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Books High Holy Days Machzor Mishkan haNefesh

Falling In Love All Over Again With Mishkan HaNefesh

I want to begin this post by sharing with you that I have a deep and true love of Mishkan HaNefesh.  My congregation used the Reform Movement’s new machzor last year, and as a rabbi and as an individual, I found Mishkan HaNefesh to be inspiring and moving.  On Erev Rosh Hashanah, after months of preparation, I stood on the bimah and led my community through our first service with Mishkan HaNefesh.  I watched as my congregants encountered and appreciated the beauty of our new machzor.  I noticed when they lingered over a prayer that moved them and when they held their books to their chests as they sang words that were so familiar that their books were completely unnecessary.  I could see that their hearts were opening to the words and to the experience of praying with Mishkan HaNefesh, and I knew that even as we lived through the inevitable difficulties that that always accompany the first services with any new prayer book, our community had accepted and embraced the opportunity to create new memories with our new prayer books.

Recently, the CCAR Press released Divrei Mishkan HaNefesh: A Guide to the CCAR Machzor.  Reading the detailed commentary and the essays included in Divrei reminded me just how much I love Mishkan HaNefesh.  Divrei is meant to be a “midrash on the machzor” and offers both very practical advice for using Mishkan HaNefesh as well as high level insight into the book’s creation.  There are many, many valuable pieces of information included in Divrei that will undoubtedly enhance the experience and understanding of both congregants and clergy.

Mishkan HaNefesh Discussion 07-29-2015 00

Last summer, my congregation was lucky enough to have Rabbi Hara Person, the publisher and director of the CCAR Press, join us for an evening forum about Mishkan HaNefesh.  In a couple of hours, Rabbi Person explained to us how Mishkan HaNefesh had come into being while also introducing us to some of the innovative features of the new machzor.  This program provided us with invaluable insight into our new prayer books, and as I read Divrei, I felt like I was experiencing an expanded version of Rabbi Person’s wonderful class.

While I found the commentaries at the beginning of Divrei to be enlightening, I thought that the behind-the-scenes information in the essays was really fascinating.  I especially enjoyed reading Rabbi Janet R. Marder’s, “Praying in Captivity: Liturgical Innovation in Mishkan HaNefesh,” because she addressed at length my favorite aspect of Mishkan HaNefesh– the beautiful readings and prayers that Rabbi Marder explains are either, “…recovered from the tradition itself… [or] presented in a boldly contemporary idiom.” (p. 72)

bearman 2When I sought feedback after the holidays last year, I heard more about the new readings and prayers than any other aspect of our services.  I heard over and over again from congregants who looked chagrined as they told me, “I loved the readings so much!  Sometimes I wouldn’t follow along with the service because I wanted to stay on a page that really spoke to me.”  When I replied that I thought it was wonderful that they had connected so deeply with the prayer book, they immediately grew animated as they shared exactly which texts had affected them.  More often than not, the readings that grabbed their attention are what Rabbi Marder calls “counter-texts.” (p. 72)  For my congregants and myself, these counter-texts and their relationships to the canonical prayers were and continue to be incredibly powerful.
As I prepared for the High Holy Days last year, I spent hours reading both volumes of Mishkan HaNefesh like novels– approaching each page with a pencil in hand, filling the margins with notes about how I felt about each text, and drawing stars next to my favorite readings (full disclosure- there were a lot of stars). bearman 3

Early on in my preparation, I decided to share my enjoyment of Mishkan HaNefesh through social media.  My posts and tweets helped create a sense of anticipation and excitement in my community and let my congregants know how deeply I connected with our new machzor.

As I prepare for my second High Holy Days with Mishkan HaNefesh, I find myself eagerly anticipating the choice of which prayers and readings I’ll include in this year’s services.  I’m looking forward to incorporating what I have learned from both last year’s High Holy Days as well as the resources included in Divrei as I seek to create and lead meaningful services for my community.  And, when the choices seems too difficult, I’m going to comfort myself with what I think is one of the most important messages in Divrei Mishkan HaNefesh– namely that, “…what matters is not ‘mastering’ the book, but rather allowing the book to help us experience transformative, sacred moments.” (p. 2)

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Rabbi Rachel Bearman serves Temple B’nai Chaim in Georgetown, Connecticut.

Categories
Books High Holy Days Mishkan haNefesh

Lest Our Preparation for Prayer be Willy-Nilly

Lists, as we know, play a key role in the Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur liturgy.  Be it Avinu Malkeinu or Al Cheit, our High Holy Day liturgy is laced with lists.  Mishkan HaNefesh’s lists greatly overlap the collections found in Gates of Repentance, but they do differ.   I can think of multiple ways of approaching these differences when preparing to lead services.

The first would be simply to ignore the old order and simply roll through the lists as presented in Mishkan HaNefesh.  However, this approach strikes me as too willy-nilly.  Certainly, we wish to understand these changes in some of our most poignant prayers.

A second approach to preparation might be to place one’s machzorim next to each other on a table and construct one’s own charts, using post-its  and scratch paper for clarification.  This detailed approach enables the prayer leader to map out the differences and consider the expanded options presented by our new machzor.  However, why choose to work in the dark?  Why not have some additional tools before us as we consider the possibilities presented in the evolution of our Reform Jewish liturgy?

