Reform Judaism

A Call For A Moratorium On Shabbat Weddings

2010-08-26T18:55:33Z

by Rabbi Leon A. Morris
Temple Adas Israel, Sag Harbor, NY
(Originally posted on The Jewish Week)

The recent wedding of Chelsea Clinton and Marc Mezvinsky has triggered a spate of articles about interfaith marriage, rabbinic officiation, co-officiation with Christian clergy and the like. Considerably less attention has been focused on the fact that the wedding took place on a Saturday before nightfall. Perhaps this was deemed less newsworthy because it has become so commonplace. I'm asking myself whether the most publicized Shabbat wedding in American Jewish history might have the unintended consequence of questioning anew the propriety of performing weddings on the Sabbath.

The need for Shabbat is greater now than ever before. Folks from widely divergent population segments are beginning to reclaim the Sabbath in a variety of ways. There are the hundreds of secular Israelis gathering at the Tel Aviv port to welcome Shabbat with prayer, poetry and song. There are the innovative hipsters of the Shabbat Manifesto declaring a "national day of unplugging," inspiring thousands of individuals to "put down their cell phones, stop their status updates on Facebook, shut down Twitter, sign out of e-mail and relax." A best-selling book on the Sabbath was published this past spring that prompted several stories in The New York Times about the reconsideration of the Sabbath. Families are looking for ways to connect with each other, and to re-institute the family dinner at least once each week. The time is ripe for us to be more strident in our embrace of Shabbat, particularly in the public domain.

In addition, our increasing environmental awareness reminds us of our own place in the larger universe. Deciding to officiate at Saturday weddings after 6 p.m. is not only arbitrary but represents a kind of environmental hubris in which human beings think that they have the power to make the stars appear earlier. With all of our human knowledge and advancement, we still cannot cause the sun to set. We experience awe of the cosmos when we make ourselves subject to time that lies beyond our control.

The prohibition of marriage on Shabbat is a rabbinic ordinance connected to the concern that the ketubah might be written on Shabbat. It is based upon the notion that traditional Jewish marriage is a form of kinyan (acquisition). To be sure, rabbinic sources from as early as the 12th century have in fact permitted weddings to take place in particular circumstances and under emergency situations on Shabbat. But Shabbat weddings in contemporary Jewish life today are not the unusual circumstance but rather de rigueur.

And while Reform rabbis may not be particularly concerned with writing, and do not view contemporary marriage as a form of kinyan, there are hosts of additional ways in which today's weddings, with their lavish array of photographers, florists, musicians, and caterers, are even more clearly incompatible with the sanctity of Shabbat.

In 1976, the question was raised with the Responsa Committee of the Central Conference of American Rabbis, the Reform rabbinical association. In a strongly worded responsum, the committee upheld the traditional prohibition on performing weddings on Shabbat. It noted that Shabbat weddings would weaken a revived effort within the Reform movement to deepen and intensify Shabbat observance, and went even further to discourage all Saturday evening weddings, even when held after dark, because "they involve preparations on Shabbat which are not keeping with the spirit of rest and holiness of Shabbat."

While we might expect a wholesale rejection of the notion of kinyan in contemporary marriage, thereby opening up the possibility of Shabbat weddings, the Reform Responsa committee's most interesting objection was anchored in this very notion. The committee recognized the economic considerations of marriage -- such as property rights and insurance benefits -- as aspects of kinyan that continue to this day and asserted that these constitute transactions inappropriate for Shabbat.

The boldest line in that 1976 responsum that sums up the committee's objection to Shabbat weddings is that "we prefer to give allegiance to a hallowed tradition rather than to honor mere convenience."

Shabbat is aspirational. It includes both the aspect of zachor (remembering the Sabbath), of honoring the day by what we do, as well as the aspect of shamor (keeping the Sabbath), honoring the day by what we refrain from doing. Yes, the overwhelming majority of Jews who ask us to marry them do not mark Shabbat in ways that curtail their activities. But people look to us to represent for them Judaism's highest religious aspirations. Our mission is to make our best attempt to represent the ideal. Our role as religious leaders presents us with opportunities to model what it means to take time seriously, to honor a day, to live in symbolic ways that speak to the kind of Jewish world we would like to see and are committing ourselves to creating.

Let's be as willing to defend the power and potential of Shabbat as we are about defending the right of couples to decide the precise hour and day of their wedding. I call on my fellow Reform rabbis (and cantors) to declare a moratorium on Shabbat weddings.

My Summer of Remembering

2010-08-24T17:34:59Z

by JanetheWriter
Originally posted on JanetheWriter Writes...

With my mother's death earlier this summer, I've become my family's "Keeper of the Yahrzeit List." So, while some of my friends may be having a summer to remember, I seem to be having a summer of remembering.

First it was Grandma, my mother's mother, whose yahrzeit falls on July 25th. She's in my heart always, and in my writing frequently. You can read some of my reminiscences and reflections about her here and here and here.

Next was Uncle Irv's yahrzeit on August 7th. He too has been the subject of my musings.

Tonight is Tante Mina's yahrzeit. My sister Amy is named for her -- Leah Meryl -- but I didn't know anything more, so I asked Aunt Claire, my mother's sister. Here's what she had to say:

Tante Mina was a cousin. I don't know how she was related. She was a very short lady and we always used to measure our height against hers. At a very young age we found ourselves taller than her. To know her was to love her because she was so sweet and kind. She was widowed at an early age. I never knew her husband. She was rather poor, and as she got older she arranged to go to a Jewish home for the aged. She was very happy there; she loved the arts and crafts classes and also volunteered to feed those people in the home who were unable to feed themselves. She was a "gutte neshumah," a good soul. We try to remember her because there is no one else to do so.

And so it is that earlier tonight I lit a yahrzeit candle (that's it up there on the right) for Tante Mina. As I think about her on her yahrzeit, may her memory -- like those of so many others -- be a blessing.

A few days later, I received this email from my Aunt Claire:

Dear Jane,

Brian and Carolyn are here for a few days. I was showing Carolyn some old family pictures and came across this one of Tante Mina, which I scanned and am sending to you as an attachment. In the picture, which is dated 1959, Tante Mina (at age 80) received some kind of honor at the Home of the Daughters of Jacob. She is standing with Abe Ribicoff (at the mike), who was the governor of Connecticut at that time, and later became Secretary of Health, Education and Welfare, in President Kennedy's Cabinet.

Since we just spoke about her a few days ago, I thought that you might like this picture.

I am not sure of my scanning ability, so let me know whether you receive the attachment intact.

Shabbat shalom and love,
Aunt Claire

In fact, the first version of the photo she sent did not come through, but as you can see, the second one most certainly did.

Not only am I pleased to see this photo of Tante Mina, but I am most impressed with the computer technology skills and persistence of my aunt!

The Ineradicable Record

2010-08-05T20:21:10Z

by JanetheWriter

Ten weeks ago, I became a mourner. I was especially interested therefore to see today's 10 Minutes of Torah in which Rabbi Sarason details the provenance of each of the readings that precede the kaddish in Mishkan T'filah.

Yes, the various texts read from the pulpit each week do provide a certain measure of comfort--some more than others--but I find myself especially (and repeatedly) drawn to these meditative words from Rabbi Sidney Greenberg, which are found in Grief in Our Seasons: A Mourner's Kaddish Companion:

Death can only take from us what might have been. It cannot take from us what has already been. It cannot rob us of our past. The days and years we shared, the common adventures and joys, the "little nameless acts of kindness and of love"--all these are part of the ineradicable record. Death has no dominion over them.

In its simple eloquence, this passage reminds me of many, many cherished times. Most of all, though, Rabbi Greenberg's words remind me that no matter how many different ones I bring to mind (and, thankfully, there are a lot!) death has no dominion over them. Right now, such reminders are a comfort indeed.

Funeral Fiascos: Should Jews Rethink How We Honor the Dead?

2010-07-21T16:12:01Z

by Rabbi Eric Yoffie
Originally posted on the Huffington Post

A friend of mine recently attended the funeral of someone he had known for many years. About a dozen people got up to speak. Most of them spoke badly. Often the eulogizers ended up talking not about the deceased but about themselves. When the funeral was finally over, at least an hour and a half later, my friend was frustrated and angry. "I cared about this person," he said, "and she deserved a more fitting farewell."

Jewish funerals have changed in the last several decades, and not always for the better. Some of the changes were both understandable and welcome. At a time when all ritual was becoming less formal, Jews wanted funeral services that were more personal, intimate, and heartfelt. Therefore, when a death occurred, instead of calling on the rabbi for the eulogy, a close member of the family -- perhaps a child or sibling of the deceased -- was sometimes called upon to say a few words.

So far, so good. I have frequently been deeply moved by the eloquence of a daughter speaking of her father at his funeral, sharing memories and experiences with power and immediacy that no other speaker could possibly provide. A family member or close friend is often in a position to do what a member of the clergy cannot.

But once this door was opened, a variety of difficulties came into play. Family members discovered that when a close relative died, there was an expectation that one of them would speak -- even if they had no desire to do so. Since Jewish burials take place as soon as possible after the death, individuals still reeling from the impact of a loss find themselves under pressure -- real or self-imposed -- to talk at the funeral and represent the family to the community. Some refuse and feel guilty. Others agree but find the task difficult and painful. Either way, an unfair burden is imposed on those who are in profound distress.

Another problem -- delicate but unavoidable -- is that not everyone is suited to offer a eulogy at a funeral. The issue is not whether a mourner has public speaking experience or can give a polished talk; the absence of experience and polish is often an advantage. But someone who is uncomfortable in front of a group under favorable circumstances is likely to be completely overcome in the highly charged atmosphere of a funeral. The result may be a talk that is exceedingly emotional and barely coherent -- one in which the feelings of the speaker rather than the character of the deceased are primary.

And finally the practice of having family members and friends speak at a funeral can quickly get out of hand. The spouse of the deceased, not certain whom to invite and afraid of leaving someone out, feels that all of her children, or perhaps even all of her grandchildren, should say something. Friends, seeing that other friends are participating, come forward and offer -- sometimes quite insistently -- to participate as well, and it is awkward to turn them down. Many end up sharing anecdotes that are more about themselves than about their late friend, and -- yes, it happens -- trying to outdo the other speakers. The result? A funeral like the one mentioned above that leaves the members of the congregation both uncomfortable and bored, shifting in their seats and surreptitiously looking at the watches. Most important, the closest relatives cannot help but sense what is happening, and they suffer as a result.

As we know from Abraham's lament over Sarah and David's over Saul and Jonathan, the primary purpose of a eulogy -- in Hebrew, hesped -- is to praise the deceased. Whether one does so in simple, direct language or in elegant, poetic form, it is these words of praise -- spoken from the heart -- that help the mourners cope with their pain. Funeral services that are endless and multiple eulogies that are self-serving, inappropriate, or badly prepared dishonor the dead and deny the living the support and comfort that they deserve.

