Patching a Hole

The World I Know, June 2009

This post is not about Judaism, or spirituality, or even God, per se. But, it kinda is at the same time.

After a nearly 5 year absence, painting has made a resurgence in my life.

I used to paint all the time. I fell in love with it in high school, and while I dated other art forms in college, I always came back to painting at the end of the day. And then I graduated from college and entered the real world and lost all confidence in my abilities as an artist. I told myself that I stopped painting because it was too expensive, or I didn't have the space, or I didn't have the time. But, those were all excuses and in reality I didn't want to paint because I didn't think I could anymore. I kept myself surrounded by the last paintings I had completed and been proud of, and some days it would make me happy to see them. And other days it would make me incredibly sad to think that this was a part of my life that was over. I doubted whether I would ever pick up a paintbrush again.

Last spring I picked up some watercolors and painted a couple of times, mostly because I wanted to do something for friends who were moving out of state. But I was never a water colorist and I wasn't very happy and so I put down the paintbrush again.

A year later and nothing much had changed in my thinking about my art. What had changed was this incredible friend who has encouraged me to be creative again. So, using a coupon that she had sent, I picked up some oil paints and paintbrushes and dug out a blank canvas that had sat in my apartment for 5 years. And one day I began to paint.

And then I painted again. And again. And again. I bought an easel and more paint and the brushes I had always loved using and more canvas. I even finished a painting I had begun 5 years ago. Then one day I realized I had run out of space to prop up the drying paintings around my apartment. I had to use my laundry drying rack, and thus neglected doing laundry in favor of protecting the drying oils.

What I discovered, almost instantly, was just how much I had missed painting. I missed the smell of the paint, the feel of the brush, the way I could block out everything around me and just concentrate on the canvas. I had missed being creative because somewhere along the way I had convinced myself that it was something I no longer was capable of.

I realized something that only now can I truly appreciate: before I discovered Judaism, painting was how I prayed.

I feel a freedom with my painting now that I never could have in college. I always had an assignment or a project to work on, and even though I did paint for my own pleasure those times were few and far between and I was so locked into what I was doing in class that I didn't break away from it. Now, however... now I am allowing myself to just follow where the process will take me. I have played with color, with form, with light and dark. I have painted hands -- a challenge to myself to master something that I never could in college. This past weekend I turned my attention to what is around me and took my time with the paintings, something I never really did before. I was always anxious to finish something, to see what it would look like. But this weekend I slowed myself down and concentrated on making the paint work and respecting it when I needed to step away.

At this point painting has become a source of hope, a way to cope (and sometimes avoid), a way to express how I feel, and a way to reconnect. I don't think I would have picked up a paintbrush again were it not for the encouragement of my friend. It isn't every day that someone gives you back a piece of yourself that you thought was lost.

The Heart of Reading Torah

I ascend the 2 steps to stand on the understated bimah, trying to carry the tune for the song I have chosen to begin the Torah service. I am horribly off-key, but sing loudly anyway, knowing that I need to lead the few who have shown up for services this morning in prayer, and that includes prayer in song.

Al shlo-sha d’varim...

Open up the doors to the ark, first the right, then the left. One more step to reach the Torah, lifting it carefully so as to not bend the crowns, thinking don’tdropitdon’tdropitdon’tdropit. Turn. Fumble with siddur, say the Sh’ma, sing some more and undress the Torah with some help. Close the doors to the ark.

Deep breath. I remember I need to ask someone to do the aliyah, announce the page numbers for the blessing and for the reading. At this point my heart is beating quickly and my voice is unsteady. Another deep breath. I need to help the congregant chanting the Torah blessing to begin and flash back to the first time my rabbi had to start me off.

Another deep breath and I am ready to begin.

And suddenly my voice is a little clearer, my heart seems to not be racing so much as soaring. The words come clearly for the most part and I can practically taste them as they tumble off my tongue. There is an energy, an electricity, that is running through me as I trace the sacred Hebrew words with the yad. Before I know it I am coming to the end of the twelve verses I had prepared.

Vayomer al-tikrav halom shal-ne'aleycha me'al ragleycha ki hamakom
asher atah omed alav admat-kodesh hu.

I pick up the translation to read. I go too quickly through the English, the words rushing and pushing together.

And suddenly I am done and I need to remember to begin the after blessing for the congregant doing the chanting. I can feel myself shaking a bit as we dress the Torah and I set it gently aside but keep the crowns off because I know that I am likely to bend them when putting the Torah away later.

I chant the Haftarah blessing and read from Isaiah. The words are a blur to me, but I read loudly, and clearly, and try to calm my heart, slow my breathing. But I am unsuccessful and my voice is shaking as I chant the after blessing.

My mouth is dry as I turn to pick up the Torah again, to return it to the ark, fumbling with my siddur again, trying to sing.

Eitz chayim hi...

And then the Torah is back in the ark and the doors are closed, but I am still shaking, still unable to calm myself down. I grab the yahrzeit list off the lectern and descend the bimah steps to finish the service. Aleinu. Kaddish. Closing song. My voice is weak now. It shakes and I stumble over words that have become second nature for me.

Shabbat Shaloms are exchanged and I turn off the lights in the sanctuary and throughout the building, put away the commentaries from Torah study, get ready to close up and head home. But I cannot leave just yet. For 15 minutes I stand in my rabbi’s office, looking at the books on his shelf, feeling my heart rate finally slow to normal, feeling the adrenaline drain from my body and I know that I will sleep hard later.

To Stand Upright

This past Friday was our monthly Family Shabbat at my temple, preceded by a Religious School dinner and a Tot Shabbat. A full evening to be sure. I normally don’t show up for Tot Shabbat unless it is between Torah Study and services on a Saturday morning, but a friend of mine who has a 7-month-old son was planning on attending and since she is a fairly new member I said I would come for Tot Shabbat so she knew someone. And then I stuck around for the dinner. By the time services rolled around at 7:30 I had already been at temple since 6 and I was not only tired and had a headache, but I was beginning to feel a bit down. As a single person who would like to be in a relationship and as a Jew-by-Choice who does not have a Jewish family, it is sometimes difficult to be around so many families celebrating Shabbat. I have friends at temple who are like family to me, that is something I am incredibly grateful for, but sometimes it makes my own situation that much more lonely.

Thus with all of that on my mind and informing my thoughts and mood, I sat next to my wonderful and patient friend during services last Friday and when we reached the G’vurot in Mishkan T’filah I was struck by the profound nature of the interpretation by Rabbi Richard Levy that appears in the linear service (Shabbat Evening II) instead of the literal translation. This wasn’t the first time that the words of this prayer have resonated with me beyond the moment they are said, but that night they were especially powerful. After a long week of deadlines at work and a mood that swung high and low, sometimes multiple times a day, I was exhausted and more emotional than I was prepared for. I’ve included the text of the prayer below:

We pray that we might know before whom we stand,
the Power whose gift is life,
who quickens those who have forgotten how to live,
having implanted within us eternal spirit.

We pray for winds to disperse the air of sadness,
for rains to make parched hopes rise again.

We pray for love to encompass us
for no reason save that we are human,
that we may blossom into persons
who have gained power over our own lives.

We pray to stand upright, we fallen; to be healed, we sufferers.
We pray to break the bonds that keep us from the world of beauty.
We pray to be open to our own true selves.
We pray that we may walk in a garden of purpose,
in touch with the power of the world.

Praised be the God whose gift is life,
whose cleansing rains let parched men and women rise again.