Thankfully, Divrei Mishkan HaNefesh provides us with some lists and other resources that can help us approach the High Holy Days in an organized fashion.  We needn’t proceed willy-nilly or with just our own charts.  This book’s obvious lists come at the end in the “Indexes and Tables.” [p.130] It is helpful to have these organized lists of poems and passages, authors and citations. However, when facing the altered lists of Avinu Malkeinu, Al Cheit, etc, I found it first helpful to turn to the “Table of Readings Related to Key Liturgical Rubrics.” (p.168) I dearly hope no rabbi ever uses that title from the bima, however this table can help us contemplate the crucial lists from across our High Holy Day liturgy with a sense of the breadth our editors have presented.  As we consider how to frame our prayers, we are easily presented with the broad range of possibilities.  Al Cheit might be framed on Yom Kippur Morning by Yehuda Amichai or on Yom Kippur Afternoon with a selection from Gates of Repentance itself.  This tool gives a broad snap shot that might help organize the prayer leader’s thoughts.Divrei Image

Even more helpful, is the annotated list described simply as “commentary.” (p.12) Certainly, the insights presented here don’t read as a mere list.  We are provided helpful insights into the choices the editors made in shaping the machzor’s two volumes.  This Commentary is enlightening in comparing different services and considering the range of choices. It is especially helpful when presenting those prayers composed as lists themselves.

Mishkan HaNefesh allows for the melodies many congregations likely use, as we read “every time Avinu Malkeinu appears in the machzor, the words used by Janowski are presented together.” [p.19] With some humor, this grouping is explained.  Further, we learn that the editors “have also added traditional verses to Avinu Malkeinu not found in Gates of Repentance” [p.19] with some further explanation of the editorial selections.  This mini-essay continues with an interesting explanation of the translations offered with Avinu Malkeinu, and thus other prayers.  We are reminded, “Avoiding the word “sin” in the maczhor is not easy, since the Hebrew word cheit is universally recognized as “sin.” [p.21] Later on that page, we learn the reasoning behind rendering “the final declaration of Avinu Malkeinu as ‘our deeds are wanting’ and not ‘we have no merit.”

Actually, Divrei Mishkan HaNefesh’s lists don’t operate in isolation. The insights of that paragraph are more fully explained in Janet Marder’s essay, in a paragraph that reads, in part, “The goal of cheshbon hanefesh (moral inventory), after all, is not self-condemnation but an honest, realistic assessment of both our weakness and our strengths, our right and wrong actions.” [p.72]  Together this string of insights allows us to both understand the editors’ approach and to consider our own choices in constructing our services.

In the end, there is no substitute for a prayer leader working his or her own way through the machzor itself.  We will each react differently to Mishkan HaNefesh’s various lists of Avinu Malkeinu or Al Cheit.  Decisions will be based on community, melody, minhag, or the prior year’s selection. Divrei Mishkan HaNefesh offers helpful lists and insightful essays that can help us understand and shape our approach to our worship using our new machzor.

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Rabbi Andrew Busch serves Baltimore Hebrew Congregation.  He serves on Reform Judaism’s Commission on Worship, Synagogue Music and Religious Living and as an officer of the Baltimore Jewish Council. 

Categories
Death Rabbis

Do it Yourself Goodbyes

“Daddy can fix anything,” my children brag, whenever I fail to manipulate a stubborn valve on my twelve-year-old’s clarinet or silence a menacing hiss from the pump in our fish tank. Of course they are correct. My husband and his family are proud do-it-yourself types: shoveling their own snow; filing complicated tax returns without assistance; and even lubricating the beast-like sewage ejector pumps that dwell in our basement. In a textbook case of opposites attracting, I had been raised in a family that excused ignorance in the basics of lawn mower or doorbell repair by claiming genetic links to centuries of preoccupied Talmud scholars.

At eighty-five years old, my mother-in-law refused to accept any help caring for her home or her ninety-four year old husband. Married almost fifty-two years, they tended to each like binary stars caught in each other’s gravitational pull. Each evening after dinner, they would clean their dishes, take out the garbage, and set the table once more in preparation for breakfast. In the first week of March, my father-in-law collapsed before he could sit down at the tidily set table for his morning coffee. The doctors told my mother-in-law to prepare to say goodbye. After being given this devastating news, my mother-in-law called me.

“In the event that he dies, he wanted you to give the eulogy,” my mother-in-law informed me in a strong, clear voice.

“What about the service? Have you called your rabbi?” I inquired, as my nose started to run, and my throat closed a bit.

“Our rabbi has that South American accent. Henry could never understand a word he said. You can read a few prayers, can’t you? Please.” She was asking me to lead the funeral.

Although for more than two decades my professional work has focused on Jewish education, I am an ordained reform rabbi. It’s not such a leap to think that I could officiate at my own father-in-law’s funeral. But I’ve always been rather shy, more comfortable leading a discussion in the classroom than standing in front of a congregation chanting prayers or giving a sermon.  I’ve officiated at funerals before, but most of the life-cycle events in which I participate are joyful ones. Weddings, Bar and Bat Mitzvah celebrations, and baby-naming ceremonies can be scheduled months in advance to coordinate with little league baseball playoffs or All County band. Graveside prayers often interfere with school pick-up and Hebrew school carpool. And they make me cry, even when I have not met the deceased.

“Are we really going to have a do-it-yourself funeral for Henry?” I asked my mother-in-law.