Most funeral services are not like that, of course, and every rabbi that I know is exquisitely sensitive to the problems that I have mentioned. Nonetheless, I fear that cultural patterns are creating pressures that are hard to resist, and in the last few years I have attended far too many funerals that have left me distressed and even indignant rather than consoled. My fear is that if we do nothing, this sort of funeral will become the norm. Before that happens, let's give some thought to how we remember and honor the departed.

Daughter of Diana...Daughter of Zelophehad

2010-06-30T16:03:00Z

by JanetheWriter

Today marks the 30th day of shloshim for my mother and so tonight I will remove for the last time the kriah ribbon I have worn on my left lapel each day (except Shabbat) since her funeral on June 1. Although this external symbol of mourning will no longer be visible to me or to the world, the pain of my loss still burns sharply in my heart as I, ever conscious of the responsibilities that are now mine, ease back into living my life.

A stalwart feminist and a devoted student of Torah who marked the seasons of her life in Jewish time, my mother would, I think, be pleased to know that the end of shloshim corresponds to Pinchas, which next to Lech L'cha, her all time favorite, was among the many parshiot she enjoyed studying and discussing. In the same way that she felt a kinship with Abraham in Lech L'cha, so too did she empathize with the daughters of Zelophehad--five strong, independent women who, seeing injustice in the world, went about setting things right. And, like them, set things right she did. Whether teaching young children about equality for all in the 1950s, campaigning to gain support for the Equal Rights Amendment in the 1970s or, as recently as this past winter, insisting--as an army of one--that her own beloved synagogue uphold the principles of church-state separation, my mother, in the words of one friend, "[built] coalitions, recogniz[ed] the importance of staying within the party...[and] worked towards justice for all those years."

And now, that responsibility passes to me. But more than pursuing equality and justice for all, my responsibility, as Rabbi Laurence Elis Milder suggests in the Monday edition of this week's Ten Minutes of Torah is to "speak [her] name and remember what [she] did...to tell our children and our loved ones the names of those who came before us, their deeds and virtues. When we do that, we are all the daughters of Zelophehad."

Finding Comfort

2010-06-18T15:00:01Z

by JanetheWriter
Originally posted on JanetheWriter Writes...

As I continue to walk the mourner's path, I am comforted by many things: the extraordinary outpouring of affection and care from family and friends, the sage rituals and rhythms of Jewish tradition, and, indeed, by my mother's own words and wishes.

Earlier today, I went in search of her ethical will to my sister and me, which, as anticipated, I found safely tucked away in a box of keepsakes in my hall closet. Although it includes no date, I would guess, based on context, my mother wrote it sometime in late 1995 or early 1996, and in its words, I found her richest legacy to me:

My dearest children,

For some time now, I've wanted to write an ethical will, one in which I could set down my thoughts and values for you. After all, we try to put our financial estate in good order, so how about our ethical estate? I've always told you the only thing of value you can leave behind is your good name, so why not talk about that?

At the Kallah last week, I took a class in writing an ethical will, and it impelled me to start what I had been putting off for a long while. You, Jane and David, Amy, and Daddy are the most precious parts of my life and I include you David, because married to our child, you become our child. At your mother's house after her funeral, Lilac told me that your mother always said she never had to worry about you because "Jane's family would always look after you," and she was right. We do so not out of obligation, but because we care about you, you care about Jane and we all care about each other.

So here are my thoughts to which I've given lots of thought. They mean a great deal to me and I hope they will to you, as well.

I am the child of immigrants as you are their grandchildren, so the immigrant experience is very important and meaningful to me. I've always admired your grandparents for having the courage to leave behind all that was safe and secure to seek the end of a rainbow here in America. Because of them, we are free to be committed Jews as well as whatever else we chose to be, limited only by our own vision of the horizon.

Ellis Island is not just a museum we visit, but a real part of my history and you know how the Statue of Liberty has always been my special lady. It's vital to know where you came from because it shapes the paths you take to where you're going. Our Jewish heritage is a treasure and it's your task to guard it, preserve it and pass it on to your children so the chain of our past will remain unbroken in the future.

I've thought a great deal about blessings - the ones I've known and the ones I wish for you. I've been truly blessed with:

A family that loved me unconditionally;
A husband I love and treasure, who, after 41 years, remains the centerpiece of my life;
Wonderful children whom I would choose to know, even if they weren't my children;
Friends who enrich my life;
The opportunity to study and grow, not just grow old;
The chance to switch careers and do meaningful work;
The joy of trying to live my life as a serious, committed Jew.
For you, I wish the blessings of:

Sharing your life in harmony with another;
Loving family relationships;
Lifelong learning;
Strength to face what you must face;
A lifetime partnership with God;
Clarity of purpose;
Living a Jewish life within the framework of "Our Obligations";
The courage to try;
Making choices of your free will that enable you to fulfill God's will;
A world of peace;
Good health;
Good friends;
Fulfillment in all the times and seasons of your life.

You have grown into beautiful people. As you go through life, you can be sure that I will always be there for you. Know, too, that I will love you until and throughout eternity.

T.M.

Editor's note: For information about this year's Kallah, visit the URJ Kallah website. For information about ethical wills, see A Time to Prepare by Rabbi Richard Address, and visit MyJewishLearning.com.

Elena Kagan's Fight for Bat Mitzvah Creates Guilt Trip

2010-05-26T15:20:04Z

by Linda K. Wertheimer
Originally posted on Jewish Muse

Elena Kagan is giving me a guilt trip, but it has nothing to do with her nomination for the US Supreme Court. At age 12, Kagan fought for the right to chant from the Torah in her Orthodox shul to celebrate her coming of age as a bat mitzvah. In 2006, at age 41, I chanted from the Torah and led a prayer service to celebrate my bat mitzvah as an adult. I am chagrined as I write this: I have never chanted from the Torah again. Kagan's long-ago fight for equality on the bimah is a reminder. I could do more.

Kagan, according to articles in the New York Times and Jewish Week, asked her rabbi if she could read Torah on a Saturday morning to mark a bat mitzvah. The rabbi refused that request and allowed her to instead chant from the Book of Ruth on a Friday night and analyze it in a speech.

US Supreme Court
nominee Elena Kagan

Kagan's ceremony in 1973 was the first formal bat mitzvah at her shul, the Lincoln Square Synagogue. I dropped out of Sunday school at age 12 in 1976, three years after Kagan's historic moment. At the time, it was common place for Reform and Conservative Jewish girls to have bat mitzvah ceremonies. Because of my adult bat mitzvah studies, I am comfortable singing and chanting in Hebrew. I have had a few opportunities to chant from the Torah again since my May 6, 2006, but have not yet accepted such offers. There was an once-in-a-lifetime feel to my bat mitzvah experience, particularly the chanting from the Torah. I was doing something that Jews were doing all over the world at the same time. I still savor that moment.

Leading prayer during my 2006 bat mitzvah ceremony

I spent months learning how to chant from the Torah, studying privately with a Hebrew teacher, playing the CD of my trope repeatedly. It would be easy to get a CD of more Torah trope and memorize another passage. But if I chant again from the Torah, I would want to do what I did four years ago: understand every word I chanted. I suspect I will know when the timing is right for me to work on another Torah portion.

As an adult bat mitzvah student, I studied the history of women's rights in Judaism. The battle for women's rights continues among Orthodox Jews. What Orthodox Jewish girls get to do to mark becoming a bat mitzvah depends on the shul. Some congregations let the bat mitzvah girl speak after Shabbat morning services; others restrict participation to a dinner on Friday night; and others may allow nothing at all. Meanwhile, an increasing number of Orthodox adult women are learning how to read and chant from the Torah and typically lead women only during a service with a women's prayer group.

The news about Kagan's bat mitzvah is the subject of online chatter in Jewish circles this week. The story of her long-ago struggle for equality as a young Orthodox Jew likely will have a ripple effect even today. For that essay I tucked into my bat mitzvah program four years ago, I interviewed an Orthodox woman who first began studying to read the Torah at age 67. Two years later, in 2003, she chanted a portion before 15 other women in her Hillel study group. Afterward, one of the women came up to her and gave her a hug, saying, "You've given me the courage to do it, too."

Remembering Rabbi Michael Signer

2010-05-14T15:13:06Z

by Rabbi Eric J. Siroka
Temple Beth-El, South Bend, Ind. and RAC Brickner Fellow.

(Originally published on RACblog)

I had the wonderful opportunity this Monday to attend a symposium at the University of Notre Dame marking the publication of a festschrift in memory of Rabbi Michael Signer. This new book, Transforming Relations: Essays on Jews and Christians throughout History in Honor of Michael A. Signer, is a loving testament to the life's work and passion of a remarkable man. The volume was edited by Franklin Harkin, one of his former students, who helped coordinate the program. As made evident through the day's presentations, anyone who was ever one of Michael's students remained in his sphere, as he took special interest in his students' accomplishments, careers and lives well after leaving the classroom.

The event itself was marvelous: Attendees were treated to presentations by several of Michael's colleagues and students. The words dialogue and relationship emerged repeatedly in describing his work and perspective about the world. Summing it up beautifully, Rabbi David Ellenson said "Michael's passion was to introduce friends to friends." All who knew him recognized this sweet truth. The day was truly a celebration of his dynamic career - in both academia and the world of social justice, activity and education that stemmed from the textual tradition he so loved. Most fitting, several of the Signers' dearest friends were present to honor him as well. It was moving to witness their affection and support for Michael's beloved Betty throughout the program as well.

After serving more than 15 years on the faculty of HUC-JIR, Michael held the Abrams Chair of Jewish Thought and Culture at Notre Dame from 1992 until his untimely death in January 2009. He was also deeply involved in the wider Jewish world, and was of course especially engaged as a leader in interfaith dialogue. Michael served on numerous committees and commissions that sought such understanding. Our world is better for his effort. Michael was teacher, mentor, colleague and friend to so many during his life, and it is already clear that his profound and broad influence will carry on for many years to come.

Are Baby Showers a Jinx? Jews Often Debate the Question

2010-04-29T15:22:12Z

by Linda K. Wertheimer
Temple Isaiah, Lexington, MA
Originally posted on Jewish Muse

It was not just about the presents. A baby shower would celebrate something I thought was out of my reach - parenthood. At 43, I was finally going to become a first-time mother. But I was also closer to my Jewish faith than in the past and knew Judaism frowned upon baby showers because of superstition passed down from one generation to the next. If parents-to-be celebrate prematurely, bad luck could follow. Oy. What a load to put on first-time parents.