Rabbi Richard Levy
(From Mishkan T’filah, G’vurot, Shabbat Evening II)

I recall a previous Shabbat, sitting next to the same friend, coming to the passage that states “...that we may blossom into person who have gained power over our own lives” and feeling the slightest of nudges and seeing the briefest of smiles, and I felt not only the support of my friend, but almost as if God had reached down and given me that nudge. It may sound hokey or even crazy, but that’s what I felt. So, when we came to this passage again last week I felt overwhelmed with emotion, knowing that the previous weeks had been a great mixture of happiness, frustration, sadness, joy, energy, and exhaustion.

“We pray to stand upright, we fallen.” This line, more than any other, is so full of meaning for me at this moment in my life. It does not say “We pray that God makes us stand upright,” or “We pray that someone will come along and prop us up” or even “We pray that we may prop our own selves up.” It simple says “We pray to stand upright.” As anyone who has suffered through bouts of depression and anxiety can tell you, this isn’t something that you can get through alone, but it also isn’t something that you can just ask someone else, even God, to fix. Whatever you need to do to stand upright again... well, you do it. You may do it grudgingly, you may fight it stubbornly every step, but in the end all you want is to stand upright again.

Leading Services: The Post-Shabbat Wrap Up

This past Saturday I lead my temple’s Torah study and informal Shabbat service. While I have the opportunity throughout the year to lead Torah study or read Torah, it is rare that I get the chance to lead Saturday morning, so I was pretty happy to do it. I posted over at JBC.org last week what I think is a decent guide for lay people who are getting ready to lead services for the first time. It would have been great if I could have followed all of my own suggestions, but I think overall things went okay. It was a small group made up of people I know and am friends with, but my nerves eventually took over mid-Torah service as I stumbled through a couple of words. As I have taken a few days to process the experience, here is where I stand:

• No matter how much I prepare a Torah portion I still get so overwhelmed by the actual act of read from the Torah that I do tend to stumble through words that I know. It really doesn’t have anything to do with nerves, per se, but rather I feel so emotionally connected to what I am doing that it overwhelms me. I’m not sure if this is something I want to go away, I just need to be able to pull myself back together to finish the service. Case in point: I forgot how to begin the melody for the after Haftarah blessing, something I know very well.

• A prepared sheet of Torah commentaries surrounding a specific topic in the portion can work better than a sheet with a range of topics. There was a lot I could have focused on in last week’s portion (Matot), but I really wanted to talk about the idea of vows and how words and language have power. Partially because that was the most compelling section for me, and partly because I wanted to avoid bringing up sexual activity (which would have been inevitable with the discussion of really why the Midianites were punished) because one of those in attendance was a soon-to-be 5th grader. It also helped me focus the discussion a little more. If I know going in that there is a lot that we can touch on I’m going to want to actually cover everything; allowing myself the focus of a few different ideas I think let the group really discuss in depth.

• I did decide to not chant the V’ahavta because I wanted to give the 5th-grader mentioned above a chance to follow along in the Hebrew. I tried to slow down the spoken prayers enough for her; as my former Hebrew student I know she has good reading skills so I wanted to give her a chance to test those out.

• A couple of technical things related to my particular temple building: I need to ask how to turn down (or off) the air conditioning in the library where we hold Torah study. It got so cold in there that halfway through we took our chairs out in front of the temple and finished our discussion there. I also need to leave plenty of time for copying the study sheet as the copier will inevitably give me fits. Luckily I did that this past week and had time to unclog the jam that didn’t want to unclog.

• In general I think everything flowed well. Having the post-its throughout my siddur helped me to keep moving without needing to pause and think about what is going on next. I had decided (in my head) on a few melodies before hand, but apparently in the heat of the moment I had something else in mind when it came to the actual singing. Oh, well. It all worked out. For the most part people sang along with me, which is good since I don’t have a particularly good voice and can’t always stay on key when I’m the loudest one. I’m really good at following someone else’s lead, though. Maybe next time I’ll make sure I have someone a little more musical along for the ride.

All in all it was a good experience. I enjoyed getting the chance to lead my community (or at least a small part of it) in prayer and I like the preparation that I had to put into it. It has, however, brought up the idea I've kicked around before about how the person who is leading prayers is able to truly pray themselves while at the same time pay attention to what is going on around them and to the needs of others. That is something for a future post, however.

The Barechu Is Not the "Call to Gossip"

I have a bit of a pet peeve when it comes to praying in temple: I usually like to pray uninterrupted. I understand that this can’t always be achieved and that sometimes services can be a bit rowdy depending on the people in attendance (ie. a family service with lots of children)*. However, I would like to issue a friendly note to those who enjoy chatting to me during prayer:

1. While I understand that you may be interested in the new person sitting down the row from us/the latest ongoings at the temple/the rabbi’s new haircut/the height of the grass that has just been cut outside, the middle of the Barechu/the Sh’ma/the Amidah/the Aleinu/the sermon/etc. is NOT the time to ask about this/bring them up for discussion.

2. If you are not here for a family service and you bring your children I think that is wonderful. However, they should be able to sit through the service without running in and out of the sanctuary multiple times. If you know they have attention issues or are going to be very antsy, please tell them that once they find themselves to be bored to quietly head to the babysitting room. I’m a firm believer in exposing our children to praying as an adult, but the fact of the matter is they are still children and shouldn’t be expected to sit quietly for an hour—there are plenty of adults who cannot.

3. If I choose a seat that is far from you or anyone else, please respect this. Do not constantly try and get me to move over to sit by you. I have chosen to sit by myself for reasons that I shouldn’t have to explain, but they can range from wanting quiet space, to wanting actual physical space, to the fact that I’ve grown sensitive to a number or perfumes and colognes as my allergies worsen.

4. If you do try and engage me in conversation and I give short answers and quickly turn my attention back to what is going on up on the bimah or in the siddur take this as an indication that you should not continue to talk to me.

5. If I have my eyes closed assume that I am trying to focus my attention inward or on God and that I wish to not be disturbed. I am not sleeping, but even if I was that doesn’t mean you should nudge me and wake me up.

Believe it or not, I usually come to temple to pray. There is a great time to catch up and socialize afterward at the Oneg, or even before** services begin. I don’t think any of this is too much to ask.

*I love family services, especially when my friends with small children are there, and don’t expect to be able to have the quiet time that I would on a non-family service night. I come to temple prepared for that and with the knowledge that I am gaining something different out of the experience. I do welcome all sorts of temple/prayer experiences, but even with the most rowdy and raucous services I expect a certain level of appropriate behavior from the adults.

**If you notice me sitting quietly before services with my eyes closed it can safely be assumed that I am preparing myself for prayer. Sometimes after a long and stressful week I need those moments of peace. It is nothing personal, and in fact, it isn’t about you at all.

And Let Us Say: Amen

My Friday began late as I relished the opportunity to sleep in, staying in bed until well past noon. I had no specific plans for my day off, I just knew that I didn’t want to take part in any 4th of July celebrations. Seven years ago the holiday was tarnished for me as I stood on the back deck at my sister and brother-in-law’s house in Lexington and silently watched the fireworks on neighboring hills, all the while knowing that the next day we were burying my sister. The only thing I wanted this year was a quiet Shabbat celebration as I marked my sister’s yahrzeit, fully aware that the guilt I carry surrounding her last months will not fade just because I say Kaddish.