“He was a quiet man. He wouldn’t want a long service. No more than ten minutes,” she instructed me.

When one of the fish dies in that tank of ours, it takes me at least five minutes to provide a proper send off. “This purple and yellow fairy fish lived here for two years darting around the rocks and corals with the blue damsel. May she return to the large sea, and may her memory help us treasure the beauty of this world.”  Then, one of the kids flushes the toilet, and we make sure no one else is missing an eyeball due to white spot disease or “ick.”

I didn’t want to give my father-in-law any less of a tribute than I would do for a fish. Almost a generation older than my own dad, Henry was more like a grandpa. With his shock of white hair and his thick accent that made you believe that somehow you had magically learned to understand German, even though he was speaking in English, he would pat me on my head in the same way he did to our children, and say, “you’re a good girl.” Good sounded like “goot.” He had fled from Nazi Germany as a teenager and built a life here in America. A natural athlete and artist, he loved to eat, especially my mother-in-law’s plum cake, which he called Pflaumenkuchen.

I called my dad for advice. “I don’t want to cry and ruin everything,” I told him on the phone. “I know it’s not a tragic loss, but we’re so very sad.”

“It’s okay if you cry,” my dad calmed me.

“Wouldn’t you rather have someone who loved you say goodbye than a stranger?” My dad continued.

I came up with all sorts of excuses. In the end, I couldn’t disappoint my mother-in-law. I knew that she would hate for that Portuguese-speaking rabbi to drive all the way out to the frigid cemetery in New Jersey to make a few blessings for a man he barely knew.

The hardest part of the funeral happened the night before when I needed to herd my husband, his brother, and their mother to my kitchen table so I could organize the service. In any other circumstance, I would be the respected clergy person, and everyone would sit down docilely. But on this day, no one wanted to plan the details. That would mean my father-in-law was really gone, and not just slowly winding down to the end of a long life like an old Bavarian clock.

Late into the night, I typed out the eulogy. The next morning, we held the brief service, which lasted for more than ten minutes. The grandchildren read excerpts from Ecclesiastes and helped shovel clods of wet dirt onto their grandfather’s coffin. Our feet were covered in mud.

I was glad not to have subcontracted out this task. Honored to recite the prayers for my almost grandpa, my father-in-law, I said farewell to him and retold his story.  I did not carry his casket like a strong pall bearer, but I did utter the words to “El Malei Rachamim,” invoking a God we hope to be merciful who will watch over Henry’s soul, as it returns to its source and becomes one with the earth again and everything that ever lived on land or water and in our hearts.

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Rabbi Sharon Forman was ordained as a rabbi in 1994 from the New York Campus of HUC-JIR and has tutored Bar and Bat Mitzvah students at Westchester Reform Temple for the past decade. She contributed a chapter on the connection between breastfeeding and Jewish tradition in The Sacred Encounter: Jewish Perspectives on Sexuality. She lives in Westchester County, New York with her husband, three children, and their new puppy, Sammi.  This blog was originally published on Mothers Always Write.

Categories
Torah

An Imperfect Union: Reflections by a Home-Sick American

America is a country at war with itself.  Some might even call this a civil war, although the country is split not only in two.  Today, we have the haves and have nots, the dark-skinned and light, Democrats and Republicans, religious liberals and evangelical conservatives, biased judges and traumatized victims, gun lobbyists and outraged gun control advocates, law abiding citizens and terrorists.  Those who live within our borders do not interpret our fundamental values in the same way as each other: “the pursuit of happiness,” “the right to bear arms…”  We disagree on what trumps what, and in the meantime there’s gunfire.  How is this not war?  “War” is a strong term, but it is apt when there are weapons, killing, and brutalization involved, and on a shockingly regular basis.

Who is losing this war?  “We the people.”  Those of us who want so much to partake of our patriotism without the bitter side order of national shame and sadness constantly being slopped onto our plate.  We who cherish the ideals for which our country is supposed to stand—which the sight of our waving flag is supposed to inspire around the world.  “We the people of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, insure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.”  Such noble and appropriate aspirations for a society, being shot down, one by one… by every bullet fired that could have been prevented.  By every unjust court verdict privileging sex or race or social standing.  By every casualty of a dysfunctional healthcare system.  By every million dollar bonus paid out of taxpayer bailout money.  How can we the people boast of our perfect union, of justice and domestic tranquility, of common defense and general welfare, of the blessings of liberty, and of united states?  We are not achieving this.  We the people, are losing this war.

Three years ago, after ordination, I moved to Sydney, Australia for my first pulpit.  Twice a year my husband and I return to the States, and our most recent visit was a particularly “patriotic” one.  At customs, we were greeted with two words that unfailingly bring a tear to my eye when uttered by someone with stars and stripes sewn on their sleeve: “Welcome home.”  We visited Pearl Harbor and the 9/11 Memorial for the first time.  In an airport, we stood alongside the USO, a troupe of bagpipers, and applauding onlookers, as aged army veterans returned from a visit to the Washington war memorial.  When we headed back to Sydney, the flags were still flying at half mast in honor of Memorial Day.  At each stop along our unintended “national pride” tour, my tears flowed.  I love America.  “I’m proud to be an American.”  “God bless America, land that I love.”  “America, America,” may “God shed His grace on thee, and crown thy good with brotherhood from sea to shining sea.”  Again, the tears…