Still, my husband and I partially bowed to Jewish superstition. We had a Welcome Baby party for a small gathering of relatives and friends less than a month before my due date. By that point, I was well in the comfortable zone for delivering a healthy baby. Guests were encouraged to bring a favorite children's book.

My husband Pavlik displays Clifford
book gifts at Welcome Baby Party

I had mixed feelings about not having a traditional baby shower. Books were a grand idea. But what about blankets, crib sheets, burp cloths, baby bottles, a crib, diaper changing table, and onesies, and more onesies? In the Jewish debate about baby showers, bigger philosophical issues than a need for onesies are at play. The superstition stems from something spiritual in Judaism, I learned from a former rabbi of mine, David Stern. Rabbi Stern, who leads Temple Emanu-El in Dallas, told me that the spiritual dimension is the idea that "we shouldn't get too overconfident about our own control of events."

I write about this now because of something I read in a new book I just finished, Three Wishes, a True Story of Good Friends, Crushing Heartbreak, and Astonishing Luck on Our Way to Love and Motherhood.

The co-authors, Carey Goldberg (a former Boston Globe colleague of mine), Beth Jones, and Pamela Ferdinand all experienced a tragedy during pregnancy before having a healthy baby. Miscarriages happen. Genetic abnormalities happen. Disasters can happen as late as the day of delivery. Pam, after choosing to abort a baby with genetic defects, wrote about how she and her husband declined friends' offers of cribs and baby clothes: "Thank you for your offer, we replied, but no, we don't want anything until we are much closer to having a child here, in our arms, in our home. We know you'll understand," wrote Pam. The three authors reminded me just how uncertain pregnancy can be. Having a full-blown baby shower can add to the heartache later if there ends up being no baby.

At our Welcome Baby party, most of the gifts were books that included notes from the giver about why the book was important. A grandchild or a child - or the gift-giver - adored the book. We carried home the gifts in a few bags. Two weeks later, I gave birth to a healthy baby boy. We never, as I had feared, had to scramble to equip the house for our baby's arrival. A crib and diaper-changing table came to us courtesy of hand-me downs. For those first several weeks, our baby Simon needed very little, except his mother's milk, diapers, and his parents' loving arms. Well, and he needed onesies.

The books from the Welcome Baby party are now old friends. We and our son have grown to love the books together. He now regularly asks for the Clifford the Red Dog books received before his birth. Goodnight Moon. We started reading that to him the day he was born. Goodnight Gorilla. The Butter Battle Book and Sneetches and Other Stories by Dr. Seuss. Brown Bear, Brown Bear. Guess How Much I love You. The Real Mother Goose. Peekaboo Bunny.

With advice from wise relatives, I believe that my husband and I figured out how to strike the right balance. We tried not to tempt fate too much, yet still had a low-key celebration. What was your route before your baby's birth? Why? Tell your own story in the comment box below. Should Jews still view baby showers as a jinx?

I Almost Made Myself Cry at the Bar Mitzvah

2010-01-25T15:42:07Z

by Rabbi Paul Kipnes
Congregation Or Ami, Calabasas, CA
(Originally posted on Or Am I?)

There we stood, Rabbi and three generations of the Tillis family, preparing to physically pass down the Torah midor lador (from generation to generation). This primarily Reform Movement tradition makes manifest what is happening in fact and deed: that another young adult is receiving Torah from his ancestors. At the end of this line of stood a young man Jared, who though he spent his life challenged by special needs and multiple treatments - a rare form of non-convulsive epilepsy, speech therapy, vision therapy, challenges reading and decoding - now stood ready to do what every other 13 year old boy does. Jared was becoming a Bar Mitzvah.

I looked out at the crowd of family and friends. On their faces I saw utter amazement; reflected in their eyes was the wonder that this young man, in spite of all the challenges he faces, had led the prayer service so beautifully. His Bar Mitzvah teacher, the incomparably talented Diane Townsend, had been by his side, pointing to each transliterated syllable so that he could chant the prayers at his own pace. Too see how creatively she had retransliterated each word in a way that it would be comprehensible to this specific Bar Mitzvah boy is to witness a master teacher at work. Yes, we had already each experienced that Shehecheyanu moment, that blessed happening that reminds us all that we were just touched by the miraculous.

What words could I say which would further capture the holiness before us? And how to do it in such a way that everyone would understand on their own level: the Bar Mitzvah boy in his specifically special manner of comprehension and the guests who had been touched by the Transcendent?

We are taught that Torah was revealed in 70 languages at once so that each person could comprehend it. Who is to say that which languages they were? Perhaps some were the language understood by a child with special needs. Maybe the simple concepts that a profoundly challenged child could comprehend.

So I told them: We are taught that Torah was given to everyone at Mt. Sinai: the rich and the poor, the strong and the less strong, the healthy and the sick. Yes, even those who stuttered (Moses), were leprous (later, Miriam), or were beaten down by the challenges of their lives (all the Israelites) received the Holy Torah.

I reminded them, lovingly, that sometimes we doubt who was able to receive Torah, but that as long as there are people who believe (I looked at Mom and Dad and older sister), everyone can grasp hold of the holy books.

I said a bunch of other words too, but as I looked out at the congregation, seeing not a dry eye in the sanctuary, I started to choke up too, and mumbled something that I cannot remember anymore.

Then we passed Torah down midor lador (from generation to generation) completing the cycle.

Worshippers were moved. One said, "Jared's service was the most moving and touching ceremony I have ever been to" while another explained that she "will never forget Jared's amazing ability to turn an ordinary ritual into a meaningful event that we will carry in our hearts forever."

I am left with three profound memories of this Bar Mitzvah service:

That this young man, standing on the shoulders of all the Jews who came before him, became a Bar Mitzvah just like the best of them;
That we are blessed to have a teacher as skilled as Diane Townsend who finds a way to point each child - no matter how challenged, no matter how reticent - toward Torah;
That the Holy One of Blessing (God) blessed us this day by allowing each of us to experience the transcendent holiness of this Bar Mitzvah.

...Shehecheyanu v'kiy'manu v'higee-anu lazman hazeh - Blessed are You, God ... for giving us life, for keeping us in life, and for bringing us to this special moment.

(BTW, the other Bar Mitzvah boy earlier that day made me proud, amazed, and inspired. Because he was special too. Not special needs. Just special, like every child is special. But that's another blog post.)

Editor's note: February is Jewish Disability Awareness Month. Learn more about what you can do on the Union's website.

Galilee Diary: Round and round

2009-12-30T03:14:13Z

by Marc Rosenstein
(Originally published in Ten Minutes of Torah and Galilee Diary)

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die...
-Ecclesiastes 3:1-2

Last Thursday, after a long struggle with cancer, Tsippy Oren, a veteran member of Shorashim, passed away, at home, at the age of 58. She was a remarkable member of a remarkable family. Classically "secular" Israelis deeply sympathetic to the liberal religious orientation of Shorashim, devout Zionists, strong advocates for social justice and civil society, open minded and open hearted - a sort of embodiment of the mythical Israeli. Tsippy was an occupational therapist, but beyond her professional commitments she was always quietly finding ways to help others - bereaved families, Arab women, families in trouble - and who knows who else. One son helped found a new kibbutz dedicated to education and social activism without great prospects for prosperity; a daughter became ultra-orthodox. The Orens didn't miss a beat and remained a model of a close and loving and inclusive family. Tsippy was our liaison when we were first visiting and considering joining Shorashim, and was our advocate when our candidacy was questioned because of our advanced age (44). I think part of what drew us here was the prospect of living in a community made up of people like her. Her loss is a very sad moment for all of us at Shorashim - all the more so because it represents a sort of actuarial turning point for us; in the early days of the community a young mother died of cancer, but that was an anomaly, a tragedy. In this death, on the other hand, we all hear the clock ticking.

A few days earlier, Inbar Shoham was born in Poriyah hospital. Her parents are a young couple who joined Shorashim just a few months ago, living in a mobile home unit while they start the process of building a house in our new neighborhood. Benny comes from an Orthodox home, Tirzah from a secular kibbutz. They jumped into communal life here upon arrival, participating in holiday committees and cultural events, becoming active in the synagogue, and exuding a general feeling of being happily at home and part of the community. Those of us who think about and worry about the future of Shorashim, who see the community as characterized not just by quality of life or even by life style but by values - and would like to see the community perpetuate those values - have high hopes for this new family.

There was a baby-naming and a kiddush on Shabbat morning, and it was really joyous; after sundown there was a crowd for the shivah minyan at the house of mourning a few hundred yards away.

The Druze religion holds that there is a fixed number of Druze souls in the world, so when a member of the community dies, his/her soul returns in a newborn baby somewhere in the Druze world. I've never been convinced of the math, and in any case the concept doesn't work for me, even if there have been some Jewish kabbalistic thinkers who have put forth similar ideas. But it is hard to escape the symbolism of the coincidence of the two biological events that occurred in this community last week. A community is like an organism; it grows and develops, losing cells and gaining new ones, all the while holding to some central identity, a form, an envelope of beliefs and behaviors and values that make it different from all other communities. But unlike an organism, whose characteristics are largely determined by its DNA, a community has no such powerful regulatory mechanism - you can never be sure just what it will look like in the next generation. All you can do is work at it, educating, advocating, trying to build institutions - and taking comfort, now and then, from moments of fulfillment and symbolic gestures and events that carry a message of hope.

Heartfelts are the Best Gift!

2009-12-01T02:32:22Z

by Marge Eiseman

Last Shabbat, my step-sister and I cooked a wonderful dinner in honor of our parents' 17th anniversary. We chose foods that were "heirloom" recipes: she made a fresh tomato soup and I baked the special butter cookies that my maternal grandmother used to make,. She also baked a chocolate Babka that was her paternal grandmother's recipe. It was a totally unconscious way of demonstrating our blended family, one that still includes my mom and her dad.

In lieu of material gifts, we chose to offer them "heartfelts" -- gifts of the heart, sharing memories and blessings in poetry and song. Truth be told, it's been a really tough year. My dad's health has been a cause of concern (to put it mildly), and the worry is beginning to weary my dear step-mother.

Blending families can sometimes be such a painful experience -- I just want to say publicly that I'm proud of how our family handles this. We know there are differences in the way "it's always been done" from how you load dishes in the dishwasher to (God-forbid), stacking the dirty dishes as they are cleared from the table. Can you tell whose grandmother was German??? This "mixed marriage" -- Reform/Conservative (now Reconstructionist) -- has worked remarkably well, and we've all learned a lot from one another.

I think it's because we laugh, love and hug each other, and tease my dad about stacking paper plates (apparently, that's allowed). We say thank you a lot, so in celebration of their anniversary and Thanksgiving, I offer you this piece, full of hope and appreciation.

To Pops and Safta, thanks for being easy to love.