I was a 21-year old college student, living 4 hours away from home, working hard at a very demanding higher educational institution, and trying desperately to figure out who I am. My dad had remarried when I was 14 and I had gained a stepsister 13 years my senior. We never lived in the same house, or even the same town. And as a young adult who did not see or hear from her father much while away at college, I was sometimes quite jealous of her. She had gone back to school to get a degree in nursing and all I could think about was that she was supposed to graduate the same year as me and I wanted my dad at my graduation. And then my junior year none of that mattered anymore.

I knew that attendance would be sparse on the 4th of July at my temple; even our rabbi was still out of town at camp. I was right. When I walked in there were 3 people plus the intern, soloist, and pianist. Eventually we gained 3 more, but we never quite got to a minyan, which is rare on a Friday. I waited for the couple, friends of mine, to choose their seats, and then I chose a seat far from them. It’s not that I don’t like them; on any other Friday I would have chosen to sit with them. But that night I wanted to be by myself, to truly delve into the emotion of the coming Shabbat and my feelings surrounding the anniversary of my sister’s death.

She got sick when I was a sophomore. Breast cancer, which had recently claimed the life of her grandmother. 30-years old, too young to need to fight this horrible disease, but she did it gracefully. I was there during her final chemo treatments the first time. We all went out afterwards and celebrated at a restaurant in Lexington. Unfortunately she wouldn’t stay well for long.

We began services singing Shalom Aleichem. Even though the sun had not yet set the sanctuary had a dimness to it; it had been raining that day, thunderstorms as if the sky was as emotional as I would be that night. There is a coziness, a warmth, that I find in the darkness of a thunderstorm, though it hasn’t always been that way. I used to be frightened of the thunder, the lightning, the wind. That night, however, I was far from that fear. I sat quietly, singing along with the melody that always seems to be bittersweet to me. Here we are welcoming guests, helping to bring in the wonder of Shabbat, but there always seems to be that edge of sadness to it, a knowledge that this too will be over, this wonderful respite in time, and we will move back into the ordinary hours of our lives.

Christmas break during my junior year brought the news that my sister would be marrying her longtime boyfriend in March. Everyone was happy; no one commented on the short timeline. She asked me to be a bridesmaid, but having grown uncomfortable years ago at even the thought of wearing a dress, I begged off, saying I’d read a prayer instead, design the program. I made the trip down for the weekend, celebrating with my family. She had a special wig for the ceremony, dyed the red that she had always liked her own hair to be. On Sunday I drove back to school, back to my life away from my family, away from her and the cancer.

As we moved into the Sh’ma and its blessings I began to feel a tightness in the back of my throat. Barechu et Adonai hamvorach. Praised be Adonai to who our praise is due. Baruch Adonai hamvorach l’olam vaed. Praised is Adonai to whom our praise is due now and forever. And then the Ma’ariv Aravim. Blessed are you Adonai our God, Ruler of the universe, whose word brings on the evening, whose wisdom opens the gates and with understandings changes the seasons... I could barely say the words, much less see them through the tears that had welled up in my eyes. I felt overwhelmed with the sense of God’s presence and with the sadness I felt at the absence of my sister’s. God creates day and night, rolls light away from darkness and darkness from light.

I chose to stay up at school again that summer, working in one of the offices as I had done the previous year. Mid June I went home for the weekend and went down to visit my sister. By this point the cancer had spread to her abdomen and her brain. She had been having frequent seizures and hospice would soon be called in. But that weekend she was alert and joking and joyous. My dad later told me that she hadn’t been doing well up until that point and afterwards she declined rapidly. I felt lucky to know that the last time I really saw her she was at her best. Two weeks later on a Sunday night I got a call that I should come home, that she wasn’t expected to make it through the next couple of days. I wanted to leave right then, but it was late in the evening already. So, I waited and left in the morning. That afternoon I watched my sister take her last breath, surrounded by her family, her mom, her husband, my dad and my other sister. I said goodbye. The next few days were a blur; arrangements to be made, a funeral in Lexington, burial in Northern Kentucky, reception at my dad’s in Cincinnati. It was hot and humid and I have 4 distinct memories while the rest is hazy at best. The clearest memory I have is standing in the cemetary and listening to my dad, a reserved man most of the time, talk about losing the woman who thought of him as her dad, who called him “papa.”

Saying the Sh’ma that night I felt as if I were truly offering up my heart, my soul. Hear O Israel! Adonai is our God, Adonai is One. The God who made the heavens, who brought on the evening, who gave us life, is our God and God is echad. One. Unique. Ineffable, as Heschel would say. My voice was reaching out, using these words as a path to God, not up or down, but who enveloped me that night. With my eyes closed I could feel the stillness around me and feel the reverberation of my own voice in my chest, something I have grown to love as I say the Sh’ma over the years, as if God is rumbling, answering back my call.

It was through the death of my sister that I began my exploration into Judaism. Not right away. First I railed at God, a God who I had been convinced I didn’t believe in, that is until I was angry enough to acknowledge Him. But it was that acknowledgement, that anger, that wholly emotional response, that gave me that push, that need, to find my spiritual home, which I did in Judaism. And in Judaism I finally found my way to mourn my sister properly.

The rest of the service passed in much the same emotional way. I was worn out, exhausted, as if my soul had run laps around the sanctuary the entire time, pounding the walls with its fists and crying out in fury, while finally collapsing into the waiting embrace of its Maker. All of this felt like it had happened inside and when we reached Kaddish Yatom I knew that I was ready to say the words that praise God.

Blessed, praised, glorified, exalted, extolled, mighty, upraised, and lauded be the Name of the Holy One. Beyond any blessing and song, praised and consolation that are uttered in the world. May there be abundant peace from Heaven and life upon us and upon all Israel.

I still feel sorrow at the loss of my sister. I still feel sadness when I think of my dad and step mom and her husband who all must live their lives with her palpable absence. I still feel the guilt that only a survivor can feel for not having done enough while she was still alive. And so I will continue to mark her yarhzeit, year after year. I will continue to say the words that praise God and all that God has made. Time may make the ache less pronounced, but as we concluded our prayers on Friday I realized that the mourning will go on and should go on and that it is okay because God is still there at the end of it all.

Pesach, Boards, and Siddurim–-Oh My!

First off, the Passover section post.

I love Passover, I really do. Until about 4 days in and them I am miserable. Which is, I believe, how I am supposed to feel.

That said, the sederim I attended this year were both quite excellent. The first night I was invited to my friend’s house for a meat- and dairy-free seder that was very fun. Another family from my temple and a co-worker of my friend’s husband were also in attendance, plus the children of both families. There was plenty of good food, good conversation, irreverent musings, and multiple haggadot which kept things interesting and thought-provoking. All in all, a ton of fun and I’m glad that I went.

The second seder I attended was the community seder at my temple. For the 2nd year in a row instead of having it catered a number of temple members and their families banded together and organized and cooked the entire meal. Last year was chaotic (due only partly to the power going out approx. 20 minutes in that caused my rabbi to scramble through the first part of the seder so that we could eat and get people out the door before it was too dark). But, this year, though a little bit nuts, seemed to go a bit smoother. There were some seating issues that caused some frustration amongst a few attendees (and that will probably lead to assigned seating next year), but from what I could tell people were enjoying themselves.

