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Celebrating the Class of 1965: Deflations and Exaltations

Rabbi Jeffrey Stiffman Celebrates 50 Years in the Rabbinate

At the upcoming CCAR Convention, we will honor the class of 1965, those who have been CCAR members and served our movement for 50 years. In the weeks leading up to convention, we will share and celebrate the rabbinic visions and wisdom of these members of the class of 1965 and their 50 years in the rabbinate.

It was a steamy summer day in Cincinnati, Ohio, the end of July, 1960. Arlene and I had been married for a month. Together we navigated the Appalachians and the Ohio Valley in our un-air conditioned 1954 Ford Fairlaine. Our arrival was a great day for Cincinnati.  Everyone was happy. For on that day, the American Dental Association Council on Scientific Affairs announced that Crest toothpaste was effective in inhibiting tooth decay. P&G stock skyrocketed. And the Stiffmans had arrived. We dropped off a carload of possessions at a friend’s home, and then excitedly drove to our real destinations, University of Cincinnati for Arlene; 3101 Clifton Avenue for me. We had seen the pictures of the beautiful HUC campus in the catalog. As we drove up Clifton Avenue, we became more excited. Exaltation – visiting the mother font of Reform rabbinical training, and then we turned into the driveway.

It was a construction site. The Sisterhood dorm was being renovated, as was the classroom building. The Klau library was under construction, as was the new dorm. I parked on the dirt area in front of the classroom building, and we ventured inside. The first person we met, a junior faculty member named Norman Golb, directed us to the Provost’s office. There we met Mickey November, Dr. Sandmel’s administrative aide, who really ran the school. She showed us around, put us in touch with those we had to meet, and we were on our way back to our car. Exaltation!

We looked forward to getting to our motel next to Frisch’s Big Boy and resting. As we reached our car, we realized that our first visit to HUC-JIR had resulted in a flat tire. Deflation!

Exaltation and deflation!   Welcome to the next five years of my life. Ain’t it great to be retired! Each of us remembers those days.

Memories can be deceiving. Usually I’ll remember something and Arlene will tell me what really happened. Whenever I speak lovingly of those HUC days, she reminds me how our study group used to get together to study, but spent half of the time complaining. “Rivkin and Reines spend too much time on their personal theories and not enough time on their subjects. Language lab was a downer after we learned, ‘Sim na yadecha tachat yerachee.’ Too many papers! Too little time to study!” There were so many complaints.

But the major one was, “They’re not preparing us for congregational life. They are educating us with texts, history, philosophy, human relations, a little theology, a dash of music…but not practical rabbinics.” By and large, this was true. Yet, buried in all of that other important stuff, we sometimes got a glimpse of the future. In Mihaly-McCoy tradition, let me cite three instances.

The first was in a class that was not a class. The school did not offer a class in practical rabbinic. A group of us went to Dr. Glueck to ask for such a class and we’re told, “You’ll learn all of that afterwards!” Out of the goodness of his heart, Sylvan Schwartzman offered a unit on the practical rabbinate in his home. It was the first time I stood in front of a couple with a Rabbi’s Manual in my hand and struggled through leading a wedding service.

He was the only faculty member who had served a congregation. Among the many things he taught us, one stood out. He said to us, “Remember, you’re not one of them!” He related his experiences in Nashville, where many of his congregants spent every Saturday night at the Country Club, often drinking quite heavily. He was given a Country Club membership, but this was not his style. So he stopped going regularly. One of his lay leaders told him that he was missed at the Club. “After all,” the man said, “We like to have “The Rabbi” there!” He wasn’t Sylvan Schwartzman; he was “The Rabbi.”

That story stuck with me. I’ve served the same congregation for forty-eight of my fifty years as a Rabbi. We had made some good friends. But…. We used to go to a wedding and see tables of our friends and contemporaries sitting there having a good time. However we viewed them from the end of the head table, sitting next to the grandma who couldn’t hear. Once we were lucky enough to be seated with friends at a reception. One of our longtime friends remarked, “We must be considered very important because we’re seated with ‘The Rabbi.’ Remember… “You’re not one of them”.  Ain’t it great to be retired and to remember?

The second teaching moment took place in the classroom of that fearsome scholar, Dr. Jakob J. Petuchowski, of blessed memory. It was our first class following the High Holy Days. In walks this distinguished theologian in fancy cowboy boots with a ten-gallon hat covering his thick shock of dark black hair. He had spent another Yamim Noraim at his ten-day-a-year congregation in Texas. His people presented him with the hat and boots. He looked up at us, and in his Germanic-British accented English said, “Remember this gentlemen, there is nothing like the Jewish layman.” We were taken aback. This guy who made us strain our necks trying to avoid his gaze so he wouldn’t call on us to answer a question, was praising these unlearned Texans with whom he shared ten days a year?

He went on, “At HUC we tell you all of the time how important the rabbi is, that you are the repository of wisdom and ethical tradition. You are the one who must lead”. He went on, “Gentlemen, the lay people live in the real world. They can help us keep our heads on straight. They don’t have to support a synagogue or form a Federation or educate themselves and their children. They live in a small town and don’t have to pay to bring a rabbi in every year for the holidays. But they do it. There’s nothing like the Jewish layman.”

What a lesson! How many of us locked horns with lay leaders, ordinary people in our congregations? When we wanted to win the argument, we were tempted to tell them, “I’m right because Judaism says you should do it this way.” At times like that, when I felt strongly about an issue and wanted to pull my rank, I would think back to “Petuchowski in boots,” to stabilize my thoughts and tamp down my ego.

Most of us, retired old souls, can now look back upon our years of active duty. Most of us agree that there is nothing like the Jewish layman or laywoman. They volunteer their time. They give of their means. Some annoyed us to distraction and some inspired us to perfection. In light of the Pew report and demographic surveys, we should especially cherish our partners. As we remember the many leaders with whom we shared, we think, “Ain’t it great to be retired!”

Number three. To prove my innate sense of non-discrimination, I refer to a faculty member of our New York campus, to our revered late President and to our beloved Jacob Rader Marcus. Each reminded us that we can overcome our failures.

Twice I heard Borowitz talk about tough times in his life. He had been fired as a teacher at Rockdale Temple when he was a student – then came back to speak there as Director of the Joint Commission on Jewish Education. A decade later he spoke at my congregation, where as a young Assistant he had been pushed out by the Senior Rabbi Julius Gordon. He said to my flock, “And now I’m teaching those who will be your rabbis!”  What a brilliant career he still is experiencing.

Marcus wrote “The Rise and the Destiny of the German Jew,” in the early 1930s predicting the fall of Hitler and a great future for German Jewry. Facts proved otherwise. He then decided to concentrate on the past and founded the academic discipline of American Jewish History, a major scholarly discipline today. Neither Borowitz nor Marcus gave up because of a failure. They used them as stepping stones to a better future.