Our Redhead Looks at Colleges: Tears, Smiles and a Blessing

2009-11-24T16:20:48Z

by Rabbi Paul Kipnes
(originally posted at Or Am I?)

It all started with Consecration. In celebration of the beginning of their formal Jewish education, these cute kindergartners ascend to the bimah to stand before the aron kodesh (holy ark) to receive a mini-Torah from the hands of their parents. Nervousness surrounds us as children wonder where to stand, as parents step forward unsure of how to guide them. Still, smiles mingle with tears as we watch our babies continue to grow up. And we bless, shehecheyanu, thanking God for getting us to this special day.

Then we stand again on the bimah as the child, now thirteen, becomes a Bat or Bar Mitzvah. Having spent years learning about Judaism and practicing Hebrew, she now leads the service, chants from Torah, and gets to stand before parents, relatives and friends who sit quietly and attentively as she expounds eloquently on some lesson derived from Torah. Nervousness surrounds us as the teens, so worried about what others will think, now are anxious about whether they will mess up the words or the tune. Some will now call them "men" or "women" but we know better. They are just taking the first steps on the road toward being an adult. Still we pass down Torah midor lador, from generation to generation, hoping that their shoulders are now broad enough to carry on the burden (and joy) of our tradition and values. Smiles mingle with tears as we realize our children are no longer babies. And we bless, shehecheyanu, thanking God for getting us to this special day.

Then we stand again, on the bimah leading up to the airplane, as we accompany our babies on their journeys to visit potential colleges. Having spent years learning about everything and nothing, they now travel up and down the coast, and sometimes across the country, seeking out the right match - a college to propel them forward toward chochma (wisdom) and talmud Torah (learning). Nervousness surrounds us as they spend months struggling to capture in college essays the essence of their lives, souls and dreams, worried that if they do not put their best face forward they will be rejected by the schools of their choice. Some will call them "adults," as they soon can vote, make their own decisions, and, in time, drink legally. But we know that they are still just older kids, merely taking the next set of steps on the path toward adulthood (and besides, a vast majority will come back home after graduation for the free room and board). Smiles mingle with tears as we realize our babies are simultaneously our children in need of guidance and not.

Yes, consecration is a liminal moment, a time of transition into study.

Yes, Bar/Bat Mitzvah is a liminal moment, a transition onto the path toward adulthood.

And choosing a college, now that is really a liminal moment, a transition, heartwrenchingly wonderful, which propels our children forward.

Philosophical? Yes. But deeply personal. Because the little redheaded girl who moments ago could not stand still on the bimah during her consecration, who seconds ago could not make me prouder as she chanted her Torah and gave her d'var Torah (speech) is now looking at colleges.

So, as I reflect upon these few days of our father-daughter college visiting trip - tours, interviews and visits to Hillel houses - I quietly intone, with a smile mingled with tears, the bracha (blessing) we Jews say whenever we arrive at one of these firsts:

...shehecheyanu v'kee'manu v'higee-anu lazman hazeh.

Holy One of Blessing, who has guided me on my journey through this universe, thank you for giving us life, for sustaining us, and for bringing us - with smiles and tears - to this incredible moment.

Remembering Capt. Benjamin Sklaver

2009-10-08T15:25:20Z

Rabbi Harold L. Robinson, Rear Admiral CHC USN Ret, is the Director of JWB Jewish Chaplains Council.

The world, and specifically the community of Reform Judaism, lost a very special neshama with the death by enemy action in Afghanistan of Captain Benjamin Sklaver, US Army, 32, of Hamden, Conn.

Ben was a product of Mishkan Israel of Hamden, Vice President of NFTY-NE in 1994-95 and was a graduate of both Tufts and the Fletcher School of Law and Diplomacy at Tufts.

While employed at the Centers for Disease Control, he joined the Army Reserve in 2003 as a civil affairs expert and deployed to the Horn of Africa where he was touched by the high rates of child mortality linked to dirty drinking water. After his demobilization and return to civilian life, Ben founded ClearWater Initiative, an organization based in New Haven that sought to provide potable water in underdeveloped Ugandan villages. In northern Uganda, Ben was known as "Moses Ben." According to its Web site, ClearWater Initiative has constructed wells for more than 6,500 people since 2007.

Ben moved back to New England to be near his fiancée but was again mobilized even though his Army Reserve commitment was nearly complete. He was still on active duty since the "stop loss" rules do not allow for release of a solder during a period of mobilization.

As a NFTY friend of my son (now our colleague) Yair and daughter Dori, Ben had been a guest in our home. He was kind, humble, tall, blonde, athletic, clever and a committed Jew. He was an immense credit to his family, our movement, our people and our country a very special and gutina neshama.

Yihi zecher tsadeek Livracha. Moadeem lisimcha.

Photo from the Connecticut Jewish Ledger.

So Many Books, So Little Time: A Yom Kippur Minhag

2009-10-05T13:35:37Z

By JanetheWriter

It's not as though I don't have any unread books on my bookshelf. In fact, sometimes it feels as though most of them are unread and there's just no time to pluck one from the shelf, curl up and get lost in its pages. Among my recent acquisitions still waiting for the binding to be broken and the pages to be devoured are Rabbi Jill Jacobs' There Shall Be No Needy: Pursuing Social Justice through Jewish Law and Tradition, Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers by Mary Roach, The Woman with a Worm in her Head and Other True Stories of Infectious Disease by Pamela Nagami (yes, I'm the daughter of a parasitologist) and Simon Baatz' For the Thrill of It: Leopold, Loeb, and the Murder That Shocked Jazz Age Chicago.

My father recently finished the Baatz book and has now passed it along to me, highly recommended. You may recall that I first mentioned this particular book in a blog post I wrote last year at about this time. That was shortly after he and I - as we do each year - spent a bit of time on Yom Kippur afternoon browsing in the Barnes and Noble near my parents' congregation.

This year, as we walked and talked among the books, we thumbed through Rosemary Mahoney's Down the Nile: Alone in a Fisherman's Skiff, Norman Podhoretz' Why Are Jews Liberals, a few of Paul Thoreaux's travelogues, some of the novels in Emile Zola's Rougon-Macquart cycle (yes, I'm still working my way through Germinal) and finally Michael B. Oren's Power, Faith, and Fantasy: America in the Middle East: 1776 to the Present.

That last book caught both our eyes - my father's because he'd been at the 2008 luncheon at which the book won the New Jersey Council of the Humanities Book Award and mine because Michael Oren is the current Ambassador of Israel to the United States and is to be a guest at the Union's upcoming Biennial convention in Toronto next month. He's also a noted scholar, historian and writer, and perusing the first few pages of the book convinced me that I want to read more. My father agreed that he, too, wants to read it and so it was that before we headed back to temple for the afternoon service, he bought a copy for us to share.

So now there's yet another unread book on my shelves, but this one is different. If I'm lucky, I'll have an opportunity to have it inscribed to us at Biennial and, once I'm home, time enough to read it.

In the Presence of the Divine

2009-09-02T14:05:57Z

by Dr. Wendy Nelson

So often I read or hear the words, "feel the presence of the Divine" and they slide over me unemotionally and without meaning. I sit in services most weeks trying to focus on the liturgy and trying not to focus on my grocery shopping list. I am alternately moved to tears and bored to tears.

I am filled with awe on occasion but, more often, I am off in outer space waiting for some gravitational pull to bring me back into the room through a connection to someone or something. I can't force the experience to be otherwise. Since I cannot control it, I go with it and let it take me where it will. Sometimes the trip is meaningful, sometimes mundane and on a rare occasion it is actually "Divine."

I had an encounter with the divine last month. I don't know if it was the big Divine or the little divine, but it was surely one or both of those. On the first Saturday morning of August, a congregant became a bar mitzvah for the second time. An eager group of family and friends came to share that experience with him and we rejoiced as he read from the Torah.

Then, as he took the podium to tell us about his first time becoming a bar mitzvah, a hush fell over the room, punctuated by gasps. He graciously shared with us a captivating story of being a boy of 13 in 1939 in Germany whose becoming a bar mitzvah coincided with the declaration of World War II.

We sat spellbound, shocked, awed, grateful and honored. We were stunned by his story, by the experience of the Jewish people, by the lack of humanity and the abundance of it, by being in the presence of what had to be the Divine both when he was 13, and that August morning in 2009 as he reached his second bar mitzvah celebration. As we sang the Priestly Blessing to him that morning, it was through tears of appreciation, of joy, of sadness for lives lost and of celebration of those who lived to share them with the rest of us. It was divine in every definition of the word.

Some of us have an encounter with the little or big Divine easily and regularly. Others find it in nature, or in people, and some never feel like they have it at all. I never know how to find it or if I'll find it. I think it finds me. But I have learned that if I just bring my soles and my soul through the door of our sacred dwelling and wait, there will be moments that will reaffirm my connection to Judaism, to my heritage and to all who share the journey with me. And some of them will be divine.

Dr. Wendy Nelson is the Religious Living Committee Chairperson of the Falmouth Jewish Congregation in Falmouth, MA.

Bat Mitzvah Brew...and Family Ties

2009-07-22T16:20:33Z

By JanetheWriter

A few weeks ago, in one of the many emails that crosses my desk daily was a link to Shmaltz Brewing Company, makers of He'brew, the Chosen Beer. It seems that the company, as part of its 13th anniversary celebration, is seeking bar and bat mitzvah photos to be featured on its website and, for one lucky "winner," on the label of its seasonal anniversary ale, Jewbelation 13. You can read more about Shmaltz' bar and bat mitzvah photo project here.

Always up for a good gimmick, I promptly emailed a digital copy of my bat mitzvah picture (although it was taken long before computers, email or digital photography) along with the following note (which included all the required information) to info@shmaltzbrewing.com:

You asked...so here it is: my family and me (in the to-the-floor blue dress) at my bat mitzvah.

The particulars:

JanetheWriter (the lovely bat mitzvah)
Date: February 6, 1976 (although you can't see it in the photo, most of the men in the congregation were wearing pastel-colored leisure suits)
Location: Temple Emanu-El, Edison, New Jersey

Thanks!
~ Jane.

And then I forgot all about the photo until last week when I received this reply from Leah Harmatz at Shmaltz Brewing:

Hi Jane,

Thanks so much for sending this over, love it!

Mazel tov,
Leah

More amazing than the reply, however, was the fact that it came from someone named Harmatz. According to family lore, my paternal grandfather's name, before it was Anglicized to Herman when he arrived at Ellis Island, was Harmatz. How weird is that?!...especially because I'd never before met or heard of anyone with that particular surname!

So, of course, I wrote back:

Thanks, Leah!

On a totally different note, although I haven't done a lot of Jewish genealogy, I understand that when my paternal grandfather came through Ellis Island from Lithuania his name went from Harmatz (or some variation of it) to Herman. Perhaps we are lantzmen (or lantzwomen as the case may be!)?!