But patriotism is a funny thing – seductive, and deceptive.  In Tribe: On Homecoming and Belonging, author Sebastian Junger argues that humans have evolved over millennia to crave solidarity—being part of something greater than ourselves, and the sense of purpose that comes along with looking out for the larger group.  We’ve evolved communally.  It’s natural for us to feel sentiments like patriotism – pride of peoplehood and country.  The problem, he suggests, is that today, many of us who call ourselves patriotic are all about feeling and expressing pride in our country, but we’re not so willing to make the sacrifices that really earn it.  We want to be “we the people,” but we’re not really willing to do what it takes to be a people.  Certain individuals are, like the vets we applauded, who paid the true price of the freedoms and luxuries that the rest of us enjoy relatively free of charge.  And there are others who work for our common welfare and fight in some way for the values enshrined in our Constitution: the fire fighters who ran up the stairs of the burning towers; the Stanford sexual assault victim who relived her horrid experience in a 7,000 word court statement in pursuit of justice; politicians who stood on the senate floor for 15 hours to push for sensible gun legislation.  But most of us just want the feel-good part of patriotism without working in the trenches for it.  We want the reward without the duty.

The Torah cautions against this disconnect.  A census is taken; every person is counted and assigned a duty.  Each of the twelve tribes brings an offering for the dedication of the communal mishkan.  In Tribe, Junger laments that “the beauty and tragedy of the modern world is that it eliminates many situations that require people to demonstrate a commitment to the collective good” – not so back in our tribal days!  Everyone had to serve the common good.  Even those who didn’t want to enter the promised land had to fight for it.  Want to stay on this side of the Jordan?  First fight with your brothers for the land that’s important to them.  And once everyone is settled and luxuriating in that land, don’t attribute your easy life to the work of your own hands, warns God.  Don’t take pride in the things you didn’t earn; give thanks for them.  Recognize them as holy, through blessing.  Give something back.  Offer something up.

“The beauty and tragedy of the modern world is that it eliminates many situations that require people to demonstrate a commitment to the collective good.”  If it’s “we the people” we love, then we need to see our service to that people as commanded, not voluntary, and rekindle our tribal sense of social responsibility and personal sacrifice.  If we’re going to sing songs of patriotism, we need to get some skin in the game.  America, America, God shed His grace on thee.  And crown thy good with brotherhood, from sea to shining sea.

May “we the people” prevail over fracture, and embody the values for which we stand:  Perfect union – shleimut;  Justice – tzedek;  Domestic tranquility – shalom;  General welfare – briut;  Blessings – brachot.

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Rabbi Nicole K. Roberts serves North Shore Temple Emanuel in Sydney, Australia.

 

Categories
Reform Judaism Technology Torah

Na’Aseh V’Nishma: Podcasting the Aural Torah

In an age of video and universal sensory stimulation, podcasts are a strange niche. They require us to only listen, and as the success of so many of them has shown, there is an audience that wants to only listen. One of the greatest images of the Golden Age of America is the family gathering around the radio to listen – to the news, to the Lone Ranger, maybe even to a surprisingly realistic broadcast of War of the Worlds, with which Orson Welles displayed the true power of the spoken word, sending the population who was unaware of the fiction of the radioplay into a frantic tizzy at the news that aliens had invaded. Listening, as everyone with even the slightest understanding of Judaism knows, is one of the key components of our tradition. “Shema Yisrael Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad,” “Listen, Israel, Adonai is our God, Adonai is One.”  “We will do, and we will listen,” said the Israelites in acceptance of God’s covenant in Exodus 27:4, effectively founding Judaism.

It is therefore unsurprising that so many people most renowned for their podcasts are Jews: Sarah Koenig of Serial, Robert Krulwich of Radiolab, and the seemingly omnipresent Ira Glass of This American Life, just to name a few. This connection was not lost on us when we set out to make what has become Nü Rabbi, but it certainly added to our confusion as to why (at the time) there were no Progressive Jewish podcasts with similar structure. So, we set out to make one.

Initially, we thought we’d interview the rabbinic luminaries of our Reform world about hard-hitting topics. And then we tried to book those interviews. Needless to say it didn’t work out so well. But while trying to practice our interview and microphone skills on our classmates, we discovered something all the more precious: The voices and opinions of the up-and-coming rabbinical and cantorial students at our school. And thus was born Nü Rabbi – a play on “New Rabbi” and the oft-heard phrase “Nu, Rebbe?” when a particularly insistent question is asked of a Rabbi. In effect, what we have ended up creating is the beginning of a Mishna for our day and age. The Tannaim are ourselves and our classmates – discussing, windingly and in many different manners, some of the most pressing issues of our day. Our first issue was, just like in the Mishna, prayer.

“Mahu t’filah?”– what is prayer– we asked ourselves and our colleagues, and the beautiful Torah spilled forth. But this was only the beginning of our journey. We then had to learn the editing software, to commission music and art, to figure out how to make it all flow together into something imminently listenable. As of now, we think we did a pretty good job. Four of our classmates (Stephanie Crawley, Dan Slipakoff, Harriet Dunkerley, and Samantha Frank) and a recent ordinee of JTS (Rabbi Jessica Minnen) all contributed the Torah of their hearts, and the combined product, the stitching together of all of them with the help of the connecting thread of Quincy Ledbetter’s wonderful music, is a rich aural page of mishna. Listen for yourself, and let us know what you think!