Each of us has experienced times of failure, seasons of disappointment in our rabbinate. How many times did I fail to reach out to a member, screw up a Torah reading, skip a name on a Kaddish list, or miss seeing someone in the hospital? How many times did I fail a colleague or myself?  We each have memories of failures – but they do not define us. Like our teachers Borowitz and Marcus, we move on from dwelling on our failures to remembering our successes.  Now we are free to look back upon our careers, to remember all, the deflations but mostly the exaltations. Ain’t it great to be retired?

“You are not one of them.” “There is nothing like the Jewish layman.” “I overcame failure.”  I guess I learned more about being a rabbi than I realized.

The flat tire was repaired and we moved on to the motel next to Frisch’s Big Boy and to our life ahead. I celebrate my memories.

We celebrate our memories. We give thanks for the support of our families who still uphold us. We cherish the memories of the friends and the study partners, the colleagues and teachers who taught and teach us at the College-Institute and beyond.

We of the class of 1965 hope that it might be said of us, “Vayecchi,” that we lived and made a difference in the world, cherishing our sacred calling while partnering with amcha, learning from our deflations and basking in our exaltations.

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CCAR Convention General CCAR Israel Rabbis Reform Judaism

Celebrating the Class of 1965: Shaping What Tomorrow Will Bring

Stanley Davids
Rabbi Stanley Davids, celebrates 50 years in the Rabbinate.

At the upcoming CCAR Convention, we will honor the class of 1965, those who have been CCAR members and served our movement for 50 years. In the weeks leading up to convention, we will share and celebrate the rabbinic visions and wisdom of these members of the class of 1965 and their 50 years in the rabbinate. 

As with all of my jubilee classmates, life has brought me much undeserved joy: Resa, my life partner who shares with me a nurturing, forgiving, healing, joyous love; children for whom I am still a desired part of their world; grandchildren who regularly turn to me with challenging questions and unsolicited hugs; and a career of meaningful, often satisfying sacred service, rich with human interactions.

As with most us, life has also brought me much undeserved pain: sitting by my young mother’s bedside, helpless before the malignancy that was consuming her brain; confronting a professional failure that challenged my too fragile self-worth; bearing the agonizing burden of deciding whether my sister should be administered sufficient morphine to quiet her pain, morphine that would also stop her heart; trying to internalize what it meant, what it really meant, when for over ten years – every six months — my physicians would tell me that I had only three more months to live.

In the pursuit of meaning in the presence of such a mixed bag of life experiences, I have dedicated my rabbinate to the Jewish People. It wasn’t a conscious choice. It just happened. I came alive to our world in the ’60’s; I embraced the anti-war movement while still in uniform; I entered into the struggle by African Americans for human and civil rights; feminism; choice – yet through all of that I found myself inexorably drawn to my people’s right and obligation to secure its own future. The Six Day War. The Soviet Jewry Movement. The birth and flowering of Reform Zionism. High school kids at Kutz. College kids. Israel. The Aliyah that Resa and I embraced as full partners.

For four decades as a congregational rabbi and now for one decade as a retiree – the meaningful survival and evolution of the Jewish people have been at the center of my day-to-day concerns. Over the years that struggle became a unifying theme around which I could organize my thoughts and actions. Even today, even now, it ignites within me hope and purpose. To put it simply, that struggle keeps me alive. Perhaps it is not the most worthy of causes, but it infuses my being with a shot of metaphorical adrenaline.

Maybe that is why I find myself today still trying to shape our people’s tomorrows. Maybe that is why so many of my classmates have made similar choices in their own ways, in their own lives: refusing to give up on trying to have an impact on the future.

It’s not that I see better or know more than anybody else. I know that I don’t. But I believe based upon what I have seen and learned and experienced that the survival of Israel as a Jewish democratic state is a sine qua non for the survival of North American Jewry, even as the reverse is equally true. And that belief for me is a mandate for meaningful action.

So when I received a call from a close colleague and friend in early January, asking me to help him raise some funds quickly so that he could effectively compete for a position on the Labor slate in the forthcoming Knesset elections, I could not refuse. That election has a real possibility of overturning what I consider to be an intransigent government incapable of launching positive initiatives which might, just might, move us closer to a two state solution. If a new government is formed this Spring linking parties of the political right with the ultra-orthodox parties, many of the recent ground-breaking achievements in easing the stranglehold of the Rabbinate over matters of personal status and life cycle events will be reversed. To shape the future, outspoken advocates for religious pluralism like my friend are needed by the Knesset. There is a job demanding to be done. I tried to help.

Elections for the World Zionist Congress are currently on-going. A victory for ARZA in these elections will pour more than $20 million into the activities of the IMPJ and the Hebrew Union College over the next five years. Israeli Reform Judaism now tracks support from more than 7% of the population. We are growing, evolving, changing. We offer new definitions as to what a synagogue could be; we demonstrate how the manner in which we treat the stranger in our midst helps determine our relationships with an increasingly hostile world. With a western understanding of democracy and with a liberal and embracing vision of Jewish identity both embedded in our Reform DNA – Israel needs us to win and to win big in the Congress elections. Another job yet to be done. By us. We can still help. We are very much alive. We are relevant. We are needed.

I don’t know how many quality months or years that I have left. The door to that mystery is firmly shut. And I am painfully aware of my own personal limitations and weaknesses. But like many of my classmates, I am not yet willing to turn my back on how the future will emerge. Being in a struggle the outcome of which will not be known for many years after I am gone doesn’t diminish the vitality that I feel today because I am still engaged.

So whatever the worthy issues that command each of us: Israel or environmentalism or racism or economic justice or the strengthening of our families or writing that book that really needs to be written — we who are growing old can continue to find what Frank Bruni recently called in The New York Times, “slices of opportunity” awaiting us. So long as our hands can reach, so long as our souls can yearn and our minds can comprehend – so long can we yet have a vital role in shaping what tomorrow will bring. We who were once the future and then were the present are not ready to lay down our burdens. Not yet. Not now. We have too much to do. We are needed. You see, there is life to be lived. And we are still choosing to live it.

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CCAR Convention Rabbis Reform Judaism

Celebrating the Class of 1965, 50 Years in the Rabbinate: First and Foremost a Rabbi

Rabbi Mordecai Schreiber, Celebrating 50 Years in the Rabbinate.

My relatives and my childhood friends in my native Israel keep wondering to this day how in the world I ever became a Reform Rabbi. Back in Haifa in the 50th we never heard of Reform Rabbis. We heard of Nelson Glueck, whom we knew as an archeologist. We also heard of Abba Hillel Silver, whom we knew as a Zionist leader. We heard of Judah Magnes, whom we knew as co-founder of the Hebrew University. But we did not know that all three were American Reform Rabbis. In my late teens I was living in Uruguay, and one day I met a Reform Rabbi named Isaac Neuman who told me about the Hebrew Union College in Cincinnati. I told him I was accepted at Brooklyn College and was getting ready to go there for my undergraduate studies. He convinced me that HUC was a better choice for me, and the rest, as they say, is history.