In any event, thanks for being in touch...Shabbat shalom,
~ Jane.

And so did Leah:

Hi Jane, very interesting! Not too many Harmatzes out there. I'll ask my family if we have any roots in Lithuania...

Thanks again for sending over your pic, and please feel free to forward along our call for bar/bat mitzvah photos to any friends/family/groups-we're pushing for 1,000!!

All the best,
Leah

And so it is that 30+ years after the fact, my bat mitzvah - with a little help from Shmaltz Brewing Company and a photograph - is enabling me to play some Jewish geography and maybe, just maybe, expand my family -- and our ties to each other.

Stay tuned...

Finding Community

2009-06-05T20:38:37Z

by Gardening Grandma

At a Catholic funeral Mass today for a man who gave so much to the Village of Larchmont community as a member and chief of its volunteer fire department, the priest based his homily on a passage from Luke: "Whoever seeks to save his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life will preserve it."

His message, as it related to Tommy Connell, was that Tommy often risked his life to save others. "Tommy was a giver," the priest said. Tommy gave to the community, he gave to his family, he gave love and he gave hope.

As hard as it may have been to swallow the message of eternal life in the Kingdom of Heaven, the priest's message that "we don't have enough givers" rang true. What, after all, is a life devoted to tikun olam about, if it isn't about the message that we need to live our lives involved in the world and not separate from it?

I came to know Tommy about ten years ago, after he'd retired from work and was no longer actively fighting fires. He was a regular at the Larchmont Tavern, where my husband and I often meet to discuss issues over a glass of wine or a cool brew. On Tuesday, the day he died, a glass of white wine sat in front of the stool he always occupied, first in from the door. And the stool was vacant, a silent tribute to a man who enchanted everyone he happened to meet.

The fire department gave Tommy a moving tribute: in place of a hearse, his casket was carried on a fire engine; it was carried into the church to the mournful sound of bagpipes playing "Amazing Grace." The firefighters, volunteer and paid alike, lined the entrance in silent attention to a man who had fought beside them for many decades.

It was a stark contrast to the funerals - far too many of them, to be sure - I've been attending lately at my synagogue. It was, after all, a Mass, at which everyone save my husband, me and a handful of others scattered around the church, took communion and celebrated that Jesus had died, not just for Tommy's soul, but for theirs as well.

And yet.... The sense of community in the church was powerful; the number of people who came because Tommy had, in one way or another, had an impact on them, inspiring. And I realized that this, after all, is the primary function of religion: to help us find a community in which we belong, a place that loves us and accepts us, cares for us and, ultimately mourns us. Catholic or Protestant, Jewish or Muslim, we all need community.

Gardening Grandma is the nom de plume of Emily Grotta, the former director of Marketing & Communications at the Union for Reform Judaism.

Good Broken Glass

2009-04-01T20:42:27Z

By dcc
With an overpowering slam of my foot to a small and unsuspecting light bulb it was official -- the pop and subsequent scream of mazel tov topped off with a kiss and quick walk down the aisle meant we were married. Phew! What a wild ride it was to get to the point of this celebration. There were countless hours of planning on the phone, the Internet, using the fax and friendly courier pigeons. There were tastings and venue changes, rabbinical registration regulations and fast talking county clerks. Not to mention the cake, hotel, rehearsal dinner, airline tickets, bus rentals and photo shoots. But in the end, it was just my bride, our rabbi and me under the Chuppah (wedding canopy), surrounded by those who love us and wanted to see us take our next step together.

Lots of people asked: "Do you think you will feel different after the wedding?" in that we have lived together for more than two years. I said of course and worried personally that I wouldn't. Who knows how you are going to feel after something happens that hasn't happened yet?

It turns out different isn't the right word. I think it should be complete (yeah I know, sorry for the corniness factor). Abby and I lived together in the same way we live together now. We make dinner, we do the laundry, go to work, watch bad TV etc. But something has changed. The Ketubah (Jewish marriage contract) is signed, the glass is broken and we are living life together as a married couple (which is pretty awesome!).

There is a lot of work to do within this new complete lifestyle and I for one am very much looking forward to it. And I believe anyone who would want to make such a commitment to be complete should first take a step back (which we did), meet with a trusted advisor (which we did) and learn about the depth of this process and commitment (which we did). So no matter what, if two people want to complete one another, they should slowly, methodically and carefully do so.

The joy of joining two families into a new unit is difficult and it should be treated with the utmost respect. The act of marriage should never be taken lightly. And as a married man, I can say without any shadow of a doubt that the lack of marriage equality in the country not only disrespects the choice Abby and I made to get married but is an affront to my constitutional rights and religious beliefs. We are all created equal and are treated as such according to the highest law of the land. We are all created in the image of God according to the highest law of ...well the Highest Law. It is time that we stand up and demand that we are treated as equals and seen as unique images of God.

Abby and I got married because we love each other and want to build a life together. Within the eyes of our community, both religious and civil, we are now a family unit. During the service the rabbi said to us we are now each other's closest living relative and really drove home the point. We have made a choice to live a certain way with one particular person and that is a blessing that should not be denied to anyone.

Over the next few years the fight for civil marriage equality is going to work its way across the United States. Advocates for equal rights are currently losing this battle and we need more people to stand up. We need more action, education and acceptance. But most of all we need to celebrate with more couples as they choose to build a life together. We must support the ever changing definition of family. As a progressive religious community we can once again lead the march, pray with our feet and make the change we want to see in the world.

Here is to more good broken glass for all!

The Power of Greene

2009-03-27T16:54:33Z

By JanetheWriter
Although my growing up years didn't include a Reform Jewish camp experience (something my parents regret to this day), I've worked at the Union for Reform Judaism long enough to know that more often than not, such experiences spawn and nurture a lifelong commitment to Jewish living, learning and celebration. Anecdotal evidence suggests, in fact, that many of today's Reform Jewish professionals and lay leaders got their start down that particular path at a Union camp.

This reality hit me in the face this past weekend when I attended the wedding of two friends who met as staff members at the Union's Greene Family Camp in Bruceville, Texas. Although the wedding was in Tulsa, Oklahoma, the bride's hometown, we might as well have been at Greene in central Texas because, without a doubt, that was the place that had brought so many of the wedding guests together and the place in their hearts that continues to hold them together -- even as they grow and change, and move in distant and distinct directions. Indeed, it is the place that, to a very large extent, made them the Jews they are today.

As many of us sat around schmoozing at the hotel, the officiating rabbi (who also happens to have met his wife at Greene Family Camp) best described the power of Greene when he detailed what he asks parents who suggest that their kids should be able to go to tuba camp, to soccer camp and to Jewish camp - all in the same summer:

"Is your kid going to play the tuba for the rest of his life?" he asks.

"Is your daughter going to play soccer for the rest of her life?" he asks.

"Is your son going to be Jewish for the rest of his life?" he asks.

The answers, it seems to me, speak for themselves.

But, it's not only the power of Greene that shapes and molds the next generation of Reform Jews. It happens every summer at Harlam, Eisner, Crane Lake, Kalsman, Jacobs and, indeed, at every URJ camp across North America. To get just a teeny-tiny feel for this power, check out this video:

Better yet, register your kids for their own Reform Jewish summer camp experience of a lifetime. Visit our directory of URJ camps and take the first step toward giving them the power of Greene.

Salient Memories

2009-03-12T14:13:59Z

By Rabbi Richard Winer
(Originally posted on Divrei Derech)

Now that I've returned from the C.C.A.R. Conference in Israel, I consider the details that rise to the surface in my recollections.

One moment keeps coming back.

The day after the conference concluded, I returned to the Old City to explore further. A couple of us wandered through the alleys enjoying the sensory experience. We wound down through the Shuk and into the Jewish Quarter. As I stood waiting while my companion poked into one of the shops, an entourage came winding along toward the Wall. I gathered that they were on their way to celebrate a Bar Mitzvah. A youth walked along under a chuppah while a man who appeared to be the proud father led the group singing.

But there was more.

The father interrupted the revelry. From where I stood I could clearly here him recite the words of a prayer. It sounded spontaneous and directly from the heart. The father of the Bar Mitzvah was offering a prayer for the safety and welfare of the soldiers, and for their eventual safe return home.

As I look back on this recent trip to Israel, this image clearly stands as one of the most beautiful sights I've seen in the time I've spent there. It is a beautiful illustration of the Talmudic quote: Kol Yisrael aravim zeh b'zeh - All Israel are responsible for one another. (Shavuot 39a)

I was honored to witness this tender moment in the life of our people Israel.

Do Not Abandon Shivah

2009-03-02T02:39:39Z

by Rabbi Eric Yoffie
(Originally published in Reform Judaism magazine)
In the last 24 months, both of my parents have died. This wrenching loss was devastating--as it is for all of us who feel the terrible isolation of losing those who were the first people that we ever loved and who, more than anyone else, shaped what we were to become.

The pain is still with me, of course. But with the help of my wife and children and the support of my synagogue community, I confronted the reality of death and found the strength I needed.

After each death, the shivah at my home was especially important. Shivah, meaning "seven," refers to the seven days following the funeral. During this time, as called for by Jewish tradition, friends and members of the community came to visit and offer consolation. It was an opportunity for me to talk about my parents with others and think through their influence on me and how I would cope with their absence. Observing this ritual prevented me from doing what I might otherwise have been tempted to do: rush back to work and "get on with my life."

Shivahis not actually seven days, since the day of the funeral counts as the first day and the last day is observed for a symbolic hour in the morning. Nonetheless, since the first three days are considered the most intense period of mourning, many Reform Jews have chosen to observe shivah for three days only. But what concerns me are the growing numbers of Reform Jews who decide to observe shivah for one night following the funeral or to dispense with it altogether, insisting that they do not need shivah at all.

Our members, of course, are entitled to choose their own patterns of Jewish observance and to mourn as they please. Still, I worry that many of those who avoid shivah are not being entirely honest with themselves. "My loved ones would have wanted me to move on," they say. But I can't help feeling that they, like so many in our culture, are attempting to deal with the pain of death by banishing it from their minds.

This is not the Jewish way. The best way to honor the dead and cope with loss, Judaism wisely teaches, is to set aside time to do so when we are freed from other responsibilities. Our grief-stricken hearts cannot quickly shake off the pain of death, no matter how much we may pretend they can. Reaffirming life and returning to a normal routine require time and, above all, the support of community that shivah entails.

Let us not abandon shivah. Instead, let us approach it creatively, beginning a conversation with our spiritual leaders on its meaning for our time.