 

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Andy Kahn and Josh Mikutis are both rabbinical students (’18) at HUC-JIR in New York, and are both three-time recipients of the Be Wise Grant in Jewish Entrepreneurship. This coming year, Andy will be the organizing rabbinic intern at East End Temple, and Josh will be working at the 92nd Street Y.

Categories
Machzor Mishkan haNefesh

Introducing Divrei Mishkan HaNefesh: A Guide to the CCAR Machzor

Divrei Mishkan HaNefesh, newly released by CCAR Press, is a compendium to the new machzor of the Reform Movement, Mishkan HaNefesh: Machzor for the Days of Awe. It is serving as a springboard for entering into the sanctuary of our souls with enthusiasm and helpful insights, exegetical and homiletical material, tips, guideposts, and indexes of poems and of biblical citations.

On the advent of the book’s publication, CCAR Press sat down with the editor, Rabbi Edwin Goldberg, senior rabbi at Temple Sholom of Chicago and coordinating editor of Mishkan HaNefesh, to talk a little bit about the creation, purpose, and content of the new compendium.

Q: Divrei Mishkan HaNefesh serves as a roadmap to the new CCAR machzor, Mishkan HaNefesh. What made you want to work on Divrei Mishkan HaNefesh?

A: When I was a young rabbi, there was a book to help me understand Gates of Repentance called Gates of Understanding II, edited by Rabbi Larry Hoffman. I thought someone should write some sort of compendium to explain the background of Mishkan HaNefesh, what I would call a midrash, if you will, or a commentary on the creation of the new machzor. That’s what we were going for. And it wasn’t just me. I invited all of the usual suspects—those who helped create the new machzor—to help make the commentary work.

Q: You refer to Divrei as a “midrash on the machzor.” How would you summarize the purpose of Divrei? In other words, the “why” behind the project?

A: After the High Holy days last year, I remember asking myself, “What do I know now that I wish I’d known before the High Holy Days?” I put everything I’ve learned into Divrei. Another one of the things that Divrei Mishkan HaNefesh does is put into book form what I’ve been sharing about the new machzor with colleagues for a number of years through presentations and conferences. It is like the teacher workbook to help other teachers present a better curriculum with the textbook (Mishkan HaNefesh). It is meant for preparation, as there is a lot more work to do for the High Holy Days besides just buying Mishkan HaNefesh. Divrei Mishkan HaNefesh helps the service leader prepare so that the machzor can be used as a sacred implement in the larger presentation of the High Holy Day experience. Divrei Image

Divrei answers the question, “Where did that come from?” The reader will find insights into the changes we’ve made to the traditional text, such as why we changed a word or two and why it’s important. We also want rabbis and cantors to know that we changed a word or two to make sure that they’re on the same page. It will make time spent preparing more efficient, and I think it will also give them answers to questions that, frankly, they may not even know to ask yet.

There are a number of innovations in Mishkan HaNefesh that we talk about in Divrei,  including the additional Torah portions that we’ve included that have never been included in a High Holy Day prayerbook and why, and also some ideas for how one might write a sermon about that. There are certainly things that we couldn’t include in the actual machzor. So Divrei is a bridge to the machzor that helps people plan and execute their worship services and experiences.

Q: Divrei is split into three parts: Commentary, Essays, and Indexes and Tables. What is different about the content of Divrei versus the content of Mishkan HaNefesh?

A: When it comes to Divrei, one thing that’s very important to understand is that it is not full of commentary on the machzor or the High Holy Days because Mishkan HaNefesh itself has a lot of commentary in it. The point was not to create another book that models or reflects that, but to create additional material. I use an ancient commentator– Rashi’s explanation, what he included in his commentary on the Bible: “I am only adding what cries out, what cries out, ‘Explain me.’”

The book isn’t very long because we’re not trying to recreate the wheel. The first part of the book includes commentary that does not already appear in Mishkan HaNefesh. If something is already in the machzor, it is not repeated. The second part of the book includes more in-depth essays by myself and the other editors who were involved in the creation of the machzor so that one can gain a little more in-depth understanding of what the book is trying to accomplish. And there’s an amazing section at the end with all sorts of indexes that will really help people who need to find something in the machzor very quickly, in addition to giving them a lot more technical insight.

Q: This book is full of information pertaining to the new machzor, including background information concerning the perspective and choices of the editors of Mishkan HaNefesh, as well as extra material that isn’t found in the machzor. Who is the intended audience of this book?

A: Divrei Mishakn HaNefesh can be for anyone who wants to learn more about the High Holy Days. It can be for anyone who wants to learn more about Mishkan HaNefesh. It’s not only for the people who will be “driving the experience,” the rabbis and cantors and other people who will be leading the worship, but for anyone who will use the new prayerbook and wants to enhance their understanding of the High Holy Days.

View the Table of Contents

Read more about Divrei Mishkan HaNefesh: A Guide to the CCAR Machzor

Order Divrei Mishkan HaNefesh

Edwin Goldberg, DHL, is the senior rabbi of Temple Sholom of Chicago, editor of Divrei Mishkan HaNefesh: A Guide to the CCAR Machzor, and coordinating editor of Mishkan HaNefesh, the new CCAR machzor.