The last fifty years since I was ordained at the New York school have been a wonderful journey. My first pulpit was in Guatemala, where I had to create my own Spanish-Hebrew Reform prayer book. The second was associate rabbi to the late Arthur Lelyveld at Fairmount Temple in Cleveland, Ohio. In Cleveland I founded the Agnon School against great odds, which has since become one of the finest communal Jewish day schools in the country. From there I was “called” to Commack, Long Island, where I spent seven years as the rabbi of Temple Beth David, which grew from 300 families when I arrived to 700 when I left. I recall doing over 1000 b’nai mitzvot ceremonies during that time, probably some kind of a record. After Commack my focus changed from the pulpit to other venues, but over the years I helped small congregations grow and performed other rabbinical duties.

Since then I have had several careers besides the rabbinate, including national director of education for BBYO, the B’nai B’rith Youth Organization; founder  and president of two companies, Schreiber Publishing, which publishes Jewish books and books for translators, and Schreiber Translations, which has become one of the main providers of foreign language technical  translations for the U.S. Government. Currently, I am serving on cruise ships as Rabbi and discussion facilitator, and I love the life aquatic. Through it all, I never stopped writing, and over the years I have had over 50 books published. My latest book is called Explaining the Holocaust: How and Why It Happened, due soon from Cascade Books, and I am working on a new book titled Why People Pray, which gives me immense satisfaction and which makes me realize how important prayer is.

Through it all, I am first and foremost a Rabbi. The essence of my life is to impart the Jewish heritage and lore to my fellow Jews and to the world. I am very fearful of the decline of Jewish life and knowledge in our goldeneh medineh. But my greatest satisfaction is that all my three children have a strong Jewish identity, and my three grandchildren show every sign of carrying on our glorious chain of tradition. I am sure my wife Hanita and I have something to do with it.

I would like to thank ribono shel olam for having kept me alive and sustained me and allowed me to reach this great milestone of 50 years in the rabbinate.

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Death News Rabbis

Azkarah for Rabbis Schulweis and Beerman: Darkness in the Time of Light

Chanukah, the joyful festival of lights, was dimmed in Los Angeles last month by the loss, at the beginning and the end of the holiday, of two great and very different rabbis: Harold M. Schulweis and Leonard I. Beerman.

They both lived long, fruitful and honored lives—Harold was 89 at his death and Leonard 93.  Harold was a creative, dynamic, brilliantly articulate and scholarly colleague, who turned Valley Beth Shalom, once a quiet, nondescript Conservative synagogue in the San Fernando Valley suburb of Encino,  into an equally dynamic model of a community at the forefront of many of the toughest issues facing contemporary Jewry—and indeed, the world.

Leonard was also much beloved, but was a much more controversial figure.  He was the Founding Rabbi of Leo Baeck Temple, a Reform synagogue that he always wanted to be a model for others.  At its inception he put a cap on membership, lest it grow too large and impersonal; it did not call attention to significant donors through plaques or “naming opportunities”; at a time when every new synagogue in Los Angeles was built of red brick with unimaginative architecture, Leonard engaged a forward-thinking modernist who designed a daring building out of stucco that looked as though it were about to take wing out of the Santa Monica Mountains.  He employed other modern designers for lamps and chairs and pews, and filled the hallways with the Marc Chagall Biblical prints.  He believed that the religious experience should also be an aesthetic one.  Harold inherited his building, but when it came time to design an expansion, he engaged the great stained-glass artists, the Plaschkes, to create stunning windows in hallways and a new chapel.  Only recently has Los Angeles started to pay

Rabbi Leonard Beerman
Rabbi Leonard Beerman

serious attention to architecture; Leonard was ahead of his time, and Harold acted on his aesthetic impulses as soon as he had a chance.

Both men saw their pulpits as the world.  Leonard became a pacifist after enlisting in the Marines in World War II and fighting in the Israeli War of Independence.  Having indirectly  helped give birth to Israel, he felt a passion for it throughout his life that he often felt was unrequited.  He wanted it to be more expansive than it was, he wanted it to end the occupation of Palestinians through a negotiated peace allowing for a Palestinian state to exist alongside Israel.  After he retired, at the gracious invitation of one of his successors, Ken Chasen, he would preach regularly on Yom Kippur morning, often about Israel, and often with an angry tone that perplexed his listeners, who could not hear the frustrated love that lay beneath his words.  He paid a price for his dovishness: in 1971, after he was nominated as president of the CCAR, a colleague moved that the nomination be overturned, an unprecedented act, and someone else was elected in his place.  The rules were changed to prevent that from happening again (now we use a completely different system of nominations).  While the pain from that incident never left him, it did not affect the stances he took.

Leo Baeck Temple, Los Angeles
Leo Baeck Temple, Los Angeles

Leonard believed passionately in social justice, in requiting the balance between rich and poor, and periodically his sermons led to one or another person walking out—but they never resigned from the temple.  It was clear that they were proud to be members of a synagogue that stood for important ideas, even if they occasionally disagreed with those ideas; and they knew that Leonard respected them and cared for them, however much they might disagree.  And they loved his eloquence—his language soared, elevating the causes he preached, and one’s soul would be lifted even when one’s mind demurred.  He wanted his members to see themselves not only as caring Jews but as caring citizens of the world, and so he often laced his sermons with poetry and other bits of wisdom from a wide range of sources and would bring to the synagogue Christian ministers with whom he shared common convictions.  It was reciprocal: he was Rabbi in Residence at All Saints Episcopal Church in Pasadena, and when the minister announced his death, the congregation gasped and cried almost as one, “O no!”

Harold was equally involved with the non-Jewish world, but in a different way.  Discovering that some of the Gentiles who had protected Jews from the Nazis had suffered economically from their heroism after the war, he created the Jewish Foundation for the Righteous to assist such individuals materially, and he founded Jewish World Watch to protest genocidal actions around the world, beginning in Darfur in the Sudan.  Such protests were, to him, acts of Kiddush Ha-Shem, intended to keep Jews from seeing themselves as the eternal victim and, instead, to think of themselves, as Leonard did, as citizens of the world, responsible to prevent what happened to us from happening to others.  One of the minyan services after his death was co-conducted by a Rioman Catholic priest in charge of Catholic-Jewish relations for the Los Angeles Archdiocese.

Rabbi Harold Schulweis
Rabbi Harold Schulweis

Why was Harold so widely beloved?  He was a wonderful pastor. He pushed people to extend themselves beyond what they thought they could do. But most of us do that.  The primary reason, as my wife Carol noted, was that “he knew stuff”.  He was a scholar able to translate what he knew into knowledge that other people could absorb.  He demonstrated that learning every Shabbat morning in the remarkable discussions he conducted around the Torah reading and in his responses to issues that people would bring to him in his study. We all “know stuff,” but how much have we learned since we left rabbinical school?  Harold’s legacy reminds us how important ongoing learning is for us—how much our authority as rabbis rests not in our titles but in what we know and in how we can communicate and share that with others, engaging them in learning so they can see how Torah can elevate their lives.  Do we set aside time for Torah study (one of the questions we will be asked in heaven)? Do we bring Torah into our pastoral conversations?  Into our bulletin articles or our blogs?  Are our sermons laced with insights from Torah—not as occasional grace notes but as direct sources for the points we make and the stances we hope people will adopt?  Harold initiated the phenomenal growth of Valley Beth Shalom not only through engaging Torah study but by the then unknown practice of opening the synagogue on Friday nights to Israeli dancing, which made it “the place to be” for many young people, reminding us of the eternal wisdom of Torah im derech eretz.