D'var Acher: Freedom: An American-Jewish Struggle

2009-02-01T19:54:42Z

by Penny M. Kessler
(Originally published in Reform Voices of Torah and Ten Minutes of Torah)
A microcosm of the differences in American and Jewish perspectives on freedom can be found in comparing typical American and Jewish coming-of-age experiences.

In American culture, sixteenth birthdays typically are celebrated by declaring independence from parental transportation with a driver's license, eighteenth birthdays by registering to vote, and twenty-first birthdays in a bar. Except for the ability and privilege of participating in the democratic process at eighteen, major American age-related life-cycle events celebrate freedom from authority.

Compare this with the bar mitzvah and bat mitzvah experience. Those of us who teach, guide, and mentor b'nei mitzvah are aware that one of our roles is to implant the idea that bar mitzvah and bat mitzvah have meaning beyond a party or an immediate exit from Jewish life. We encourage mitzvah projects that involve the student and family. We sometimes go so far as to require that b'nei mitzvah continue their formal religious school studies through confirmation, although we pray that we have developed enough of a relationship with our students that they will want to continue to grow and study Jewish subjects with us beyond seventh grade.

We hope our students will struggle with--rather than give in to--the gravitational pull of an American world's mentality of "Thank God that's over, now I can get back to (pick a hobby)."

It takes a monumental effort to keep our youth and their parents engaged beyond bar mitzvah and bat mitzvah, especially if they saw that experience as something to get through just to get out. We are not always successful, but we carry on. Like our Torah portion, our role is to impress on our students and parents that bar mitzvah and bat mitzvah is not the end of Jewish involvement, as in"freedom from . . . ," but rather the beginning of a new phase of Jewish life, as in"freedom to. . . ."

Cantor Penny M. Kessler is the cantor at United Jewish Center in Danbury, Connecticut.

Priceless Moments in Teaching

2009-01-22T19:15:41Z

By Marge Eiseman
I just had one of those priceless moments in teaching yesterday. I recently was engaged to teach 3rd grade at Congregation Emanu El B'ne Jeshurun in Milwaukee, WI, just on Wednesdays, since I am often on the road on Sundays.

It's a sweet group, seven boys and one girl, and a gentle 14-year-old madrich/assistant. We're doing what many 3rd grades do - learning the Hebrew Alef-Bet, and beginning to attend weekly prayer services where much of the prayers are in Hebrew. I make it as engaging as I can with stories and songs, but there's only so much you can do once or twice a week for two hours.

This week, however, something really amazing happened in class. One of the boys, a sweet fair-skinned red-head, was showing off how he could hold his breath and turn red (and then purple!) I looked up, stunned, and said, "No! Please stop that. You have no idea how disturbing that is to me." And then I don't know why, but I continued, "You don't know me that well, but I have had a really bad thing happen to one of my own children. In fact, four years ago this week, one of my sons died. He was 12 years old, and he died in his sleep." (I didn't tell them that when I found him, he was purple. No need for the graphic details, but I think this is why I reacted so strongly).

The little redhead looked at me straight on and asked, "How can you say that without crying?"

"Don't worry. I do cry, lots of times. But I've had almost four years to sort of get used to this."

"Well," said another boy, "we don't know when we'll die, but we know we will, right?" And I said that makes me live by some very important rules, like never going to sleep angry, and making up with people. The philosophical conversation continued with lots of kids chiming in.

The little girl piped up, "I heard that the more you laugh, the more you live." And the boy next to her said, "Yeah! You get seven seconds for every time you laugh!" I told them that Virginia Satir says we need four hugs a day for survival, and then, without any prompting, the rambunctious boy next to me got up and gave me a real hug. And then the little girl came over and gave me a big squeeze. And so it went around the class, giving and getting hugs (with permission - there was one who declined).

As my education director said later,
URJ Chai Curriculum? $$$
Hebrew workbook? $
A real honest-to-goodness life lesson? Priceless!

Remembering a Giant: Arnold Jacob Wolf

2008-12-31T08:56:45Z

by Rabbi Elliott A. Kleinman
Chief Program Officer, Union for Reform Judaism
(First published on the RACblog)
When I learned of Rabbi Arnold Wolf's death on Wednesday evening, I was overwhelmed by the loss. Arnold was my rabbi. My parents were founders of Congregation Solel in Highland Park, IL, and Arnold has been a part of every moment of my life. It was Arnold who inspired me to be a rabbi and challenged me to be a Jew, and it was Arnold who taught me how to do both.

Some of my earliest memories are of Arnold berating our congregation or our religious school class or the board of the congregation for not doing enough in the pursuit of justice. What I remember most is that we loved every moment of it. God was real and I "had better pay attention" he would remind us. "I am Adonai your God" was not a promise but a challenged to be lived up to every moment in every action.

I remember one such moment in religious school. Our class of fourth or fifth graders was creating our own midrashim for stories about Abraham and Rabbi Wolf walked in. He asked about a couple of the midrashim and then, in response to one, startled us all saying, "Nope, that's not what God was saying." We were crushed. But just as quickly he reminded us that the Torah was ours to own and understand, saying, "You're not listening hard enough. If you listen very carefully, you'll hear what God was saying." Wow - even I, a kid, could hear what God was saying to us. The world was never the same.

In the end though, it was Arnold's smile that gave it all away. The twinkle in his eye that reminded us that he believed in us, hoped for us and was always there to be supportive is us as we journeyed through life.

A review of the daily report from the Union's Development Department on the day of Arnold's death reminded me again of what kind of rabbi Arnold was. The second to last name on the report was Arnold's for having made a donation to the Union's Nothing But Nets campaign. It is only fitting that we were reminded of his many acts of tzedakah on that day.

Arnold and I spoke periodically. We would talk about issues of the day, my work at the Union and our families. Whenever we spoke he asked the same question, "Kleinman, you still Jewish?" If I answered yes he would ask if I could prove it. Over time I learned that, for Arnold, the right response was, "I'm still trying." That answer would appease him and continue to challenge me. Just what he wanted.

Even at this season of light, the world is a bit darker now. I'm still trying, but it is harder now without Arnold's wisdom, advice, humor and vision. The world will never be the same but always be better because of Arnold Jacob Wolf.

(A note: President-elect Barack Obama sent a powerful letter about Arnold that was read at the funeral. You can find it here.)

Confirming the Diversity within Our Reform Movement

2008-12-23T20:35:44Z

by Rabbi Paul Kipnes
Congregation Or Ami
Question: What do you get when you take four most thoughtful, compassionate, committed Jewish teens, with whom I have studied Judaism for eight to twelve years, and put them together up on the bimah at Erev Shabbat services?

Answer: A very moving Confirmation Class service.

Congregation Or Ami's service last night was deeply meaningful. Our Confirmands - Alex Krasnoff, Ross Meyer, Jonny Wixen, and Sarah Wolfson - led the prayers and in between, offered their reflections on a series of questions:

If asked by a non-Jewish person what you cherish about Judaism, what would you say?
What do you believe or think about God?
Having studied Judaism for 10-13 years, what ideas or parts of Judaism are most significant or meaningful for you?
What has Judaism taught you that will help you later in life?
How do you feel connected to Israel?
When have you felt the most Jewish and why?

Some of their responses, a picture of the diversity within our Reform Movement, include:

If asked by a non-Jewish person what you cherish about Judaism, what would you say? I would talk about Tikkun Olam, or fixing the world. What is most important to me about Judaism is that Jews care about more than just our community but also the world. At every Jewish camp or temple I have ever attended, there has always been an emphasis on community service. Community service is something that I love and my passion for helping others is influenced heavily by the Jewish community and Judaism. It is great to be a member of a faith that is comprised of a community that cares about others.

If asked by a non-Jewish person what you cherish about Judaism, what would you say? I cherish Judaism because it provides me with a moral code about how to live my life. Judaism teaches that if I follow its laws, then I will live a productive and happy life. Judaism also allows me complete spiritual freedom. I do not have to be spiritual to be Jewish. I do not have to believe in that the biblical times were historical, and yet I still am able to gain so much from Judaism. Judaism has not taught me one particular thing that will help me later in life. Judaism has shaped HOW I live my life. Many of my most defining characteristics are either due to Jewish teachings or from my experiences in my Jewish community. I live a Jewish life. I learned many of my morals and beliefs through Jewish teachings, and I strive to life my life as Judaism teaches me.

One of the most meaningful things I have learned throughout my studies it to be accepting of others. It is important to accept other people for who they are and what they believe in. Not only does it help to prevent problems, by not dwelling on peoples differences, but also you might become friends with them. Another thing I have learned it to help those in need. One of the reasons helping those in need is important is because if you were in need, you would want someone to help you. The reason I like to help those in need is the wonderful feeling I receive from helping someone else.

What has Judaism taught you that will help you later in life? Judaism is full of life changing ideas and lessons. I know that I will use my studies later in life to help me make large decisions and live a fulfilling life. Judaism teaches us to be patient with one another, which I feel is really important if I want to go far and be happy. The idea of repentance on Rosh Hashana is an extremely important idea to me. I feel that it is crucial to reflect, but not regret, and then in a healthy way move on. If I can live these values, which Judaism has taught me, I know I will go far.

Having studied Judaism for 10-13 years, what ideas of Judaism are most meaningful for you? Judaism, at least Reform Judaism, has adapted to modern times. We are not forced to follow traditions just because that is how it has always been done, when those rituals have no relative meaning to modern times. Also, Judaism allows me to choose what I believe in and yet still provides a way to live my life to its fullest. This is what I love about Judaism the most, that Judaism instructs on how to live a successful Jewish life, yet does not require you to believe in every aspect of Judaism.

Rabbi Kipnes teaches that the strength of Judaism is its teaching that every aspect our Torah and tradition is open to questioning and challenge. Even the existence of God...

What do you believe or think about God? I do not believe that God exists. I prefer to believe that in a society as advanced as ours, people can be weaned off of the opiate of the masses. I do think that there is a place for religion without God. I think that religion is a great place to build a safe community, and to teach valuable morals and lessons. It is not that I ever lost my faith in God. It is that I never had it. To be frank, I think that science makes a much more logical and compelling case for creation. I believe that history makes a better case than the bible, although I think that neither science nor history account for life's little unexplainable miracles.

What do you believe or think about God? Deism is the belief that God created the world but has no business in it today. I do not believe that God is someone that directly controls our daily lives. I believe more in free will instead than destiny. My understanding of God is slightly different from the God in which most people seem to believe. I believe that God is what you make for yourself.

In what ways do you feel connected to Israel? I wish I had a stronger relationship with Israel, the Holy Land. I feel connected in the sense that it is our ancestor's land and that I have read and been taught many wonderful things about it. But I have never been. I want to go to Israel very soon. If I am fortunate enough, I will go on my birthright trip within the next few years to deepen my connection.