I got a number of comments from people this weekend about the fact that I’ve been nominated to join the board of trustees at my temple. I, personally, am very excited about joining the board. Not only is it quite an honor for someone my age to be asked, but I feel like it is my chance to really give back to the place that has given so much to me. I know that I benefit a lot from affiliating with my temple and I’m happy that beyond being a member and teaching I’ll be able to help out in a behind-the-scenes way as well. However, not every comment I heard about joining the board was a positive one. A couple of people made reference to “seeing a different side” of the temple, to temple politics, and the like. I understand that the world is not perfect, that finances and administration of things can cause frustration and the like and I’m very aware that I’ll be stepping into a different side of the congregation. But, that doesn’t mean it is going to be a negative experience, or that it should be, or that even if it has been in the past it needs to continue that way. What gets me the most is that these comments were coming from either current or soon to be ex-board members themselves! How do they expect things to be positive if they plant that bit of poison in the minds of new members before they’ve even begun?

In a somewhat related note, I am currently on the ritual committee and we met this past Monday to discuss whether or not we should recommend the new Reform siddur (Mishkan T'fila) to the board to purchase and adopt. It was a good discussion between the few committee members who were able to attend and our rabbi, and it brought up some reasonable concerns, mostly about the layout of the book. In the end we were unanimous in deciding to recommend the siddur, which I am very glad of. It will be interesting to hear about what the board says. I know of at least one board member (in fact, one who spoke negatively to me about being on the board) who is very opposed to the new siddur and will most likely vote against it based on the fact that any kind of change, to her, is negative. What gets me is that you wouldn’t find most board members at temple on a Friday night or Saturday morning on any kind of consistent basis (though or current president and president-elect are there nearly every week, along with a couple others who frequent once a month or so). I feel that the most strident objections to MT will come from people who don’t currently attend services more than a few times a year. To them it will be a difficult transition. But, to those of us who use Gates of Gray on a weekly basis there is no argument as to whether or not the new siddur should be adopted; it is a better siddur, far superior in language and options than Gates of Gray will ever be.

Reading Job, An Article, and the HHD (not related)

I've had a number of posts bouncing around in my head, but none of them have really formed into anything substantial, so I'm just going to dump them all into this one post so I can move on.

• This Thursday will began a 3 week adult education class at my temple titled "The Book of Job: Why and How Modern Jews Read This Ancient Text." I'm looking forward to it, not the least because I can actually attend the entire class (usually adult ed begins 30 minutes into the hour long Alef Hebrew class I teach). But, I'm also looking forward to it because my knowledge of the Nevi'im and Ketuvim is sorely lacking. So, to prepare myself for Thursday, last night I read the Book of Job. It took approx. 90 minutes and it was fascinating. I knew the basics of Job before reading it, but I don't think I ever knew that nearly the entire book is a conversation between Job and these 4 men. I am now even more eager to attend this class and to learn about what the heck it all means.
• I read an essay in the OU's online version of their publication recently that stirred up some frustration. The essay is titled "An Unintentional Intermarriage" and is written by a woman whose mother converted under the Conservative movement before the writer was born. In the past few years the writer has become more observant with her husband and has discovered that she is not really Jewish (according to the Orthodox), which in turn caused heartache on her part. My frustration grew not from the complete dismissal of all conversions not done under Orthodox auspices (though I do have a problem with it, that's a whole other can of worms), but rather from the idea that this woman, who had been actively involved in Jewish life for some 40 years, whose entire identity was that of a committed Jewish woman, would suddenly call her life into question. I think this situation created heartache where it need not have been and just reaffirms why, no matter how many mitzvot I observe, I doubt I'll ever consider myself anything but a Reform Jew.
• I have recently procured myself a copy of the Reform machzor (Gates of Repentance) and have on order from Amazon a copy of Reuven Hammer's book Entering the High Holy Days. Years ago when i first began attending services every week I was concerned that I didn't quite get the Jewish idea of prayer, so my rabbi recommended Hammer's Entering Jewish Prayer. I found it incredibly helpful and a wonderful resource; plus it was easy to follow and not over-written. I've decided that it is time I delve further into the prayers of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.
  

Living with Friday Night Live

This past Shabbat was another Friday Night Live in my congregation. I've mentioned a couple of times my feelings about Friday Night Live, but I do want to go into a little more depth here. When the phenomenon was first introduced to my congregation 5 years ago it was like this breath of fresh air. At that point we had two soloists, neither of whom were Jewish, who had been at the temple for over 30 years. They were both strong singers, but they had a style that really discouraged participation by the congregants. Add to that the fact that much of the music was slow and or overly dramatic, or just plain stale, and you find yourself not engaging with the service as much. As an effort to inject some life into our music we brought in the Friday Night Live band from HUC; basically a bunch of rabbinic students who were musical and who really knew how to use music to engage people in prayer. It was a tremendous evening, with a lot of singing, a lot of dancing, and a lot of heartfelt praying. Many of the students were being ordained that year, and having a band of rabbinic students is somewhat impractical anyway, as they all have student pulpits of their own. But, the following academic year introduced a regular Friday Night Live band to my temple. It was made up of mostly temple members who were either professional or amateur musicians, plus a local rabbi (who had been in that original band and had just been ordained) and our own intern.

That first year of Friday Night live services were still incredibly powerful. The band was small enough that it was unobtrusive and it didn't feel like a show. People participated, sang along, and really got into the new melodies and this new way to have kavanah. Unfortunately, though, after awhile the services became overly rowdy. Children were allowed to be noisy, to go in and out of the sanctuary, and in general, to be very disruptive. The band itself grew to the point that it no longer fit on the bimah and moved down in front of it on the floor. It was around this time that I began to dislike Friday Night Live services. It was too loud (the bass would regularly overwhelm any of the guitars or instruments playing melody), and it had morphed into almost a performance. I got the feeling that there were many people coming to temple not to pray, but rather to be entertained. I continued to attend, but my enthusiasm for the style had waned. I was always much more fulfilled by praying the next morning in our small and intimate Saturday service, which made me wonder if I just didn't like crowds when I pray. Except that I have found kavanah in a larger crowd just as I have found kavanah in the smaller services, so that wasn't it. It really came down to the performative aspects of Friday Night Live.

Now, I'm an opinionated person, and I'm not one to keep something to myself if it bothers me. I happen to have an excellent relationship with my rabbi, built, partially, on the fact that I have always been honest with what I think, whether it be something that happened at a service, or something that had to do with a Torah portion, or a Jewish custom. We have spoken many times on how you balance the need for something like Friday Night Live to engage people with the need to keep it a prayerful service and not devolve into a concert. And it truly is a balance. Do you put the band on the bimah? Do you put them to the side, off the bimah, but not in front? Do you ask the professional musicians to turn their volume down? Do you insist that people be responsible for their children just as much at this service as they would at any other?

This is something that is still being tweaked at my temple. On weeks that we have a Friday Night Live we usually have a Tot Shabbat the next morning; this allows parents who want to expose their kids to fun music to do so in an atmosphere that is more suited to their attention spans. Our Tot services have grown incredibly over the last few years, and it is a wonderful thing to see.

There has also been some experimentation with where to put the band. A few times they were partially on the bimah, and partially on the floor where the pianist and soloist usually stand. This brought the congregation back in closer but took the feeling way from the bimah-as-stage. It felt better, but it was a bit of a logistical nightmare, I believe. More recently the singers have sat in from of the bimah to one side, the musicians to the other side. This, however, has pushed the chairs in the congregation further away from the bimah (as was the case this past week). My rabbi commented that it took awhile for people to engage this week, and I really think it had to do with our physical proximity to the bimah. I, personally, felt removed, sitting just in the 2nd row. The fact that the musicians and singers were on our level combined with the fact that the seating was pushed much further back, made the space feel unbalanced and odd.