Categories
Gun Control News Social Justice

Of Hugs and Vigils: Standing with Orlando

The Orlando International Airport bustles with excited children hugging their favorite characters to their hearts; it’s surrounded by palm trees and a sunny, humid atmosphere. Where were the signs that this city that had just days before experienced the worst mass shooting in U.S. history? As we left the airport we saw them: an American flag and a rainbow flag flying half-mast. Barber shops, law offices, highway billboards, theaters–these places displayed rainbow hearts and #OrlandoStrong signs publicly and proudly.

In the wee hours of June 12, forty-nine lives were taken and fifty-three people injured when a gunman armed with an AR-15 rifle opened fire inside Pulse, a nightclub serving the Latinx and LGBTQ community. A safe haven was targeted, decimated. Its owners and workers–more a family than a business–mourn and suffer. They have no jobs; they feel–though not at all deserved–guilt and worry.

In New York, we heard the news. We were shocked. The worst mass shooting in U.S. history carried out in a place that had been both a safe haven and a beacon of freedom for so many who are marginalized, dehumanized, ostracized, and targeted with discrimination and violence. We mourned.

And I wasn’t sure what to do next. As a queer woman and as a rabbi–and simply as an empathic person–I felt both called and hesitant. I wanted to jump on that plane to Orlando, but I wasn’t sure what I was going to do when I arrived.

The short version is: the NYU Bronfman Center for Jewish Student Life, where I serve as a rabbi, went to Orlando. We hugged folks. We listened to their stories.

A delegation of two staff members and three students traveled on Wednesday. What we discovered is this: Orlando is a beautiful city that has pulled together to show support, solidarity, and unity. Churches and counseling centers have opened their doors nearly around the clock to offer free trauma counseling in Spanish and in English. Thousands of people attended a vigil on Monday night in front of the Dr. Phillips Performing Arts Center; its lawn has become a memorial, with flowers, messages, cards, mementos, and images of the slain laid out on the ground. People gather, add their condolences, pray, and weep.

A beacon of giving has been the Center, Orlando’s LGBTQ Center. Mountains of water bottles, granola bars, non-perishable food, toiletries, and other much-needed supplies are pouring into this hub of direct service and community support. The moment a volunteer posts to social media that an item is needed, a car pulls up behind the modest building to deliver it. We encountered dozens of volunteers, some of them staff members like Ben who direct the activities, some regular volunteers like Laura who simply take charge when they see a lull, and some first-time volunteers who came with hands ready and hearts open. The outpouring of support was staggering. And, yes, we helped: we sorted supplies, assembled boxes, stood at the ready.

But there was more important work to be done: asking questions, listening, and hugging. Each person we met that day had a story: “My girlfriend and I had our first kiss at Pulse; we could easily have been there that night.” “I don’t feel safe anymore.” “If I slow down and stop, I don’t know what I will do.” “It’s so hard to hold up for our students when the staff are also mourning.” In some ways, what we did that day was nothing: we offered an ear, a shoulder to cry on, a hug. But in other ways, it was everything: we traveled from afar because we cared enough to listen. We told people they are valuable and showed that love conquers hate.

And of course there is more to do, and the Bronfman Center will be keeping in touch with Orlando’s LGBTQ Center to ensure that we provide help when and how we can, and in ways that are most needed. If you are able to travel to Orlando, you will be needed to help form a human chain to protect families of those slain from hateful protesters who plan to attend the funerals happening throughout the coming week. If you can donate money, you can help support families of the murdered and the injured who are living in hotels in Orlando and are in need of meals and supplies. We will keep you informed as best we can.

Our day in Orlando ended at Valencia College, the alma mater of Amanda Alvear, Oscar A. Arancena-Montero, Cory James Connell, Mercedes Marisol Flores, Juan Ramon Guerrero, Jason Benjamin Josaphat, and Luis Omar Ocasio-Capo; these seven young people were killed that night at the Pulse. Their college community–four hundred strong, and more watching via closed-circuit television–gathered to honor them and celebrate their lives, to mourn, and to unite against homophobia, transphobia, racism and islamophobia. I was honored to speak some words of (I hope) comfort at the vigil, sharing the stage with student leaders like Krystal Pherai, LGBTQ community leaders, college administrators, and a local imam. Krystal urged us all to remember that acting as an ally is not easy and it requires us to move well beyond our comfort zones: “Talk to those you see as the ‘other.’ Learn from each other. Have difficult, crucial conversations. Speak your truth.” The City of Orlando sits shiva. For forty-nine souls. It already rebuilds its sense of security and unity. It refuses to blame an entire religion for one man’s horrific actions. It acknowledges that homophobia and transphobia come in many forms, and that our individual communities must examine our actions. Do you want to know whether you are ensuring that the LGBTQ folks in your community or family feel safe? Then don’t wait for them to come out to you or reach out for help: Tell them and show them that you value all lives.

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Rabbi Nikki DeBlosi serves as Manager of Religious Life at the pluralistic Bronfman Center for Jewish Student Life at New York University.  This blog was originally posted on Rabbi DeBlosi’s blog.