In what ways do you feel connected to Israel? I never really felt a connection to Israel until I visited Israel with Congregation Or Ami's first Family Trip two winters ago. I found Israel to be a magical, beautiful place. I developed a connection to Israel the more I thought about how Israel was a nation that had risen from a horrible tragedy, existing among unfriendly neighbors. There is something very powerful about having a Jewish state in such an unfriendly and extremist area. I think that Israel is something that we need to protect for not only historical reasons but also because regardless of its past, today it is a Jewish state with Jewish families, people who have made their lives there. That right to exist must be protected. It is in that cause that I feel most connected to Israel.

I feel connected to Israel not only through the fact that I am Jewish but also through the friends I made that live in Israel. The first time I went to Israel I was too young to really appreciate it. Then in the 6th grade, I went back to Israel to visit my Great Grandmother and it was so meaningful that I do not know how to explain what I felt when I was there. Then last summer I was a counselor at my summer camp and became friends with a group of Israelis. Now I am trying to find time to go back to Israel so I can visit them and see the sights once more.

When have you felt the most Jewish and why? I felt most Jewish a few summers ago as I stood before a row of cribs in South-east Vietnam. I had traveled there with my parents and other Or Ami members on Or Ami's Humanitarian Mission to the Orphanages in Vietnam. I felt most Jewish not just because I was with a group from the temple, but because of the emotions that I felt during those three weeks. I knew that being there was crucial to my growth and development as a boy becoming a man. That experience showed me that there are so many things to be thankful for and that it is our duty to give back whatever and whenever. It illuminated for me the Jewish ideal of Mitzvot, that we all have the responsibility because of our good fortunate to give back to others.

When have you felt the most Jewish and why? I felt most Jewish when I hosted a foreign exchange student from Spain and she attend a High Holy Day service with me. Before the service, I had to explain Judaism to her. Although I do not believe in God, I found in explaining Judaism to her, that I do have an extraordinary connection to the community and the lessons of our religion.

Time to Cherish

2008-12-16T08:28:01Z

by Marge Eiseman
I guess it always matters where we start telling our stories - does my personal story begin at my conception? Birth? First memory?

Last night, I called one of my best friends, and I was hoping that I would reach her 17 year old daughter. I just wanted to check in with her, because, in addition to the normal stress of high school seniors who are waiting to see where they will be accepted for next year, we are all dealing with her mom's new diagnosis of breast cancer.

That is a lot to handle, but last year, we dealt with her sister's anorexia, and the year before that, my son's sudden death (and they were very close, like siblings), and somewhere in this time, her beloved grandfather died of lung cancer.

How do we gauge the cumulative effect of traumatic life events? Where do we start? Sometimes, it's a dangerous conversation, that leads us to think there are more bad than good things in our lives. That's a conclusion I can't live with, even though I have had what feels like more than my share of difficulties.

My young friend sees that keeping a positive attitude helps. It makes her feel better, and she is able to smile and laugh and be supportive rather than feeling sorry for herself.

I think she has learned something that many of us haven't gotten: life is best lived when you are present in the moment. We hope and pray that the current situation will be resolved for good, with as little pain as possible. Right now is not the time for tears. The present is a time to cherish!

How dcc Got the "cc" - A Family History in Motion

2008-12-12T00:42:07Z

by dcc (and az)
First some background: Once upon a time, in a magical land known as Newton, Massachusetts a boy named Andy Cutler fell in love with a "feminist in law school" named Olivia Cohen. After years of courtship and these two high school sweethearts tied the knot at Temple Ohabei Shalom in June of 1977. Like in all fairy tales, the two lived happily ever after in a wonder-world of pluralism and progress as Andy and Olivia Cohen-Cutler. These two tradition ~~bashing~~ creating newlyweds went on to bring Donnie and his very smart and funny sister Sally into the world with this new family title. Thus the Cohen-Cutler family was created.

Jump to present day.

As you may remember from other posts, I am about to get married to a very lovely woman. We met at URJ Greene Family Camp. We both worked for the Reform Movement. We both are very liberal politically, socially and religiously. But when it comes to figuring out what to do with our last name we are having difficulty dealing with the progress from the previous generation. So in this post we are asking the Reform Jewish community for help. We have spoken to our families, to our rabbis and now we are opening the appeal to the Reform Movement at large.

First here is Abby's story, in her own words:

January 14, 1973 - In the equally magical Des Moines, Iowa, Jane Sandler and David Zemel got married. As one of three girls, Jane thought it prudent to pass on her maiden name to her first daughter and so, ten years later, I, Abby Sandler Zemel was born. Five years later, my little sister joined the family and while legally her middle name is not Sandler, she adopted it as her own badge of family pride.

December 31, 2007 - Donnie proposes and I say yes. As soon we start to tell people we're asked, "What are you going to do about your last name?" Then my sister lovingly suggested I should take all four available last names, making my name Abby Sandler Zemel Cohen Cutler and thus ruling out any hopes I may have for monogrammed towels later in life.

Jump to present day.

In addition to planning a wedding, melding two families, and living the rest of my non-wedding related life, I have to toe the line between speaking my mind and offending my intended and his family as we try to figure out what to call ourselves. When I used to daydream and doodle the combination of my name with his, a hyphen was never part of the picture.

We've talked this over many times and at one point, it looked like we had a solution. Donnie would simply drop the hyphen in his name, meaning he would have two separate but equal last names and could still be known as DCC. I would take Cutler (his Dad's family name) and future generations would be saved from this dilemma. That was a short-lived solution, however, as Donnie realized he was uncomfortable with that proposal. Solution #2 was to drop the hyphen and combine the two last names, resulting in one long last name (rough for ScanTron tests, but manageable) but that one got ruled out also.

The most recent idea is to stick with tradition and for me to adopt Donnie's last name, as is, as my own. Here's the wrench in the plan - I don't like this solution. Our doorman already calls me Ms. Cohen because he thinks the hyphen is between Donnie and me, not his parents. If I'm going to have a hyphenated last name, I'd like at least one of those names to be my own.

Or, dcc could stay dcc and I could stay Abby Sandler Zemel. But here's the scenario I keep playing over in my head: We have kids and, as tradition dictates, the kids take Donnie's last name. Donnie is at parent-teacher conferences and the teacher is telling him how well our son/daughter is doing in school, except that he/she talks too much (trust me, this will happen). I come in late (from my noble, well-paying and satisfying job) and introduce myself as Abby Zemel, except the teacher has no idea that the smart, but overly talkative child she's talking about is mine. It seems unfair that the paternal side is represented while my family name(s) are lost.Our parents are from the school of thought that we should arrive at tough decisions by ourselves so while they're great listeners they're not coughing up a whole lot of other solutions.

So back to me:

I have a deep connection and deep disdain for my hyphenated name. Throughout my entire life people have asked if my parents are divorced. Since I have been old enough to look bald, people seem to think I am already married. However, my identity is as Donald Cohen-Cutler not Donald Cutler, Donald Cohen, Donald Cutler-Cohen (which happens all too often), Donald Cohencutler or any other combination there of. But then again, my identity has very limited history.

Any history of the Cutler family is kind of my history and any history of the Cohen family is kind of my history, but not really. There are no other Cohen-Cutler's in the world besides my mom, dad and sister. There are no great Cohen-Cutler rabbis, no great Cohen-Cutler philosophers from the old country, no Cohen-Cutler squares in some small corner of Eastern Europe and perhaps most morbidly, no Cohen-Cutlers died to be Jewish. These are the things that make identity stronger than just what a single person can create within his lifetime.

But my name is Donald Cohen-Cutler and I would like to start creating the Cohen-Cutler history, preferably without having anyone die for this history, with my future wife. A co-worker of mine put it bluntly: within one generation the Cohen-Cutler name will be part of history. I would like Abby to take my name and I want our children to have our name, yet I do understand her reservations. I don't want her to give up her identity to start building our own together.

Help Us:

So this is where you all come in: What do you think we should do? We both know there is a bunch of hyphenated Reform Jews out there reading this blog. Come on - if there was ever a group of people with more hyphenated last names we haven't found it! So what have you done, what do you think your kids should do if they get married, is there some great story out there that helped you figure out what to do? We want to know, so a leave comment and we will learn from you.

Because He Couldn't, Let Us Remember HM

2008-12-05T21:42:37Z

By Gardening Grandma
I sometimes suspect the urge to make the world a better place is part of the DNA of every Jew, yet I recognize that it runs in the veins of people of all persuasions, often when they're not even aware of their actions.

An obit of "H.M., an Unforgettable Amnesiac," appears on the front page of this morning's New York Times. After experimental brain surgery in 1953 to correct uncontrollable seizures, he lost the ability to form new memories. And, because he and his family were willing to be the object of intensive study, the world of modern neuroscience was born.

For 55 years, each time H.M. met a friend, each time he ate a meal, each time he walked in the woods, it was as if for the first time. God's world was created anew each day for him.

Judaism teaches us that we are God's partner in Tikkun olam--repairing the world. Because H.M. had no memory, he could not know that by the simple act of living, he was working with God and giving us and future generations a gift far beyond measure.

The article ends with a simple line. "Henry Gustav Molaison, born on Feb. 26, 1926, left no survivors. He left a legacy in science that cannot be erased."

To that I add, Amen.

When the Yizkor list gets long...

2008-12-01T00:04:55Z

Out of a discussion about Yizkor and Yahrzeit; an exhibit on Dubuque's Jews...

by Karin Pritikin
Vice President, Temple Beth El, Dubuque
Project Director/Exhibit Developer-
The Alexander Levi Heritage Project

In 2007, Temple Beth El in Dubuque, an extension of two older congregations, had 27 households--and more than 400 names on its Yizkor/Yahrzeit list. Some members felt the list was too lengthy to read on the High Holidays, while others believed strongly that reading the list was a powerful way to maintain a connection to those who built Dubuque's Jewish community which, though small, still thrives.

When several of us expressed the desire to explore the creation of a Yizkor/Yahrzeit fund to honor those on the list whose families were no longer living, or in the area, it led to an interesting discovery. The impending 175th anniversary of the city's founding coincided with the 175th anniversary of the arrival of Alexander Levi, Dubuque's first Jew, the state's first naturalized citizen; and the founder, in 1857, of the city's first Jewish congregation.

Intent on sharing the story of our community's nearly 200 years of presence in the region, we created the Alexander Levi Heritage Project and wrote grants to develop a museum exhibit. In early 2008 we received a $5000 grant from the city of Dubuque and a $3000 in match funding from Humanities Iowa and the National Endowment for the Humanities. The National Mississippi River Museum & Aquarium (a regional Smithsonian affiliate) offered exhibit space.

