertain and inform this group of well-heeled and well-dressed women at the Jewish Federation building downtown, I was so engaged in their stories that I forgot to take notes for this blog post. Their stories carried me back into some of my own.

Rabbi Ellen Dreyfus Shares Her Sacred Calling from CCAR on Vimeo.

Every woman in the rabbinate has her own stories – of stupid comments, of inappropriate questions, of being ridiculed, and of being ignored. We have all been at that meeting where we made a point or suggested an idea, and several minutes later a man said the same thing and was praised for his brilliance. We have all been in the receiving line where some jerk we don’t know thinks it’s okay to kiss us and say, “Gee, I’ve never kissed a rabbi before!” We have all been publicly addressed by only our first names while the male rabbis in the room have been called Rabbi LastName. Most of us have been underpaid and untrained in asking for the compensation we deserved. Those of us with children have gone through agonizing decisions of how to juggle motherhood and our careers, and no matter what the decision, we have been subjected to the criticism of those who think we could have/should have handled it better.

We also have our success stories and our moments of triumph. Those are usually not unique to us as women, but I don’t want to make it sound like our rabbinates are all war stories or tales of conflict and disappointment. There have been people who came to us for counseling because they felt more comfortable talking to a woman. There are those who thrived with a more collaborative style of leadership introduced by their female rabbi. We have had experiences in inter- and intra-faith dialogues with other women that were so much closer and easier than our male counterparts seemed to have.

As Rebecca and Alysa shared their narratives, answered questions, laughed together and delighted their audience, I looked around the room and realized that much of this was new to the women in attendance. Even though there have been women rabbis in Chicago for decades (I moved back here in 1983), and even though some of these women must belong to synagogues where women have served on the rabbinic staff, they were mostly ignorant of the obstacles we have faced and the attitudes that still plague our female colleagues. They had worked with Federation on paid family leave issues, so they resonated to Alysa’s reference to the challenge rabbis face when they give birth or adopt. It was encouraging to them and all of us to hear her frame it as a Jewish issue of supporting families and the Jewish future.

For me, personally, the event was very affirming. I was introduced with several of my “firsts” and was clearly the senior colleague of the many female rabbis present. The speakers kindly referred to me as one of the vatikot (veterans) of the first decade, and I looked upon them almost like a proud parent kvelling while her children succeed. A few days later, at the outdoor Shabbat service prior to the Women’s March on Chicago, one of the rabbis who organized the gathering asked me how it felt to see the next generation of women taking over. I told her how happy it made me to see that there are so many to continue the work I have been doing. It was one of those moments when I could actually see some of the fruits of my labors, and know that the Jewish future in Chicago is in good hands. And yes, she did look like a rabbi.

—

Rabbi Ellen Weinberg Dreyfus is Rabbi Emerita of B’nai Yehuda Beth Sholom in Homewood, Illinois. She is a past-president of the Central Conference of American Rabbis, and was the first woman to be president of the Chicago Board of Rabbis. She and her husband Jim have three grown children and four grandchildren. Her motto for the past several years is: “Grow where you’re planted.”

Categories
Israel Social Justice

Could You Hear Us Over The Sea?

Last year, during the High Holidays, my Heshbon nefesh brought me to question whether I am doing enough to share and protest regarding my unhappiness with the Netanyahu government.  I felt that there was much more that I could do.

I thought about the meeting I had with Muslim, Christian, Druze and Jewish religious women… a place of true meeting, and thought to myself, “Everyone enjoys Arab hospitality, what about if we turn this on its head and invite our neighbors from Arab towns and villages to our Jewish homes? ”

We invited 40 women of three religions to be hosted by 40 Jewish women. We met their bus with songs and flower petals. Drinks were served. A representative from each religion offered a prayer. Right there, I felt the Oneness of Rachmana, I understood in basic Arabic, that the Muslim prayer was a like Shema and V’Ahavta.  A love prayer for God. We danced, warmly and closely, we served our lovingly made food. They joked that it wasn’t spicy or sweet enough, but they appreciated the effort. Our cultural differences are real, emphasizing the need for a bridge.

Meanwhile the cataclysmic changes of the government in the USA took place. We joined those of you who marched on Washington and around the States. A sister demonstration was organized in Tel Aviv opposite the American Embassy.  Rabbi Naama Kelman asked if I would address the crowd as an Israeli Rabbi ordained here but brought up in America.  I was thrilled as I was born in 1958, and grew up in the anti-Vietnam protests, cut my teeth on sit-ins to wear pants to school in the 5th grade and was blessed to grow up in the first wave of Jewish feminism. That experience and music are what brought me to Judaism, as my sisters assimilated into American society and disappeared as Jews. Social justice is in my blood and in my soul.

Feeling a strong sense of Oneness with everyone marching in the world against racism, sexism, heterosexism, chauvinism, and anti-religious sentiment- we arrived with our signs. Do you ever wonder if Rachmana arranges Torah portions to fit a given situation?

I spoke these words as I spoke to the crowd in Tel Aviv:

Israeli women unite with women of the world! We are the midwives of a new era of activism and hope, we are Shifra and Puah, who refused the edict of the newly appointed leader and chose life for all!

We are the Daughter of Pharoah, whose simple but profound action changed the course of history.  She had her eyes open to see a troubled situation, she empowered other women to help, and she opened up the basket to get to the root of the problem. She heard the pain and cries of the child. She paid women what they were worth! She adopted another as her own. She teaches us all that we have to know as to how to bring godliness to this world. We join the chain of women who redeemed others.

We are seeking our name and our voice, like God, “We will be what we will be.” We will be our best selves and dedicate ourselves to be change and hope in this world.