Categories
parenting

Teach Your Children Diligently

People keep telling me “You are doing such a Mitzvah.” I do not share this to brag, but to deflect this praise which is not due me. It is nice to hear people think I am a mensch. While I strive to fit that bill, I would not write a blog post about it. The reason I have received these accolades is that my wife Jennifer and I have become foster parents. For the past two months, we have doubled our family size from three, including our 8-year-old son to six with children ages 6, 3, and 2. It was not a simple decision, and as anyone who has undergone a home study for the purpose of adoption or fostering can tell you, there is nothing easy about this way of adding to a family. It required sacrifice, trading in two paid-for cars for cars which can accommodate our new family size, surrendering our guest room, and making a once only child share a bedroom with his new brother. And yes, our commitment to doing this does fill an important need since there is a reason why these kids are in the foster system. Still, when people say, “What a mitzvah!” instead of getting a big head, I remember, “raising children is a mitzvah.”

Veshinantam l’vanecha [i]  (teach your children diligently) is one of the most important mitzvot. Anyone who becomes a parent and takes seriously their responsibility fulfills this obligation. By the way, peru u’revu[ii]  (be fruitful and multiply) the very act of procreation, is also a mitzvah. Unfortunately for us, there was no “peru”  in our “revu.” In other words, as a married couple, we have been unable to conceive and bring a pregnancy to term. After a considerable amount of anguish and anger we reached a realization there is no one to blame, not each other, not the doctors, not our parents, not even God. It just is. WE had to accept that two people who loved children as much as we do, and who have so much collective experience working with children were unable to have them on our own. Not wanting to miss out on the mitzvah of being parents, we decided we had to “revu,” that is to say “multiply,” differently.

I know that adoption or fostering is not for everyone. Some people cannot fathom raising a child not biologically theirs. Some cannot get approved because of some past legal transgression. Some move too frequently to finish a home study. Some lack the financial resources. Can you imagine having to fill out a financial statement before getting pregnant? Others burn out on the process, either being turned off by the massive amounts of paperwork and the hours classes of classes required. Still, others spend years on “waiting lists,” a misnomer if there ever was one since there is no being “next in line.” Many couples burn out while hoping for a birth mom to pick them. We however made the choice to endure the process, and we got lucky.

Eight years ago, the most incredible blessing entered our lives when we adopted our son, Eden. This kid could not be any more ours if they had taken all the best parts of Jennifer’s and my DNA and spliced them together. It was a joyful culmination of a long struggle. And everything was perfect– until we thought about having another. To make a long story short, we are still unable to have a biological child. After three years of active waiting, we were no closer to a second adoption. We felt like we had more love and learning to share, and Eden wanted siblings. In fact, his imaginary friends have all been named “Brother” or “Sister” (I assume this rabbi’s kid is not imagining monks or nuns.) So we began the process all over again– A new home study, more classes, more background checks, more fingerprints, more criminal record searches in every place we have lived for the past 20 years, more essays to write, more papers to fill out, more credit checks, more doctor’s visits…. And then we were approved. Then we began waiting for the referral of a child who would be the right fit for our family, pets and all.

Then we had a chance to meet the kids we have currently. Three were more than we bargained for, but, waiting for the perfect situation, you might wait forever. A week later, they were placed in our home. It is not all roses. They do exhibit behaviors that make us want to pull out our hair. In other words, they are children. They need loving parents, a comfortable home, people to teach them just like they would teach and raise any children. It is far too early to discuss a permanency plan.  Although we do love these kids, we root for their mom. People ask, “Aren’t you worried about getting attached and losing them?” Truth is we worry all the time. But if our worst case scenario is the best case scenario for the children and their mom who has a chance to turn her life around, then so be it. We are performing the mitzvah of veshinantam levanecha for multiple children, an opportunity we would have otherwise been denied.

The only things we wish to be called are the titles we always wanted, “Mom and Dad.”

—

Rabbi Craig Lewis serves Congregation B’nai Jeshurun, more popularly known as the South Street Temple, in Lincoln, Nebraska. 

 

[i] Deu 6:7

[ii] Gen 1:22

Categories
Books High Holy Days Machzor Mishkan haNefesh

Theological Dialectics: Balancing Competing Values in Mishkan HaNefesh

Creating a new prayer book requires managing competing priorities. Should translations reflect the literal meaning of the Hebrew, or evoke its more poetic and idiomatic features? Should the historic machzor text take priority, or should newer voices enter the conversation? Should the liturgy emphasize personal transformation, or communal complicity?

These questions capture the essential challenge of dialectics: balancing competing values in pursuit of progress. Consider tradition and innovation, the quintessential question of Reform Judaism. These values are not mutually exclusive; rather, they co-exist in dynamic tension. It’s like steering a canoe: if you only paddle on one side, you’ll just go in circles. Only by alternating strokes on both sides will the boat move forward. Similarly, dialectics requires thoughtful attention to a small universe of values.  To paraphrase Hegel, it is by interrogating — but not necessarily resolving — apparent contradictions in values that we can arrive at a higher truth.

The editorial team of Mishkan HaNefesh confronted this small universe of values at every step throughout its seven-year process. The ultimate goal? To guide each worshipper along the path to t’shuvah and to invite the community into a space of sacred transformation.

That is easier said than done. It is easy to get lost in the machzor’s wealth of content and creative possibilities. It can be difficult to even know where to begin! Recently I started reading the forthcoming Divrei Mishkan HaNefesh. It is a sort of “midrash on the machzor,” a guidebook for community leaders and sh’lichei tzibbur, and it is incredibly usefuI. I love this book because it opens a window into the editorial process. It explains decisions and indexes content in a way that contextualizes this vast project, making it much more accessible. I may not personally agree with every decision, but understanding its grounding philosophies will allow me to use the new machzor more skillfully. In particular, its editorial essays suggest myriad ways the machzor can serve as an invitation into some of Judaism’s most worthy conversations.