Leonard’s status as a beloved rabbi stemmed more for the model he was for other people.  I came to Los Angeles in 1966 to be his assistant rabbi because I wanted to learn how to be brave in the pulpit, how to insist on speaking truth even when others might find it uncomfortable.  Leonard tried to teach me to speak clearly, so people would understand both what I was saying and what I was not saying; to be respectful of others’ opinions and pastorally present with people when trouble came upon them.  If Leonard’s was a prophetic voice, it was the voice of the post-Exilic prophets, who exhorted their people to lives of justice while understanding the pain they experienced trying to build a new society out of the ruins of Exile.  Leonard reminded us throughout his life that peace and justice will not be triumphant unless truth and compassion are as well.

Both Leonard and Harold cared deeply about music, and they nurtured the work of the musicians with whom they worked: Cantor Herschel Fox and the composer Aminadav Aloni at Valley Beth Shalom and Cantor William Sharlin at Leo Baeck Temple.  William’s music pervades Leo Baeck to this day, and one of the most moving parts of Harold’s funeral was the El Malei Rachamim sung by Herschel Fox.  The melody flowed out of a soul overcome with love and grief for someone who had cared so much for him.  He introduced several Hebrew descriptions of Harold into the traditional text (not a bad thing to emulate), and the result was a reminder of how important it is to nurture the cantors who work with us.  We sometimes let ourselves be caught up in petty issues with our cantorial colleagues—not always because of our doing. But the more we can develop both a mutual and a mentoring relationship (including encouraging the cantor to mentor us) the more we can be partners in creating a musical environment that can raise everyone to heaven-piercing prayer.

The Los Angeles Jewish community—indeed, the entire Jewish world—lost two magnificent rabbis this year in the darkest time of the winter.  As they lit candles throughout their lives, so need we do so in their memory, as we recall how a single, soaring flame can melt some of the darkness of the world.

Rabbi Richard N. Levy is the Rabbi of Campus Synagogue and Director of Spiritual Growth at Hebrew Union College in Los Angeles, CA. He completed a two-year term as the President of the Central Conference of American Rabbis and was the architect of the Statement of Principles for Reform Judaism, the “Pittsburgh Principles,” overwhelmingly passed at the May, 1999 CCAR Convention. Prior to joining the HUC-JIR administration, Rabbi Levy was Executive Director of the Los Angeles Hillel Council. He is also the author of A Vision of Holiness: The Future of Reform Judaism.

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News Rabbis Social Justice

Letter from Paris

Dear Friends,

Please forgive me for this rather impersonal group letter, rather than a personal note to each one of you. Do know that given the time, I’d prefer otherwise!

That being said, it is truly amazing the tremendous number of phone calls, SMS, email messages, linkedin messages, and facebook messages I have received since last Wednesday. How so very true is the Talmudic statement in Shevuot (39a) declaring, “Kol yisrael arevim zeh bazeh”, meaning ‘all of Israel are responsible for each other’.

A week ago, all of Paris –myself included– was going about their normal business. In my case, I was taking one of my children to a medical visit and considering whether I needed to take advantage of the official “sales period” that had just begun that morning. (For my American friends, France has a much more regulated commercial economy that dictates when and for how long stores may have sales – and what constitutes a sale).

Turning on the radio in the autolib (an electric Zipcar of sorts), came the first waves of information: an “attack” has taken place at the redaction office of the satirical newspaper Charlie Hebdo. In reality a massacre had just taken place, but details were still sketchy.

My first reaction is probably a familiar automatic response known by all of our Israeli friends: I sent off a quick SMS to my family to find out if everyone was alright! Everyone was fine. Then details started to come out: the staff was gunned down in cold blood by Islamist terrorists at an address that was vaguely familiar. Suddenly, I realized, that the Charlie Hebdo office was no longer at an address in the North of Paris (after having been firebombed by radicals in 2011 for its drawings of the prophet Mohammed, they probably had decided to move for security to another site). Instead, they were literally right around the corner from my wife’s synagogue, Centre Maayan-CJL.

As in any dramatic moment that centers on issues of life and death, we often consider the “what ifs.”

Among them, which I had thought about, was the realization that the directors of the Talmud Torah religious schools of the Liberal synagogues of Paris and some rabbis were supposed to be meeting at her synagogue center at about the same time that the premeditated slaughter was perpetrated. The meeting’s location had only been changed at the last minute to another synagogue to accommodate one of the directors. Otherwise, they would have been walking out of the metro stop and into the killing spree.

By the time I got back home –I live in the historic old Jewish neighborhood of the Marais– police and riot control forces (CRS) were already present. Turning on the news (switching back and forth between TF1, I-Télé, BFM news, CNN and I24) we learned more of the story of the grim outcome of the editorial staff and security personnel. How the terrorists forced a young mother, who was simply getting her child from nursery school, to punch in the door codes that allowed them into the building. And how a wounded local policeman (a Muslim, himself, moreover) coming to their aid was literally murdered before our eyes; his death recorded on a video, played over and over again around the world.

My own phone started ringing non-stop as shock, horror, anger and trepidation started to settle in amongst Parisians. Everyone realized that armed terrorists were literally running loose on our streets.

I called my Talmud Torah director to consult together, since we had a class scheduled at the synagogue for that same early afternoon. We needed to figure out whether or not to maintain the class – and whether we would be able to contact all the students, parents and teacher in time, if the decision was to cancel the class. Because the class would be held very shortly and kids often come on their own directly to the synagogue, in the end class was held. I asked our teacher to use the backroom (farthest room from the street and next to an emergency exit) and to keep me updated.

Yahrtzeit_candleBy Thursday, when a young policewoman dealing with a traffic accident in the South of Paris was assassinated by a heavily armed individual, emotions ran towards fear and fright.

Emergency meetings over security and encounters with Jewish community leaders all ensued. There were calls of support from the arrondissement mayor and local police chief, and, as you might expect, many, many members calling to express the rollercoaster of emotions we were all feeling as ideological monsters were freely roaming the streets.

By the next day when the two sets of terrorists were holed up in two locations, one being a Jewish supermarket not too far from one of my daughter’s High School, sheer panic had hit us all.

France’s national security alert system (Le plan Vigipirate) was at its highest levels. Calls were coming forth to cancel that evening’s Shabbat services. In consultation with my congregation’s President and Talmud Torah director, we decided that given the situation, with the present location’s flimsy physical set up, we would cancel Sunday school classes as a precaution for the children (however, we did send homework home to the families by email, explaining to them that learning was also a way to resist). Nonetheless, I felt that it was very important for us to maintain our Shabbat services – even if other congregations might decide otherwise. We hired private guards, and heavily armed police in bullet proof vests were making the rounds between Kehilat Gesher and a neighboring Orthodox shule on the next street.