The promenade by the sea filled up with hundreds of women, men, and children, some of American origin, some Israeli born.  My husband is who is British, was there as a feminist and a seeker of justice, and as the steadfast partner to a Rabbi.  It was so liberating to remind ourselves that action, praying with our feet, making an effort to go to the big city, to call friends is what it truly important.  Today we appeared in Haaretz and other press, including the Hebrew press.

There are so many ways to explore the meaning of “Shema Yisrael.” To make our voices heard. To make our voices count. To listen to the “other.” I was delighted to hear at this rally, “Black lives matter!” “Queer lives matter!”  To be humbled by the “other.” By our togetherness, by our Oneness.  We are all one.

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Rabbi Judith Edelman-Green serves as Pastoral Care Giver at Tel HaShomer hospital and at Beth Protea with the elderly, those with dementia, and those in nursing care.  She also leads creative musical services in Kfar Sava.  For the High Holidays, Rabbi Edelman-Green has served Rodef Shalom in Mumbai, India since 2010. 

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Rabbis

Reflections on 50 Years in the Rabbinate

Little did I know that when I was accepted to a new undergraduate-graduate program at HUC-JIR and the University of Cincinnati in 1958 that one day I would be sitting down to write about my experiences as a rabbi for the last 50 years. We were a handful of high school graduates then, participating in an experimental program, living at the HUC-JIR dorm while attending the University of Cincinnati. Most of us matriculated to the rabbinic program and eventually found ourselves, five years later, at Plum Street Temple in June of 1967 receiving our s’micha and blessing from Rabbi Dr. Nelson Glueck.

One of the folk songs of the day said, “The times, they are a changing,”  and that was surely the case. The Vietnam war was raging. The Jewish Welfare Board, in conjunction with the various rabbinical seminaries, concluded that 15 chaplains were needed from HUC-JIR’s class of 1967.  I was one of 15 who served as a Chaplain in the armed forces. The army and Ft. Lewis, Washington awaited its new Post Jewish chaplain, Capt. Robert Gan, fresh out of Chaplains school at Ft. Hamilton N.Y. With baited breath, Sheila and I and our very young son drove cross country and I reported for duty. We were determined to make the best of our new venture, not sure if I would eventually have to go to Vietnam.

Fortunately, I was able to remain at Ft. Lewis for my full two years of service. My boss there, Col. Estes, a Southern Baptist minister, wisely told me when I arrived that as the Jewish Chaplain I could run my program as I saw fit and to come to him if I had any questions. So, off I went, one of 30 chaplains at an Army Post of 60,000 including soldiers and dependents. I learned a lot, dealing with clergy of all stripes, as well as husbands and wives and young men facing the prospect of Vietnam. Times were tense and there were many challenging moments.  But there was also plenty of laughter and humor, especially given my imperfect military bearing. Thankfully, most everyone was quite forgiving. I also came to realize, during those two years, that I still had much more to learn about being a rabbi in the real world. The best side benefit was the birth of our daughter at Madigan General Hospital. The bill $7.50. What a bargain!

As a Bostonian, I had never been further west than Worcester, MA before coming to Cincinnati and thanks to the Army, we were now on the west coast in the beautiful State of Washington. I remember Dr. Jake Marcus saying there was no Jewish life west of the Mississippi but we were soon to find out, as we made our way to Los Angeles after my discharge, that there was a vibrant and wonderful community there and it welcomed its new young rabbi and his family.

Temple Isaiah would be our new home and I would become the associate to Rabbi Albert Lewis. We weren’t so sure about L.A. and we said to ourselves that we would give it a try for a couple of years. We could see that it was a warm and creative place with a founding rabbi immersed in issues of social justice. Right up my alley.

I had a mentor who shared all of his responsibilities with me. He was very insightful about congregational and community life, and he passed those insights on to me. He and the congregation were very patient with my “creative” services and programs and I always felt free to experiment.

Those first tentative years turned into a lifetime, from associate rabbi to co- rabbi to senior rabbi, and thirty-eight years later I retired. I had the joy of naming children whose Mother or Father I also named.  Lifecycle events always gave me the most pleasure and I came to know many wonderful families over their lifetime and mine.  I came to realize that congregational life was ultimately about relationships.  As I encounter congregants ten years after retirement it is still the case.

I had many excellent Assistant rabbis over the years and two wonderful cantors. I learned from my predecessor that sharing responsibilities equally is a good thing. It is good for one’s health and one’s rabbinic life. The concept of partnership between rabbis and cantor was especially important to me. So was laughter and not taking oneself too seriously.

After fifty years, I still have my hand in the rabbinate, though with slightly less pressure than when I was working.  For several years we  lived in Milan and then Florence, Italy where I was the progressive rabbi and we have been on several world cruises where I was part of the clergy staff. It has given me the opportunity to teach, to practice my very broken Italian, and to see incredible places around the world.  This new phase of my rabbinic life came to us quite accidentally, but it has been a real blessing. To be busy after retirement is a good thing.

New people and communities have enriched our lives. All of this was only possible because fifty years ago I went to Cincinnati with my dad to scout out HUC-JIR and decided to stay. The rabbinate has embodied so much of what I wanted to do.

For me, the practical congregational rabbinate has included a bi-weekly in Morgan City, Louisiana, a high holiday congregation in St Johnsbury, Vermont, eating lunch with the troops in the field with one of my congregants- Major Bernstein, officiating at B’nai Mitzvot in Milan, and conducting seders aboard the MS Amsterdam for as many as 200 Jews and Christians.

What a life it has been. I have treasured it all, my congregational rabbinate as well as all the new adventures that have come our way.  How was I to know that conjugating verbs on a surprise quiz in Dr. Tsvat’s Tanach class would lead to the challenging, meaningful and wonderful world of the rabbinate.  Fifty years, kayna hora!

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Rabbi Robert Gan is celebrating 50 years in the rabbinate.