And that brings me back to dialectics. Consider the ‘right side/left side’ layout, which, according to the editorial vision statement, “encourages diversity, choice, and inclusion of many ‘voices’; the use of counter-text; and a stimulating balance of keva and kavanah.” Those familiar with Mishkan Tefilah will recognize the format immediately, but the machzor takes the philosophy even further by including many surprisingly subversive texts opposite the more traditional versions.

The most dramatic example is the depiction of God. The God of the High Holy Day liturgy can seem distant and punishing; even terrifying. But that is not the whole story. Avinu Malkeinu, a sort of anthem of the High Holy Days, voices the dialectical dilemma of divinity. Even when we speak in hierarchical terms, we conceive of God as both a sovereign and a parent. Both roles evoke accountability and intimidation in their power differential, but they also draw a contrast: the political ruler is distant and largely theoretical. The parent is intimate; a bedrock of our immediate reality. But we hope that both will exercise compassion and patience even though they must govern and discipline. If these concepts all inhere in one terse phrase from our liturgy, how much more nuanced are the many Jewish conceptions of God! By inhabiting the richly-layered world of Jewish dialectics, Mishkan HaNefesh presents a challenging and complex theological atlas. In subsequent entries of Ravblog I will examine a few specific ways the editors approached their work, highlighting their own words from Divrei Mishkan HaNefesh. Ultimately, wrestling with these values both honors our multi-vocal tradition and opens doors that many in our communities might otherwise find locked and barred.

Order Divrei Mishkan HaNefesh

Danny is a CCAR rabbinical intern and a rising fifth-year rabbinical student at HUC-JIR.

Categories
interfaith

Millennial Jews Go to Kosovo

A week after being ordained a rabbi, I packed a bag and headed to the Balkans. It was three years ago. First meeting a friend in Serbia for several days of exploration, I took overnight busses successively to Macedonia, Montenegro, and Croatia. But the real mind-opening experience came in the country that persuaded me to travel to the region in the first place – Kosovo. I had been invited to speak at the annual international “Interfaith Kosovo” conference, being held that year in the small city of Peja. The conference was the pride of Kosovo’s leaders, showing the potential for a “newborn” state to become a leader in interfaith collaboration even after the brutal regional conflicts of the 1990’s. I was initially skeptical about the extent to which the ethos of collaboration truly permeated the society – but found that skepticism diminish in the course of meaningful interactions, not only at the conference but informally with countless Kosovars. I felt safe wearing a yarmulke around town and was greeted lovingly by total strangers, perhaps because they associated our tradition with the aid Israel had provided when they needed it most and the role that American Jewish leaders had played in averting genocide in the late 1990’s.

I left the conference knowing somehow that I would return – and with a desire to show other young Jews Kosovo, as well.

image3Last year, I had the good fortune of realizing that aspiration. I was invited to bring five young Jews to the Interfaith Kosovo conference with me. They were all leaders in Tribe, a collaborative initiative of Congregation B’nai Jeshurun in Short Hills, New Jersey and Congregation Rodeph Sholom in Manhattan, which engages and empowers young Jewish Millennials living in New York City. For the six of us, it was a completely surreal experience. Presentations by heads of state, leaders of religious denominations, and social entrepreneurs; nights out on the town with much of Kosovo’s Foreign Ministry and ample opportunity to ask top leaders tough questions; the chance to represent the Jewish community at an event of international importance. As a 23-year old participant from Tribe put it to me, “I’ve never felt so proud to be Jewish.” She needed to venture far in order to feel at home in her Jewish identity.

image2This year, Interfaith Kosovo was even more generous, paying for nine leaders from Tribe and myself to attend the conference. We were a like a Jewish minyan in Kosovo’s capital of Pristina. The leaders of the conference and Foreign Ministry officials made us feel at home, the Acting Foreign Minister joined us at a café the first day, the President tweeted us words of welcome, and our group bonded within hours of its arrival. While the formal sessions left a lasting impression, the more informal conversations and person-to-person dialogue was just as impactful. Several Tribe leaders immediately associated Kosovo with Israel, suggesting that in some ways Kosovo could be seen as an even younger, more unsettled version of our spiritual homeland. Others expressed how (joyfully) unsettling it was to experience such kindness and warmth from Muslims in another country. Still more said that the trip afforded them a new way to articulate their identities as rising Jewish leaders. Most have already asked about whether we might return.

What are the chances that a country whose population is 80 percent Muslim would fly Jewish professionals from New York to experience its premier conference? What are the chances that they would be received with such care and genuine affection? The opportunity that Interfaith Kosovo provided for a reframing of Muslim-Jewish relations should not be overlooked – and neither should the power of interfaith dialogue in inspiring the next generation of Jewish leaders.

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Rabbi Joshua Stanton serves Temple B’nai Jeshurun in Short Hills, New Jersey, and co-Leader of Tribe, a group for young Jewish professionals in New York. He also serves as one of the representatives from the Central Conference of American Rabbis to the International Jewish Committee for Interreligious Consultations.