Just before the service started, I received a SMS from my daughter, who had been locked down in her High School, telling me that the authorities were evacuating her and other students from the rear of the school. The National Gendarmerie Intervention Group (GIGN: anti-terrorist forces) was about to intervene. By the time we were about to sing Lekha Dodi, a member whispered into my ear that the terrorists in both locations had been killed, hostages had been freed (many in the grocery store owe their lives to another Muslim who worked there, Lassana Bathily, a real mensch and hero!), but unfortunately four Jews were murdered by the terrorists (one, the son of a Tunisian rabbi, while trying to take the gun from the hand of the Jihadist).

My little shteibl was packed. The atmosphere at Kehilat Gesher was at once spiritual and electric. Fear and pride intermingled in our prayers.

In our collective minds, we were not only thinking about the current attacks, but also thinking about the killing of Ilan Halimi z”l in 2006, the murders of the French soldiers and Jewish children and teachers in Toulouse in 2012, and the massacre at the Brussels Jewish Museum last year in which one of our very own members of Kehilat Gesher, Dominique z”l was murdered…and over whom I heavy-heartedly presided at her funeral.

Everyone there felt to the depths of their Jewish soul that the simple act of praying together was an act of defiance – it was an act of resistance and resilience.

The next morning services, one congregant even commented that “it was almost a normal Shabbat at Kehilat Gesher” in these atypical times. Yet walking out into the streets (and asking members to disperse quickly and avoid leaving in groups) reminded us just how much our reality had changed in only a couple of days. A healthy dose of fear reigns as everyone wonders when and where the next attack might occur.

On my way home, I noticed that shops were nearly empty and that there was a deafeningly loud quietness all around the city – highly unusual for a Parisian Saturday afternoon.

That evening I cancelled our ciné-club activity set for Sunday in order to permit everyone to participate in the rally of unity, and I passed the rest of Saturday evening glued to the TV, internet or radio, like most of the population around me.

Sunday morning, I participated in an inter-religious ceremony that preceded a Protestant religious service. I, an Imam, a Priest and the Temple’s Pastor spoke of tolerance and unity. It was a ceremony, for which I am very happy that it had taken place, but I was also troubled by it.

I know my clerical colleagues well, and I am confident of their hopes, desires, and good intentions. That being said, I was profoundly disturbed that the original idea for the ceremony was to start off by lighting 21 candles – 17 for the victims, 3 for the terrorists killed, and one large general candle for victims of terrorism everywhere. I let it be known that while I realize this might be a part of their theological imperative, I couldn’t countenance a ceremony that put the executioner on the same moral level as the victim. As a result, 3 candles were placed apart from the others.

Furthermore, I was also bothered by the words of the Imam. Though a wonderful person, he simply could not see that his (and my preferred) interpretation of Islam is in reality not the only interpretation acceptable among Moslems. He basically stated that the terrorists could not be Moslem because, I assume, they did not fit his more open and tolerant understanding. I would accept that Radical Islam may be an extreme version of the Muslim religion, but it certainly is not a stranger to it. And that is a problem that not only liberal Muslims – but also all of us in the West– must have the courage to look in the face one day, if we really want to vanquish the demon.

Finally, I was bothered and anxious by the ceremony because, well…here was a crowd of people simply coming to their house of worship, Protestants in the occurrence, with the front doors wide open and with no police or security standing on the outside!

What might be standard for the non-Jewish Christian population in France becomes frightening from a Jewish viewpoint. I realized no one there was as sensitive to these standard concerns as almost any Jew in France today. And knowing that I have been formatted by circumstance (read ‘warped’) into thinking it “right and normal” to have to worry about safety measures before gathering people together in a Jewish context is one of the surer signs of the illness of our times.

Yet, in spite of these complexities, I am still pleased that the ceremony occurred. And even if it was not all what I could hope for, a truism of life is: if one wants to make change, we must start from where others are, in order to get them to where we think they ought to be!

Sunday afternoon, the coming together of millions of people in the streets of Paris was an incredible experience. Yes, a good number of the signs held high said “Je suis Charlie” (I’m Charlie). But numerous, as well, were the signs that said “Je suis Juif” (I’m Jewish), even in the hands of people with obvious North African descent.

A meeting point had been given to Kehilat Gesher members who had wanted to walk together as friends, not as a community; I felt that it was not quite right to have a “rally for unity,” but then walk behind a partisan banner. In any case, it was a mute point as that the sheer numbers of people who surged through the boulevards of Paris prevented anyone from moving in any direction for hours. What was amazing in the circumstance was the general feelings of unity, respect, and concern for others. It was clearly palpable!

Seeing everyone clapping for and cheering on the police (unusual in France), spontaneous singing of the national anthem, la Marseillaise (even more unusual in France), and strangers talking to each other with warmth and tenderness in a friendly atmosphere (what can I say, highly unusual J) was some solace of hope in these somber times.

Coming home late, as it took more than four hours to walk just a couple of kilometers, my wife and I both felt that the real test would be in the days and weeks to come. Will the society as a whole start to wake up to the real dangers that face us all – and sadly, in particular us in the Jewish community?

Here we are now a week later. What can I tell you?

That kosher restaurants near my synagogue were filled as they normally are at lunch hour. And eating a hamburger and fries (sorry my vegetarian friends and family) has taken on a new color – an act of civil protest, in addition to simply being an expression of Jewish values.

Students are still showing up for classes, and parents are still having me perform life cycle events (we welcomed a baby girl into the community yesterday!

True, aliya (immigration) is up. Yet it is difficult to know how much is really an Aliya based upon fear of anti-Semitism previous to these attacks, and how much is an Aliya based upon economic interests and what the French call defiscalisation: “tax refugees”.

Many commentators pointed out how Netanyahu was so warmly welcomed at the Rothschild synagogue, especially when compared to the “polite” applause accorded to President Hollande (who until recently has had the “honor” of being the least liked President in the history of the 5th republic). Those journalists were saying that this was a sign that the Jews of France are preparing to leave.

For me, a telling moment was Netanyahu’s appeal to French Jewry that they “should” come home . . . with the diplomatic response of the Prime Minister Manuel Valls saying that “France without its Jews will no longer be France”.

Yet at the end of that evening ceremony where Netanyahu was so warmly welcomed, those same attendees spontaneously started singing la Marseillaise (next thing you know, the French will be waving flags as patriotically and as often as Americans.)

So how did we get here?

Too many years have gone by in which politicians (of both major parties) willfully overlooked creeping extremism in certain neighborhoods in France for expediency purposes, economic benefits, and, simply, votes. They abandoned prisons to Islamists, creating a festering breeding ground for Jihadists. They became wobbly and cowed when confronted by violence and racism in the schools.

Journalists have also played a role over the years, substituting weaker images for direct terms: a massacre or a slaughter becomes simply an “attack”. Extremists and their followers become the “youth from the suburbs”.

Intellects tried to pin the blame on others in the face of creeping radical Islamization: in their eyes racism can only come from the traditional source, the far right. Another game is to blame the victim. They are somehow responsible because they support Israel, or they are rich, or they are poor, or they are exclusive . . . . Just fill in the box.