I am still on the fence with Friday Night Live. There are times when it feels right, when it clicks and it feels prayerful. There are others when I feel like I haven't attended a prayer service at all. I think it has potential to be a great form of worship, but I think it also has the potential to cause problems. If people only come for Friday Night Live and we don't have one between now and August, will they attend services? How will they learn to connect with other types of prayer? And if we make this style more prevalent, do we run the risk of alienating people who are not engaged with this type of music? When you are a small congregation that cannot hold 2 Shabbat services to provide for the needs of various constituencies, which do you choose? Do you need to choose? Is the compromise to mix things up each week? What is the final goal? Is it to have people attend Shabbat services every Friday night? Or is getting them there once a month good enough?

My rabbi has said many times that music can make or break a service, and I couldn't agree more. I find it much more difficult to engage, to step outside the keva and to find the kavanah when the music does not speak to me. I can do it, it is just harder to do so. But, maybe prayer shouldn't be easy. Maybe it shouldn't always be comfortable and maybe we shouldn't be able to just slip into it like an old sweatshirt. Perhaps sometimes the greatness of prayer is found in its challenges, in the words that seem to not grate, in the melodies that bore you, in the ideas that don't speak; transcending those problems and finding that kavanah, in engaging God in this eternal conversation is, perhaps, the point.

Finding the Kavanah

Last week was the conclusion of a 3 week adult education course at my temple on Jewish prayer. In the last session one woman raised the question about how people can feel more connected to the service; the woman is not a regular attendee of Friday night or Saturday morning services, though she is there occasionally and on the High Holidays and may attend services while away for the winter elsewhere. My rabbi’s immediate response is that with time and with familiarity with the service and a sense of community the keva of the service can turn into kavanah. For the people who only attend services a few times a year they likely will not find the prayers meaningful and will feel frustrated. Frequently people who only come on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur can be hear complaining about a lack of connection to the prayers and to the style of service. But if you have a good sense of what is going on the rest of the year you can appreciate the changes and the differences that happen during the Days of Awe.

Another rabbi friend of mine and I were discussing kavanah once and he asked me what I do when I don’t feel like praying. My response at the time was that I just don’t come to services; I didn’t understand why you should say a prayer if you don’t either a) believe it, b) understand it, or c) find it meaningful. I haven’t come completely full circle on this over the years, but I do understand the value in saying prayers even when you are not fully appreciative of what you are saying. On the nights I don’t feel connected to the words I am saying I still feel connected to God and to my community and am able to think about why I’m not finding something meaningful or what exactly is blocking my energy. And on the days when I am overwhelmed with spirituality and meaningfulness, that is when my comfort and familiarity with the words and order—the keva—that’s when my prayers are taken to the next level. There have been many times when I’ll notice a phrase, a word, or understand the Hebrew for the first time, and if I didn’t enter this prayer space each week and make an effort to connect to through the structure I wouldn’t have that opportunity.

In Everyman’s Talmud Abraham Cohen writes that “although the rabbis commanded the art of participating in the three daily statutory services, they were careful to demand that such devotions must not be allowed to degenerate into a mechanical and perfunctory performance.” This is an idea that I completely agree with but I think that people could view it as antithetical to the idea that kavanah follows keva; it could easily be said that saying things by rote in a service is only accessing the structure. But, I believe that you can appreciate the beauty of keva and still say the prayers with intention. I don’t believe that keva and intention are mutually exclusive and that if you connect to the structure and make yourself open to the possibility of kavanah, then your intention and your prayer is anything but mechanical. Perhaps you cannot always access that kavanah, but you give yourself that opportunity each time you enter into the Jewish prayer structure.

In the midst of all of this I began to think about the Friday Night Live phenomenon. I believe that it has been both a blessing and a curse to modern Judaism, and to Reform Judaism in particular. It is giving younger and/or disaffected Jews and entry point into the synagogue, but at the same time it is teaching them that this style of service and music are the only ways to truly have kavanah. When that style of service is not offered I think many people can feel disjointed, lost, or disconnected. But, how do you get them to commit to regular attendance without this enticement? (And when does the enticement become a gimmick and a show and stray from a true prayer community?) My rabbi brought up something during the class and during a conversation I had with him earlier in the week about how an individual’s attendance and commitment to the temple is good not only for just them but for the community at large–the energy I bring is good (or bad) for the people around me and vice versa. I think many people in modern Judaism are looking at their religious experience to be spiritually satisfying on an individual and personal level only. In Reform Judaism we value the idea of personal autonomy, but when it comes to building a community this can perhaps be taken too far. When you step into a synagogue you are no longer in an individual religious sphere–here your choices to attend and to try to connect to the prayers are part of a community and individual effort.

(cross-posted to JewsbyChoice.org)

Awareness of God

A couple of months ago I read Abraham Joshua Heschel's God In Search of Man. It was an amazing book and it gave me a lot to think about. I'm going to take the opportunity to share some of my thoughts I wrote out as I read the book.

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"Awareness of wonder is not the same as knowing the wonders that happen to us. Wonders happen without our being able to notice them." (p. 50)

Such is the awareness of the presence of God. Knowing that there is a God is not the same as feeling the presence of God in our daily lives. Do we seek out that feeling? You bet--I think that's what prayer is. God may always be around, but we are only aware of Him, or feel that awareness, at certain moments of our lives. Perhaps the awareness is always there, living inside of us and there are certain experiences, deed, or thoughts that can unlock this box of awareness (mitzvot) and bring it to the forefront of our consciousness. We must seek out these moments and create them–they will be rare if we simply sit back and wait for God to happen. The Jewish idea of God is a hard one--we must work for it, we must strive to bring about the moments of awareness–maybe this is why we are commanded to pray 3 times a day, to care for the sick and the poor, to honor our parents, etc. It is through mitzvot, however you define it (commandments, good deeds, etc.) that we give ourselves opportunities to experience God, but that can't be the initial reason behind our deeds. Our deeds must come from a place of giving and kindness; perhaps it is only through pure selfless acts that we bring about our awareness of God.

So, each time we worship it is an opportunity to unlock our awareness of God. Each time we sit down individually or with others to learn we give ourselves an opportunity to unlock that awareness. The same with our actions, our mitzvot.

And one we have experienced that awareness we will seek it out more and more. Will we alway feel it? Probably not, but I think we will feel other things–the growth of relationships, of our awareness of our own abilities and potential, an awareness of the world around us. Does all of this equal an awareness of God? Some might say yes. I don't think so, because an awareness of God is like experiencing all of that at once x1000. It is emotional and overwhelming and a magical moment.

I do think we get glimpses of it at other times, though. When I feel a surge of love for someone, or awe at the beauty of nature, or wonder at the vastness of the universe, this is my awareness of God sneaking out, touching me, allowing me to feel these things. And it is a gift.

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What happens when we seek God when He is not near? Does our seeking make God near? Does God withdraw when we do not seek Him? How must we seek God to make Him near? With an open heart and a mind open to the possibility of God–we can't approach God with a closed spirit and expect Him to respond. But, we also can't expect God to respond in terms we necessarily understand. What happens if God responds and is present and we are not aware of it? How long will He wait around for us until we become aware? Must we become aware on the level of "Ah-ha"? Or does god show up, patient, when you call out to Him, and stay with you as you journey towards awareness of His presence? I think it is a gradual awareness, at least it was for me. I call out for God at some point in my life and I might not have know I was even doing it. And at some point I became aware. Now, the huge question is, was God always there and just waiting for me to cry out? Or does God wait for us to seek Him? And what is the difference if each situation ends in awareness? Because how we got there is just as important, if not more so, than actually getting there. I'm going to get more out of a long, rambling journey through the country-side than a congested and straight-forward freeway, but for others the freeway is the best and most useful option. Each journey is different and God responds to them all. But does God respond differently?