The social atmosphere has degraded over the years, and the inability to name the problems has made things worse.

It is not my intention to go through a geopolitical analysis of how things have slowly spun out of control. But the internationalization of these groups through the Internet has taken an isolated ideology and exported the philosophy to these fanatics and their supporters with whom we must deal with today.

These horrific murders are a wakeup call that has aroused many to finally start realizing that Islamist fascist groups’ intimidation is real and its reach is widespread.

These murders also underlined once again the reality that some people are being killed for the right to express themselves freely, like the journalists at Charlie Hebdo; others, the Jews, simply for being who they are.

Hopefully the reaction to the violence will lead people to recognize that Islamist jihadist terrorists pose a serious threat to values that our democracies cherish and hold dear: liberty, equality and fraternity.

So even if Aliya rates double in the coming year, a cold-eye analysis is that the vast majority of Jews in France are still staying for a whole host of reasons that are legitimate. They want to see changes, and they are hoping that the politicians follow up their words with facts on the grounds.

As of today I can say that in every speech pronounced and legislation proposed by the Prime Minister, I feel a real determinism on his part to do the right thing.

Mongers of hate on the Internet and through Twitter have in the past couple of days been arrested and sentenced to jail time; even Dieudonné was taken into custody. Thousands of soldiers and police have been mobilized to protect sensitive sites (e.g. synagogues and schools). France is sending its aircraft carrier into range to strike the Islamic state and Al Qaeda operatives in the Middle East.

It doesn’t completely lessen the nagging fear, but it is a start. And there is much more to do!

So to answer a question a few people asked: no, I’m not packing my bags yet. I still have way too much work to do here.

Kehilat Gesher needs to work even harder at reaching out to others and being a “bridge” (the meaning of the word “Gesher), a small example being our inviting Imams and Moslems to join our upcoming Shabbat service as a show of solidarity with their Jewish neighbors.

As I type this note, I remark from our window on the street side of our apartment that there are now three soldiers in front of a synagogue just down the street and that I have received a new message from the Mayor of the 17th, asking to arrange a meeting of community leaders with a new Police Chief who was just appointed by Vall’s government to deal with security issues around Jewish sites.

I know this letter has been (too) long.

But I have had numerous demands asking what people can do to help from overseas. Just beyond the amazing spiritual and psychological support, concern and prayers which we have received, there are some concrete actions that could be very helpful right now.

Firstly, the little things . . . like that Talmud Torah class in Chicago sending a picture of their kids in support of us is extremely uplifting. You can always contact Javier Liebiusky, our Talmud Torah director (he speaks Spanish, English, Hebrew and French) at talmudtorah@kehilatgesher.org for actions in support of our religious school.

Secondly, come and visit. The hizzuk (strength) we get from your presence is important. We had a couple from New York this last Shabbat who came to Friday night services. Their presence on a night when the rest of us were still in shock was priceless!

Thirdly, the reality is that even if the country starts to turn things around, there is so much to do that it will take a while. We will not be able to let down our defense anytime soon, something our Israeli brothers and sisters have learned to live with so much longer than us! So this implies that we will need to keep our hired private guards on a much longer term than our current budget can absorb. For those who want to help out in this regard, I urge you to partner with us by donating to KG USA, our 501c3 “friends of Kehilat Gesher in France” organization in the USA. We will be creating a specific category for donations to help with security needs in our current place. That is, until we can find a more suitable location for our congregation that is better secured than our current one.

In the same vein, we will be promoting more Jewish-Moslem relations programs to which you might want to help. If you are interested in helping in these ways, you can send a check (made out to Kehilat Gesher USA—please note on the check that your donation is for KG France) to our friend and Treasurer of KG USA, Rabbi Peter Grumbacher, Vice President, Finance, of Kehilat Gesher USA, 300 Woodland Drive, Wilmington, DE 19809.

And finally, realize that what has happened in Paris can happen anywhere in the civilized world. The only real way to fight it is by sticking together. Giving up is not going to solve the problem, only perhaps compound it.

May we all soon find healing and the possibility to live freely and safely everywhere where we might live.

Rabbi Tom Cohen was born and raised in Oregon. His interest in Judaism’s religious philosophy and way of life developed during his early university years at Portland State University, then at the University of Judaism in Los Angeles, where he received his Bachelor’s degree in Jewish Studies, after which he made the decision to enter the rabbinate. For the next six years, under the auspices of the Jewish Theological Seminary, Rabbi Cohen studied in Los Angeles, Jerusalem, and New York. He was ordained in 1991 and became a resident of France, living in Paris and working with several non-orthodox communities, including the English speaking chavurah which became Kehilat Gesher in 1993.

Categories
Rabbis Reform Judaism

Renewing Our Spiritual Infrastructure

In May 1999, about 15 ½ years ago, the Conference passed its Statement of Principles for Reform Judaism, the Pittsburgh Principles, by an overwhelming majority.  Two years ago, the Reform Leadership Council endorsed a “Vision Statement” which, while more concise, reiterates the same ideas.  What place have these documents in our life now?  Where is our Movement headed today?

Following the Principles’ categories of God, Torah and Israel, most of us would agree that we are much more comfortable speaking about God’s role in our lives than we used to be, and when difficult individuals challenge us, we are more and more prone to remember that they too are created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God.  We have joined in the struggle to preserve and protect God’s creation, lifting our voice for a faith-based environmentalism in a society that still too often sees that as a contradiction in terms.  We are not as advanced as we might be in “encountering God’s presence in acts of justice and compassion,” still too prone to give in to wary congregants’ characterization of acts and statements of justice as “political” rather than “spiritual”.  We have, I believe, work to do in that area.

Do we pray as often we know we should?  Do we study as much, as regularly?  The Principles can serve us as a goad in these realms.  The CCAR, particularly under Debbie Prinz’s guidance, has helped us in both these areas—but we need to help each other as well.  “What are you studying these days?” we can ask our friends.  “Could I talk with you about some issues I’ve been having with prayer lately?”  Perhaps the Conference might conduct a periodic call-in session to talk about our spiritual lives.  With the collapse of the regional councils of the URJ years ago, perhaps the Conference might convene such gatherings in its regions, around regional kallot.  The College-Institute would, I am sure, be glad to host such conversations for colleagues in the vicinity of our campuses.

The section on “Torah” in the Principles commits us to the “ongoing study of the whole array of mitzvot”. Have we looked at a list of them recently?  Maimonides’ Sefer Ha-Mitzvot, particularly in the Moznayim edition, is an excellent place to start.  Which of them calls to me?  Which ones used to call to me that I no longer fulfill—do I still agree with that decision?  Are there mitzvot that I have been considering for a long time—is now the time to respond to them?  Are there mitzvot not in Maimonides’ list that call to me?”

The Torah section concludes with a catalog of ways to bring Torah into the world.  It’s a good idea to review that catalog periodically.  What are we doing to “narrow the gap between the affluent and the poor”? To “act against discrimination and oppression”?  “To pursue peace”—in our own homes, our communities, in Israel?  “To welcome the stranger”?  “To protect the earth’s biodiversity and natural resources”?  Are we giving as much tzedakah—of our earnings and our time—as we might?