We can read and learn and memorize all we want, but we must experience God to have faith.

Biennial, Day 3 (content observations part 2)

Workshop #2
Making the Journey from the Gates to the Mishkan
w/ Cantor Chanin Becker-Rosin of Scarsdale Synagogue-Tremont Temple in Scarsdale, NY; Rabbi Edwin Goldberg of Temple Judea in Coral Gables, FL; Diana S. Herman of Temple Emanu-El in Edison, NJ; and Rabbi Sheryl Nosan-Blank of Temple Or Rishon in Orangevale, CA

I was quite eager to attend this workshop as I was recently added to the Ritual Committee at my temple and one of the major things we will be undertaking in coming months is an evaluation of Mishkan T'filah.

So, from my notes:
• it's an opportunity to look at the larger worship picture
• how do you address the differences?
• how do you introduce it appropriately?
• it is important to recognize that we all come w/ our own framework
• do you transition or just jump in and use it?
• offer different opportunities for groups to look at the pages, think and talk through the different options during the service--->get them into the siddur, the prayers, and the thinking
• introduce through chavruta study
• remind people that prayer is about an approach to God, not the book itself
• use familiar melodies to keep people feeling comfortable*
• use niggunim to connect texts
• start out with the linear service option and move to the choices as people become more comfortable with the book

*The example they used was for the morning blessing for the soul (Elohai n'shama....); the cantor (who, by the way, had one of the most striking and rich voices I've ever heard) sang the familiar melody as we either read through the English translation together, then sang along with her, then read the two alternate english readings.

One of the major points brought up is that congregations should probably transition gradually; don't just jump into the new siddur so that you alienate people, but don't resist it just because it is new. I hadn't realized that there were 2 linear services available (Shabbat evening and morning), so I think that will definitely help; the spread format can be difficult to get used to, but after using Mishkan for a number or services at the Biennial I felt quite comfortable with the format. The moderators brought up the point that people will know to turn the page or that the prayer is done because of the final line of Hebrew that comes up (even on the English sections), though I forget the term they used for it.

Someone in the audience asked the question of what do we do with our old siddurim. One of the suggestions was to donate them to a congregation that cannot afford siddurim at all (such as congregations in poor cities/towns/countries, new congregations, etc.). Another suggestion was to contact the families or individuals who purchased a book (or books) and see if they would like them (and also see if they would like to donate to the fund for the new book).

I heard some mumblings from people about how they assumed we'd be getting more concrete ideas about the actual transition, but I thought the dialogue was fairly helpful. And to be honest, I don't think enough congregations have begun using it to have a truly concrete method that will work, in addition to the fact that each congregation is unique.

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After the workshop I sat and chatted with a new acquaintance from Tennessee whose wife is a first-year student at HUC; I hope to keep in touch with them because he had a lot of interesting things to say, both about Mishkan and Reform practice in general.

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Friday evening was, of course, Shabbat services at what SRK referred to as "Beit Jumbo-tron." Coming from a congregation of approx. 250 families, I'm not used to ever being at services with more than 500 people (and that's just HHD), so 5000 people was fairly overwhelming. The 4 of use from my temple just followed SRK like little ducklings through the aisles, trying to stay together, finally getting 5 seats together at the end of two rows.

So, the service itself... it was okay. Everyone told me before I left for the Biennial that Shabbat services would just be so powerful and that "hearing 5000 Jews all saying the Shema at the same time will just take your breath away." And yes, it was pretty cool to be praying with a ton of people who truly wanted to be there and weren't there out of some feeling of obligation. But, truth be told, I attend a small temple for a reason. The intimacy of know most, if not all, of the people around me is much more powerful for me than a large hall of people. But, for the most part I thought it was a decent service. The Sh'lichei Tzibur (service leaders) were pretty decent (Rabbi Donald M. Goor of Temple Judea in Tarzana, CA and Cantor John M. Kaplan of Temple Israel in Memphis, TN) and the music was okay. The feel of it was just... off. I think a lot of it has to do with the large screens, which I totally understand the need for since the room was o large and no seats were raised up; for people who need connect visually to the service leader, the screens are a necessity. That said, people should probably learn how to behave with them a little better for services. Anytime people would see themselves on the screen (if the cameras panned out over the congregation) they would point and wave and generally act like they were on the jumbo-tron at the ballgame.

I'll have more comments about actual worship styles with the Shabbat morning post.

Go here for an interesting article about the mega-church feel of Shabbat at the Biennial (and of Reform practice in general). For some good discussion of this article, go here.

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After services we went to the regional Shabbat dinner; I was a little annoyed because when signing up for the dinner you are asked for food allergies. I have an allergy to most orange foods (it's odd and I don't know really anyone else who has it), probably because of the beta-carotene, but whatever it is I can't eat things like carrots and pumpkin and sweet potatoes. So, I put those allergies down (listing very specific foods, not just "no orange food") and my meal ticket said "Chicken-S," the "s" standing for special. First off, I had to pick the shredded carrots out of my salad. I usually don't like to do this since I seem to always miss some, but I wasn't going to complain because seating wasn't assigned. However, when they were bringing food out they forgot that I needed a special plate and I was given one with a ton of cooked carrots mixed in with the other veggies. I pointed out to my server that my "special" was b/c of an allergy to carrots. So, they took the plate away and then took 20 minutes to bring me a new one, during which time everyone else at my table finished their meals and SRK decided to move things along a bit with the servers; they claimed they need to go all the way back to the kitchen for it, which is why it took so long. However, when they did bring me something, it was the exact same meal, with about 3 fewer carrots. I just didn't eat any vegetables that night because I had a feeling if I didn't take that plate I'd get to eat dinner as everyone else began benching.

My frustration is on 2 levels here: if you are going to ask about food allergies you should actually use the information. Secondly, my food allergy, while not so severe that I was going to have my airway close up just by being in the presence of a carrot, is still an allergy that makes me quite uncomfortable but was obviously not taken seriously by those in charge of the food. Had my allergy been to nuts I can assure you that I would not have received a plate in the first place with the allergy-causing substance on it, and certainly not if I had pointed it out. I have a feeling they were just assuming that I didn't like carrots (which isn't true; I love carrots and hate the fact that I can't eat them).

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After dinner was the Shabbat Song Session, which was pretty awesome. Lots of great singing and lots of energy. Then we headed up to hear the Michelle Citrin and the Josh Nelson Project, both of who were amazing. I highly recommend checking out their music.

Then it was back to the hotel and collapsing into bed.

Biennial, Day 3 (content observations part 1)

Day 3 at the Biennial began w/ services outdoors ("God is in This Place..." Finding God and Ourselves Outside the Sanctuary led by Rabbi Daniel Gottlieb of Kol Ami in Thornhill, ON, and Cantor Micah Floryn Morgovsky of North Country Reform Temple-Ner Tamid in Glen Cove, NY. I did not get as much energy from it as I had the day before with the singing service, but it was okay. It was a little too chilly to be outside, but the sky was spectacular and the sunrise was beautiful. The tenor of the service itself did not really suit my particular preferences, having one cantor with a voice that was good but show-y, and awkward congregant participation. I would also like to point out that I need to figure out how I feel about the silent Amidah repetition. In my home temple we do not do this, so whenever I am in a service where it is customary I feel somewhat awkward with my prayer. I think part of it is the time allotted does not seem to really give people a chance to go through the prayers fully or with any kind of consciousness. Every time I have encountered the silent Amidah it has been stated that when you are done you should sit down. I get very distracted by this, seeing other people finishing, wanting to hurry along myself. I have never been able to fully connect to praying this way any time I've done it.

On another point: while the title of the service suggested that we were leaving behind the sanctuary, in my opinion, we did not. Yes, we were outside instead of in, so there were no walls or ceiling. But, there were still chairs lined up in sections and rows, there was still a microphone and podium. It felt no different in many ways than being in doors. While the sunrise and the sky were gorgeous, I did not feel like we were really leaving a traditional sanctuary setting. If we had gone down to the water or onto a beach, perhaps it would have felt more removed from the traditional setting. Or if they had taken away the chairs. I don't know, but after attending the workshop the day before about finding spirituality in nature, I expected more. This was simply a change of location, not a change of setting, if that makes any sense.

(A sidenote: there were usually 4 morning services to choose from, including one focused on meditation, one on yoga, one for women, one for men, one all in Hebrew, etc.)

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Workshop #1
Think Globally, Act Locally: Dialoguing with Christians and Muslims about Israel
w/ Rabbi Meir Azari, Rabbi Paul Golomb, Ethan Felson, and Rabbi Peter Knobel

I really enjoyed this workshop despite being a row directly in front of a bunch of NFTY kids who were obnoxious and loud and rude the entire time (though I did, at one point, turn around and say "you might not be here to listen and learn, but the rest of us are, so BE QUIET").

From my notes:
• "Clergy are the necessary evil in dialogue."
• When we engage in dialogue w/ Christians we use Christian terminology/language (ie. the 10 "Commandments" being displayed in government space)
• We need to express our commonalities, but more importantly we must get to our differences to come to grips with them!
• The Holy Land: what do we mean by this? What is holy? (Torah, people, Shabbat)
---Torah: we stay far, physically from it, only use it w/ strict rules
---Shabbat: we rest, we do what we don't do the rest of the week
---Holiness is that which is antithetical to the norm
• The idea of what the "Holy" in "Holy Land" means for each group MUST be discussed.
• In what way is Jerusalem holy? It can't be assigned in the same was we usually assign the word holy.
• The use of "Holy Land" by evangelicals and protestants is very different than how we think of the word holy (I wish I had more on this, but I think at some point I stopped writing so I could just listen).

One of the major things brought up was the fact that we cannot discuss Israel w/o discussing Zionism and we need to go into the conversation w/ Muslims not expecting to change their minds about Zionism. One of the rabbis was from Israel and he really brought home exactly why we must have conversations with people about Israel, and why we must be committed to it even if we disagree with some policies.

Biennial, Day 2 (content observations)

I began my 2nd day in San Diego at Shiru L'Adonai, a service in song. It was lead by Rabbi Ethan Franzel from Main Line Reform Temple Beth Elohim in Wynnewood, PA, and Cantor Kay Greenwald from Congregation Beth Am in Los Altos, CA. It was a spectacular way to begin my day and is one of the most moving services I have ever participated in. There is something about singing that makes me feel so much more connected to God, to my spirituality, and to the people around me. It was truly excellent and invigorating. I felt so much better about going into the day and into the workshops than I had on Wednesday. It helped that I got some sleep (and oh, the beds in the hotel were great) and just felt much more human than I had the day before.

Some general observations:
• I can apparently catch onto melodies fairly fast when hearing them for the first time.
• The ratio of tallit- and kippot-wearers is much higher to non-wearers than I have ever seen outside a Conservative or Traditional shul.
• I really enjoyed using Mishkan T'Filah (more on this later), despite some previous troubles with the draft copies in other congregations I've visited.
• I was sitting with a rabbinic student I know and during Hakafa I did not move towards the aisles to kiss the Torah and declined the offer of her tzitzit saying that "I'm a student of SRK's," though it does go deeper than that (also more on this later). She thought that was amusing.
• I seem to be in the minority of people at the Biennial who does not bow during Barechu or the Amidah; I bow only during Aleinu when it literally says "we bow."
• I'm getting used to hearing Torah chanted, though I still like the read-and-translate tradition of my own congregation.

I cannot overstate the positive nature of the service and how much I loved beginning my day that way. As I was putting away my tallit, I turned to the rabbinic student next to me and said "this is why it would be great to have a daily Reform minyan in my city." I really would love to get one going, somehow.

After services I was meeting the 3 women from my congregation who were attending the WRJ part of the Biennial. We sat and listened to Rabbi Daniel Freelander and MK Menachem Ben-Sasson speak about Israel and its importance, which was very interesting. Then after a quick call to SRK to plan lunch, it was off to my first workshop of the day.

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Workshop #1
Reform Reforms Shabbat w/ Rabbi Deborah Bronstein from Congregation Har Hashem in Boulder, CO; Art Grand from Temple Or Rishon in Orangevale, CA; and Iris Petroff from Temple Society of Concord in Syracuse, NY.

This was a great workshop. I am very interesting in moving towards a more observant Shabbat, even if it isn't in the traditional sense of observance. We heard a lot about what each of the panelists have done to increase both their personal Shabbat observances and those of their families and/or fellow congregants.

From my notes:
• Shabbat is like entering the color section of the Wizard of Oz, but we have to know how to enter.
• Add a new ritual each year.
• There are moments in our lives when a commandment (mitzvah) suddenly addresses us.
• Find some way to make the day different.
• Finding the discipline---not seeing Shabbat as part of the list you need to put off
• Congregations helping everyone who wants to attend a Shabbat dinner does
• Dinner & Davening: have pre-Shabbat dinners (at Temple or not) that are not religious-school based
• Shabbat is about re-juvenation, re-creating, and re-connecting
• Have conversion candidates commit to keeping Shabbat in some way during the year(s) that they are studying. Helps instill a sense of connection to the day and observance that they did not grow up with, were never commanded to do before.
• Put a table cloth on the table, a sheet over the TV or desk
• Have a specific food that becomes your "taste of Shabbat."
• Cineplex?

My thoughts wandered a little bit during the session to what we can do at my congregation to get more people to attend Torah study and services on Saturday morning.
• have Torah studies led by lay people and/or groups (such as Sisterhood) more frequently
• have a "Saturday Morning Live" program where we have good music that draws people in (not just a guitarist for Tot Shabbat)
• read Torah on Friday night once a month to give people a taste of what we have on Saturday morning, a connection to the Torah that they are not getting.

I was very interested in Rabbi Yoffie's Shabbat morning sermon as much of it had to do with ways to reinvigorate Shabbat in our congregations. I hope to have some conversations with my rabbi and other members of my congregation about Shabbat and how we can make it better at our temple.

In general I felt like I had some new ideas for how I can personally begin to observe Shabbat more. As it is I attend services on Friday night and Saturday morning, but beyond that I think it is difficult for those of us who are single adults with no Jewish family as so much of Shabbat observance seems to be centered around the home and the family. So, perhaps I will need to become more creative with what is a meaningful Shabbat observance for me. Plenty to chew on, to be sure.

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After lunch I attended a forum titled What's Spirituality Got to Do With It: Ritual, Worship and Mysticism. The panelists were Rabbi Zoe Klein, Rabbi Lawrence Kushner, and Rabbi Arnold J. Wolf. It was a very interesting panel that I wish I could have gotten a little more out of, but as I had a massive headache for a good portion of it, I wasn't as focused as I would have liked to be.