The Israel section invites us to ask similar questions: are we acting on “a vision of the State of Israel that promotes full civil, human and religious rights for all its inhabitants and that strives for a lasting peace between Israel and its neighbors”?  The news of the past several months reminds us how much the Reform Movement is needed to help stem the dangerous nationalistic tide that seems to be engulfing the Israeli government. How do we respond to the chaos in the Middle East?  I believe that a state for Palestinians must be created alongside the State of Israel.  You may not agree, but the Principles suggest that, whatever course we affirm, we need to work for its fulfillment.

And if we respond to all these prompts, “I am so stressed, I feel so pursued by difficult congregants or troubled students—I have no cheshech to ask such questions!” Attention to such mitzvot is a way to lessen stress, to remind ourselves, at a time when we feel that others are controlling our lives, of how much of our lives we can control, how much we can contribute to being partners with God, spreading Torah in the world, and realizing our ancient visions of the people and the nation of Israel.

The financial crises which have beset the arms of the Movement over the years have weakened some of our infrastructure.  We—our institutions and our colleagues—cannot let it weaken our spiritual infrastructure, our resolve to continue energetically to serve God and Torah.  We need to be strong in this time, colleagues; we need to strengthen each other.

I hope you will respond to these thoughts on RavBlog, and I will respond to you.

Rabbi Richard N. Levy is the Rabbi of Campus Synagogue and Director of Spiritual Growth at Hebrew Union College in Los Angeles, CA. He completed a two-year term as the President of the Central Conference of American Rabbis and was the architect of the Statement of Principles for Reform Judaism, the “Pittsburgh Principles,” overwhelmingly passed at the May, 1999 CCAR Convention. Prior to joining the HUC-JIR administration, Rabbi Levy was Executive Director of the Los Angeles Hillel Council. He is also the author of A Vision of Holiness: The Future of Reform Judaism.

Categories
News

Grateful for the Unexpected: Mussar on Vacation

Our family vacation didn’t entirely go as planned. A week-long Galapagos cruise turned into a four-day voyage when an airplane mechanical failure caused us to miss our original departure. Houston, even in a comfortable hotel and with every possible movie in the world’s largest multiplex, doesn’t match snorkeling with sea turtles or gazing at blue footed boobies.

I knew to be grateful, even to the airline that botched our departure rather than risk an unsafe flight. Thanks only to long practice of Mussar, I was able to keep my anger in check, not only about a situation out of everyone’s control, but when the airline inexplicably couldn’t produce our luggage for our unanticipated Houston layover. As Alan Morinis has taught, losing my temper wouldn’t change the outcome, but would only make me — and worse, the people around me — miserable; and I would model badly to my children. Other middot (soul-traits) helped, too, significantly including bitachon (trust). For the first 24 hours, we weren’t sure we would get to the Galapagos at all; but I continually told my family (and myself) that, whatever the outcome, we would be fine and we would have a good vacation. Oh, and I was grateful that, months ago, I had exhibited the zerizut (alacrity) to purchase the trip insurance that would make that outcome financially feasible.

I knew, too, that most people — indeed, even most Ecuadorians — never get to explore the Galapagos, that such a glorious vacation is out of the reach of most Americans, not to mention the entire human family. So our family remained grateful for four days in the Galapagos, even as we acknowledged our disappointment.

But it wasn’t until the end of the first full day of the cruise that I recognized the fullness of the goodness we had been granted. During one two-hour hike on the island of Espanola, we had the closest of encounters with a dozen sea lion colonies, including hundreds of young. We were within inches of thousands of Earth’s only sea-going iguanas, called “Christmas Iguanas” because the males take on bright red and green coloring only at one time of year, which happened to be the season of our trip. We watched up close as two couples of albatrosses, a monogamous species, engaged in elaborate love dances that even our guide had rarely seen. Among countless nesting Nasco Boobies, we spotted one day-old chick huddling under its mother. We gazed on as an immature albatross spread its wings and took its first few feet of flight.

1482877_675529182489913_1028566581_nOh, I forgot to mention: Espanola is home to lots and lots of dung: bird poop of every kind, sea lion poop, iguana poop, you name it, that island has it. One could, I suppose, spend those precious hours on Espanola disgusted by the poop. One could return to the ship, calculating the tons of excrement, instead of the scores of species. Similarly, we could return from our trip, recounting the delay and all its trials rather than the magnificence of our destination. Instead, hakarat ha-tov (gratitude, literally “recognizing the good”) prevailed. We returned to narrate our magnificent photographs of boobies and sea lions.

Our ancestors were slaves in Egypt for more than four centuries. The forty years that followed were no picnic either. Still, we tell that story as one of the greatest liberation humanity has ever known, culminating in the Promised Land. Even when there’s a lot of poop in the way — and in life, there always is — may we gratefully recognize and celebrate the wonder of life on Earth.

Rabbi Barry Block serves Congregation B’nai Israel in Little Rock, AR.

Categories
Ethics Healing Rabbis Reform Judaism

The Red Tent: Oddly Compelling, Despite it All

I was slightly too young to swoon over the iconic mini-series “The Thorn Birds” in the early 1980’s (though my babysitters weren’t).  So imagine my excitement, tinged with an eye roll or five, when I saw that “The Red Tent,” based on Anita Diamant’s best-selling novel, would be broadcast over two nights (two nights!) in December.  In spite of more inaccuracies than the rabbi in me could count, Lifetime Television for Women (coincidence?  methinks not!) did manage to present the movie around the time the Torah portion containing Dinah’s story is read.  “The Bible Gave Her One Line” the trailer intoned dramatically.  Fine.  They had me at one line.  With a December 2nd article from the Forward titled “159 Thoughts We Had While Watching ‘The Red Tent’ (We Watched It So You Don’t Have To)” beside me, and my husband happily watching the Packers game in the other room, I settled on the couch and prepared for Part One, also known as “A Blissful Two Hours Of Mockery.”

And I found I couldn’t look away.

So embarrassing!

To assuage said embarrassment, and mostly thwarted mockery, I’m playing with a few theories as to why.

Good production values.  I want to say that the Torah is just as visually arresting, and sometimes it is.  But sometimes sweeping desert vistas, ominous drum beats, what sounds like the almost constant accompaniment of the sitar, and veils softly billowing in the wind help things along.

Even better hair.  Whether growing up under the watchful eyes and shaped by the hyper-articulate wisdom of her mothers, lighting up a darkened palace with her first sexual awakening, losing more than anyone has a right to, suffering terribly, then flourishing in ways she never predicted, Dinah’s curls were unfailingly gorgeous.

Genuinely moving theological soundbites.  I still can’t put my finger on what lifted reflections like “God’s will doesn’t come through words – it’s in what we become,” and “To mourn is respectful; to remember is holy” out of the realm of florid nonsense.  Could it be that when you peel away the mannered accents on the actors’ part, and the tendency towards sarcasm on mine, these insights are more or less true?  The lump in my throat said yes.