From my notes:
• Are we afraid of holy moments? Rabbi Klein says that rabbis are especially afraid of holy moments (making jokes, etc.).
• Is the seeking of holy moments a kabbalistic idea? Why not just a Jewish idea?
• Love=reverence for mystery
• to be in awe of what is hidden beneath the veil is to be mystified
• Why are we now so attracted to spirituality?
• spirituality is soaring above the politics and every day bits of religion
• God is found in the details (Rabbi Wolf)? Isn't God also found in significant moments? Why not both?**
• Rabbi Wolf claims that spiritual seekers don't understand the nitty gritty of everyday religion (which is what he would prefer); I don't agree with this. As someone who is a spiritual seeker and who sees the beauty of religion I feel you can be both.

**My response a few days later:
What defines a "big" or "significant" moment? If we find God in the small details, does that not elevate the moment to significance? How actively can we pursue significant encounters with God? Is it possible to try too hard? Is it possible to miss the significant moment happening even as we are looking for it? What happens when we miss too many encounters with God?

I truly believe that I find God in so many different moments that there is no way I can even be aware of each one, but I don't think that's a bad thing. I think that on some level I am aware and it helps me in those moments when I am truly in need of God's presence. I think that even when I am not aware, God is.

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Workshop #2
Spiritual Pathways Through Nature with Rabbi Michael Comins of Torah Trek.

The notes I took were sketchy, so I don't have a lot to write below, but I enjoyed the workshop. I'm not personally very into meditation, but I do love to experience God in nature and in the beauty of natural things. I find my breath taken away sometimes when I look at a summer sky full of luscious clouds and can't help feeling that God connection.

He taught us a couple of ways that he helps people connect to their Judaism on the trails, much of it having to do with breathing and mindfulness, being aware of what is going on around you, and at that moment bringing a prayer into the mix, be it a traditional Jewish prayer, or one that is from your heart.

Rabbi Comins spoke about finding God in nature, finding a sanctuary that does not have walls, and how we are able to us Jewish prayer to feel more connected to the natural.

He spoke a lot about I-Thou receptiveness=mindfulness. In I-Thou you take in the whole and you respect and there is a moral dimension---whatever the "thou" requires is what you require of yourself.

Mystical connection:
• you feel the light of God, the energy of God in nature
• make yourself like an empty vessel so that God may fill it up
• being mindful means you are making room for God and a spiritual moment
• we are less likely to have a God-experience when we go right into the book (siddur); using music takes us back to the right side of the brain, the emotional side; better for mindfulness--we can use this by way of chanting in nature
• but can we also bring mindfulness and these techniques into the synagogue?

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So, that was the main content of Day 2. I'll post more personal observations in different post, including what I did in the evening. The 2nd day was definitely a good day.

On Words

A couple of weeks ago I attended services at a local Conservative shul. My synagogue does not have Saturday services during July due to a variety of circumstances, and while I miss going to my own temple, I do enjoy shul-hopping for 4 weeks. It gives me a better sense of where I am in my Jewish journey, where I want to go, and why. It keeps things fresh, though I am always more than happy to return to my home congregation.

Anyway, two weeks ago I figured I'd check out on of the Conservative shuls in town, picking the largest one where I new a few people (who, unfortunately would not be there that morning). Shacharit began at 9 and I got there promptly at 8:55, took a seat in the back row, and put on my tallit. There were maybe 25 other people there at that point, but by 9:15 another 15 had arrived and by 10:30 there were at least 100/150. Now, I've been to a Traditional shul before, and I know the pace is quick, and while my Hebrew is decent for just beginning in it 3 years ago, it's not to the point that I can follow quickly with silent Amidah. So, between that and the constant need to get up to let people in and out of my row, I found the first half of the morning fairly frustrating. I'd like to get a point in my Hebrew fluency where I can reasonably follow along with the silent Amidah and still get some spiritual meaning from it. I know there is a school of thought which holds that you just have to say the words and meaning comes later; I've always been of the mindset that the meaning and the feeling should be present as I say the prayer. A friend of mine (our previous rabbinic intern and newly minted rabbi in his own right), asked me once what I do when I don't feel like praying at services. I told him that I just don't come. If I'm not going to get something from my recitation of the words, I'm not going to say them. I'm not going to risk them losing their meaning for me. Words are incredibly powerful for me, especially in prayer and they should not be taken lightly or said just to be said. For one, I don't think God wants that; granted I don't know what God wants, but I can't imagine the God I believe wanting me to say words that are supposed to praise and exalt him if I don't mean them right at that moment. I would think that is akin to lying to God.

So, back to two Saturdays ago. I did get to hear the entire Torah portion chanted, though I was frustrated that no translation was read. While I'm sure there were people in attendance who understood what was being chanted and could translate as they heard it, I could not. I followed along in the Chumash with the Hebrew and was fully expecting a translation at some point, but none came for the Torah portion or the Haftarah. I point out again how this can hold any meaning for the people who are not fluent in biblical Hebrew. I think there is obvious merit in hearing the portion read (or chanted) aloud in Hebrew; I personally love that, and I love to read Torah myself. But you know what else I love? I love knowing what I'm reading/hearing. I love the learning that goes with it. And trying to follow along in the English while the Hebrew is read/chanted, well, that's just frustrating and takes away from both tasks. So you might have to sit in shul for an extra 20 minutes to hear the translation. So what? I would do it.

Musaf was much more my pace and I was getting into the swing of things just as the 3 and a half hours of Shabbat morning services was coming to an end. Oh, well.

Things that bothered me:
--Veiled comments from people around me about my own home congregation; nothing overtly mean or negative, but it was under the surface--comments like "oh, you go to ______? Well, this must be like a whole new world for you!" Um, thanks, but no. It's still a Jewish service with the same general structure and prayers. I'm not an idiot and my Reform temple is not a church.

--The aforementioned non-translation of the Torah and Haftarah portions.

--The way people wandered in throughout the morning, chatted with each other, got up, moved around, and in general were distracting.

Things that I liked:
--Getting to hear the entire portion, chanted.

--Getting to test my Hebrew knowledge.


All in all, an okay experience. It helped me realize a few things about my own prayer style and preferences while at the same time exposing me to a different way of doing things. Do I wish we used more Hebrew in services at my temple? You bet. Do I wish more people would learn to read Torah? Heck yeah. Do I wish that more people would learn to lead services. Definitely. Will I give up on the Reform movement and my temple? Nope. Reform Judaism is my home, spiritually and idealogically. I would love to see some more traditional practices both adopted and/or accepted. I would love to see Reform Jews with a greater range of observance and for those who don't observe mitzvot to not be critical of those who do and vice versa.

That's all for today.

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A quick explanation to why I'm here:

After more than 4 years on LJ and the loss of a good friendship closely linked with it, I have found myself drifting from it. A friend suggested starting up a new LJ, under a new name, but I think it might be time to start blogging elsewhere. I'll probably still keep the old one, just to keep in touch with other friends, but I think it will be good for me to move on.

So, what will this blog be about? Mostly my ramblings about being a Reform Jew who is interested in observance and Torah and learning. I may add in other boring details from my life, but we'll see.

My goal is to post weekly on my thoughts, about what is happening locally, either at my Temple or in the community; about my own spiritual journey; about what is happening in Israel; about what I am learning. Hopefully I'll stick to that and maybe post a little more. We'll see.