To round out all the possibilities, at a pre-Chanukah gathering last night, I asked a member of our congregation’s Sisterhood what had moved her about “The Red Tent.”  She told me it had to do with Dinah’s ability to take what the women in her life had taught her and to use it to survive what the rest of her life brought.  Well… right, I thought.  If we’re very lucky, that’s something we all do with the memories of those who matter to us most.

I read The Red Tent in 1999, just months after my mother died, during my first year at HUC in Jerusalem.  It was neither my favorite nor my least favorite piece of literature.  But this congregant’s words struck a chord.  I realized that this story – however hyperbolic — is bound up with a specific loss in my life and with the person, and the rabbi, I have since become.  That’s what our best stories do.  They give our worlds back to us.  We bind ourselves to them.  And they point us towards something new.

By the way, the Packers won.  And against all odds, “The Red Tent” as a mini-series did too.  I’m filing it under “oddly compelling.”  And then I’ll be putting the word out to see if anyone has a used, double VHS tape of “The Thorn Birds.”

Rebecca Gutterman is the rabbi of Congregation B’nai Tikvah in Walnut Creek, CA.

Categories
Books Prayer

Bringing Mishkan T’Filah for Youth into the Classroom

About three years ago, when we started working on creating Mishkan T’Filah for Youth, I casually mentioned to my students that I was editing a new siddur for kids like them.  I had no idea at that time how invested they would become this project.  About once a month someone would ask, “Is it finished yet?  When do we get to use your siddur?”  In their minds it was “my siddur” but in my mind it was really “their siddur.”  As I had pieces, new English readings, sections finished, we would pray them together at our Wednesday afternoon religious school tefillah.  I would try to gauge how the English readings worked for them.  Were they easy to read?  Did they understand all the words?  The ideas?  Would they help them to engage in tefillah on a deeper level?  Did the notes at the bottom of the page reflect the kinds of questions they would ask me?  Were they the kinds of questions they would wrestle with?  Would the notes at the bottom of the page clarify the rituals and emphasize key Hebrew words that they were learning in class?  And about once a month they would ask, “Why is it taking so long?  When is the siddur going to be ready?”

MT Youth copyA few months ago the finished siddur arrived and the first people I wanted to show it to were not my parents, my husband, my friends or even my own children but my students, because they had taught me so much about creating it.  Through the generosity of our Brotherhood and Sisterhood we were able to buy 250 copies for our congregation, and this past Friday night we used it for the first time.  But the real joy came today as we used it in Wednesday afternoon religious school tefillah for the first time.  One of the teachers told me that the kids in her class were playing a game, and they did not want to stop playing and go to tefillah.  Then one of the kids said, “Wait, we get to use the new siddur today!” at which point they all dropped the game to go to the sanctuary.

The truth is, we did not get very far.  They needed time to hold the books, to flip through the beautiful art work, to even SMELL them!  They have that new book smell, several of them told me.  We sang an opening song and we did the Bar’chu.  I looked down at the notes on the page with Ma’ariv Aravim and asked the question at the bottom.  Many hands shot up.  It was a great discussion.  When we opened to the page with the Sh’ma their eyes almost popped out of their heads.  The art work is so beautiful.  I asked them, “Why do you think the artist made the page like this?”  They told me about the large Shin covered with m’zuzot and the bright colors on the page.  The answers flowed.    We turned the page.  I asked them how the art work there was connected to the V’ahavta.  We only got as far as the Mi Chamocha when our half hour was over.  Fortunately, we have the rest of the year to explore the siddur, the prayers, the creative readings, the notes at the bottom and, of course, the art work.  All of it encourages them to dig a little deeper into their hearts and their souls.  I feel so blessed to have been a part of creating Mishkan T’filah for Youth.  I am so grateful to Hara Person and the incredible committee who made it happen.  Most of all, I am so proud that all of our students will have a siddur that will help them engage in prayer and grow closer to God.

Rabbi Paula Feldstein serves Temple Avodat Sholom in River Edge, NJ, and was the editor of Mishkan T’filah for Youth.

Categories
Healing

I Do: When Fantasy Clashes With Reality

As anyone who has been married can tell you, marriage is all about reality: it is the process of creating a joint future in close quarters and close partnership. When it is a good match, it is one of the best things in the world; and when it is not – well, then let’s just let it suffice to say that it is not.

Weddings, however, are all about fantasy. My first husband had requested that I wear a big white dress with (in his words) ‘a draggy thing.’ So I had the yards and yards of tulle and the draggy thing, and a veil and 200 or so guests. I looked like Cinderella in white shoes.

That was the wedding in which I fulfilled everyone else’s expectations.

But later, older, wiser, and less prone to fantasy, I remarried. When I went to purchase a dress for my wedding to my husband Tom, I went to one of those cute little bridal shops and picked out a nice dress from a catalog: a bridesmaid dress, actually, in shell pink satin.

The day that it arrived, I was ecstatic: I wanted to go in and try it on and feel like a bride.  But as a single mom with a tight schedule, the only way I could go over there was to bring my son with me in an appointment sandwiched in between lunch and teaching.

Now, let me tell you: if you want to understand the difference between reality and fantasy, go to a bridal shop as a nearly-40 single mom in a subdued pink bridal gown, which is really a bridesmaid gown repurposed, and stand next to the 20-something young women getting fitted with big white dresses with yards of lace, beads, sequins, and tulle.

Go there and stand next to women who have not yet lost the glossy sheen of youth, who do not know love’s disappointment or despair.

My pink gown was wrinkled and the zipper was broken and gaping open, and my six-year-old son kept picking up those plastic clips that they use for fittings and clipping them randomly all over my dress. ‘Here Mommy: I found another one,’ he would say as he clipped it on.

There is reality, and there is fantasy, and the sales ladies at this little bridal salon were none too thrilled to have the two standing side by side.

We all have an image in our head of What Things Should Look Like; some of our greatest disappointments, in fact, are when things don’t match up to that fantasy. We might spend long years in denial, in fact, hoping that the image in our head is at some point matched by the facts on the ground.

What gets us into trouble, however, is when we pretend that the reality and the fantasy are one and the same. When we think that the job or the marriage or the living situation will get better when we know in our bones that it will not. But it is very easy to hold on to that fantasy and to hope for the best.

Our relationship to God – and by extension, our relationship to Judaism – can also be a bit like that. We think that things should happen a certain way, and then they do not. Should we give up on our faith? Should we get angry at God?

As I said, my first marriage started in fantasy – in the great white wedding with a tulle-and-lace Cinderella gown with a draggy-thing and a tiara and white gloves. And then that most lovely wedding ended in the reality of a divorce; the unraveling of the relationship began almost immediately even though it took many years to complete.

But that second dress – the shell-pink bridesmaid’s dress, beautiful at last after it had been steam-pressed, altered and repaired – was the one in which I traded fantasy for the reality of a mature and lasting love, the fairy tale for happily-ever-after.

Rabbi Kari Tuling, PhD., serves Temple Beth Israel in Plattsburgh, New York and teaches at SUNY Plattsburgh.