Researching, writing, designing and assembling the interactive exhibit took over 1000 of volunteer hours, a task made easier by a Beth El congregant who, 15 years earlier, had assembled a shopping bag full of "spare time" research on Levi and other early Iowa Jews (partly in response to telephone and mailed inquiries from people who believed their relatives were buried in the cemetery Levi had deeded in perpetuity to the city).

The resulting installation "From Distant Places to Dubuque's Shores: 175 Years of Jewish Presence" is on view at the museum until the first of the year and online at www.levicelebration.com. It opened in mid-August in concurrence with a weekend-long Jewish family reunion and a dinner at the museum that drew 60 -- including visitors who traveled from as far away as Palm Springs. A Chicago philanthropist donated an additional $1000 along with 4 hours of interviews, taped in 1964, of his then 84-year old grandmother recounting her emigration from Europe and her move to Dubuque.

But advance publicity for the exhibit led to the biggest surprise: a beshert reconnection/reunion with Alexander Levi's descendants who had been lost to the local historical record since 1918. Three weeks before the grand opening, Levi's 86-year old great grand-daughter met, by chance, with a curator at Spertus Museum in Chicago to discuss the donation of his family papers. Learning of the exhibit, she and other family members made contact, prepared and photographed documents and artifacts for the creation of an ancillary panel, and traveled to Dubuque for the opening dinner and the reunion weekend. What a moving moment, during the Shabbat service (and dedication of a new Yahrzeit board) when the Levi descendants came up to the Bima for honors in the town to which their ancestor brought Iowa's first sefer Torah.

According to anecdotal reports from museum staff, comments from friends and clergy from other faith communities, and questionnaires filled out onsite, "From Distant Places to Dubuque's Shores..." has been very positively received by the Dubuque-at-large. In the three months since the exhibit's opening, there have been over 10 in-depth articles about the exhibit, our history and our present day community in the Dubuque and Galena papers, online, on TV and in local magazines. A feature story is currently being developed for a national Jewish publication. The Iowa Jewish Historical Society is exploring expanding exhibit content and moving it to the state historical museum in Des Moines in 2009, and there has been an offer of a both a temporary show at the University of Dubuque, and a permanent home in a city museum after the exhibit finishes its limited tour.

The impact of this remarkable "journey of discovery" was felt in a very personal way by me, the exhibit's director and designer. During the research process I had learned a great deal about some of the town's founding Jewish mothers and fathers whose names I had heard incanted over the years during the Yizkor service. This Yom Kippur, standing on the Bima alongside Beth El's oldest congregant (himself a star of one of the exhibit's films), and reading the names of the departed, reaffirmed how honoring the blessed memories of our city's earliest Jewish citizens...and the memories and stories of all those who have made Dubuque's community viable and vital... is not a mere responsibility, it is a rare and wonderful privilege!

Ever hear the one about the Rabbi, the minister and the bagpiper?

2008-10-27T22:03:50Z

By Steve Arnold
I know it sounds like a corny joke, but it's the situation I had to balance recently in finally laying the ashes of my late wife to rest. In a world where more than half of all Jewish marriages are interfaith, finding a way to balance those different cultural demands is something we're all going to face.

My story starts in April when my wife Marg died suddenly. She was a believing, but non-practicing Anglican and I'm Jewish. Her relatives are hard-right Pentacostals. The funeral service and visitation were marred by some serious and bitter conflicts with her relatives over fundamental questions - Marg and I had always talked about cremation, but her relatives were horrified at the idea her body wouldn't be ready for the rapture. I would sit shiva after the funeral, but for the service itself I wanted a dignified Anglican funeral - they wanted their family pastor to preach "hell fire and damnation." Emotions ran high.

Partly because of that conflict, and partly because I wasn't ready to let go, when the funeral home staff brought a small shopping bag to me containing a neatly wrapped little package, I put it in a cabinet surrounded by some of Marg's favourite capodimonte roses and a nice picture of her and waited. Time doesn't heal some wounds, but it does make them less raw. When I realized it would be soon be six months since her death, I finally made the decision to have the cremains buried.

Time had cooled some of the initial anger and I found Marg's sister anxious to help make the final arrangements. She was there when I picked out the grave site, the marker, made all the business arrangements. It was the kind of support family is supposed to give, and because of that I agreed to let their family minister take part in the service I'd asked my own rabbi to lead. At the last minute Marg's sister asked for a piper to acknowledge their Scottish heritage.

On that final day, Rabbi Jordan Cohen read the Jewish burial service for me, Pastor Whittaker prayed to Jesus for the soul of a good Christian, I recited the Kaddish and Marg's sister read poetry. The piper played Amazing Grace and everyone finally felt that tiny bit of peace you're supposed to get from a funeral.

It could have been a real disaster, but in the end we found a way to meet everyone's needs by and respect everyone's tradition.

In the end, the Rabbi, the minister and the bagpiper helped bring a family back together.

Bereshit: New Beginnings

2008-10-26T00:55:50Z

By Andi Rosenthal
This morning, my weekly Torah study group, along with thousands of b'nei mitzvah children all over the world, began the Torah over again. The beginning comes, in my opinion, at the exact perfect moment, when the chill in the air and the gorgeous vibrant leaves and the deep azure of the Sound all bring the beauty of G-d's handiwork into sharp focus. It's as if, no matter what troubles or joys you are facing, you simply have to notice what a beautiful world we live in. And as a writer, very few narratives intrigue me as much as our sacred story of creation. Bereshit bara Elohim et hashamayim v'et ha'aretz - in the beginning, G-d created the heavens and the earth - is one of those perfect first lines - in fact, it is THE perfect first line. And I think any writer worth their keyboard would agree.

Consider how some of the most compelling and intriguing stories begin with lines like: Scarlett O'Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm as the Tarleton twins were. Or, Lily, the caretaker's daughter, was literally run off her feet. The perfect combination of wanting to know more about the character and the action inherent in the text. From the moment you read it, you're hooked. Face it: you can't let the story go.

When I think about "in the beginning" it always makes me wonder. The beginning, by definition, can only take place once. And yet in life, we are inundated by beginnings, second and third acts, countless chances. The old saw, "You never get a second chance to make a first impression" is a powerful statement, but I'm curious as to whether it is actually true. Our gift of teshuvah, of personal evolution, of the ability to turn and change, and the not-so-unimportant blessing of other people's short term memory gives us that second chance all the time.

Just like with Torah: every year, we begin again. We rarely read it the same way twice. In each reading cycle, we are informed by internal and external circumstances, life changes, personal experience, and the opinions and ideas that other people bring to the table. The fact that we are not supposed to study alone makes that last quality perhaps the most important. Reading about the death of Miriam one year made me consider the justifiable frustration and anger of B'nei Yisrael having been "led on" through the desert, and now facing a crisis of inadequate water and supplies for the journey. A year later, having faced incalculable loss in my own life, all I could see was a distraught and grieving Moses simultaneously struggling to lead a people and mourn for his sister. That point of view had, of course, been at the table the year before - many of those teachers of Torah with whom I share in study every Shabbat had the knowledge way before I did. But it took looking at the text through my own lens of mourning to see it clearly.

Beginning again is also the hallmark of so many aspects of my own life: by definition, the writer is always beginning, whether it is a new book, a new chapter, a new sentence. And as is the case with so many fellow Jews-by-Choice, living life in a new faith and according to a new set of lifecycles accounts for numerous beginnings throughout the learning process of becoming Jewish -- and beyond. Consider the process: taking Intro to Judaism; beginning Hebrew classes. Starting with aleph instead of the letter A. Realizing that your day now starts at sundown rather than sunrise. Even figuring out how to keep kosher (which I still haven't managed to do) or how to conduct that first Seder or bake that first Rosh HaShana apple cake calls for looking at things in a way you've never seen them before, beginning again, over and over. It is certainly no accident that many of us who have trained as URJ Outreach Fellows call our discussion group for Jews-by-Choice "New Beginnings."

As I wrote recently, sometimes being at the beginning again can be scary. It is learning how to mark time and move forward poised between old knowledge and new, between who you've been and whom you've yet to become. Perhaps still reacting to old ghosts and ideas from the past and perhaps fearing what the future holds. It's an odd place to be.

But as my dear friend Reb Marci taught me in our recent online discussion about the death of Moses, Torah does not really allow us to dwell in the past; the story's very momentum commands us to move forward. And before we know it we are back at the table, in awe as our eyes behold the heavens and the earth, the stars in the firmament and every living thing according to its type. And perhaps there is nothing more perfect to say than the Holy One's own words: Ki tov.

The Marriage Equality Trifecta

2008-10-17T23:19:25Z

By Kate Bigam
(First posted on the RACBlog)
Kate Bigam is the Press Secretary at the Religious Action Center.

The fight for marriage equality is heating up in California, Florida and Arizona, states that will see November ballot initiatives to amend their state constitutions to prohibit same-sex marriage. Here's a quick update on each state's grassroots campaign to oppose these dangerous and discriminatory initiatives (including a little help from Ellen DeGeneres!) and some insight into how Reform rabbis are helping out:

Arizonans voted no on a similar measure in 2006, and now they're up against the same thing this year. Now, Vote No on Prop. 102 is seeking volunteers to help spread the word about this dangerous initiative and offering $5.00 yard signs that advertise opposition to the amendment. Reform Rabbis Helen. T Cohn (Congregation Chaverim) and Thomas A. Louchheim (Congregation Or Chadash) joined an oppositional statement with other faith leaders, saying, "This amendment is morally, religiously, and financially divisive, and would be destructive to many Arizona families."

Clergy of varied religions and denominations, including Rabbi Jack Romberg of Temple Israel in Tallahassee, came together to launch Florida Clergy for Fairness, a coalition of religious leaders opposed to Florida's Amendment 2. Sunshine State rabbis and cantors (and other clergy, if you're reading this!) are invited to join. And in other Florida news, Fairness for All Families has posted its list of the top 10 reasons Floridians should vote no on Amendment 2.

In California, synagogues like Congregation Kol Ami in West Hollywood (where Rabbi Denise Eger was one of the first clergy to officiate a California same-sex wedding in May!) are joining in by participating in phone banking and engaging in interfaith work to actively oppose the initiative. Even Ellen DeGeneres has teamed up with the No on 8 campaign, Equality for All, to encourage voters to oppose the proposed constitutional amendment that would overturn the California Supreme Judicial Court's May ruling that the state's ban on gay marriage was unconstitutional.

The Union for Reform Judaism has long been a supporter of equality for same-sex couples. If you vote in California, Florida, or Arizona, I encourage you to learn more about the ballot initiative in your state and then, come Election Day, to vote in favor of fairness and equality.

Yom Kippur Minhag

2008-10-12T17:34:33Z

By JanetheWriter
Last year on Yom Kippur, my father and I ducked out of temple following the morning service, drove down the road to the mall and--while the children's and tot services were underway--spent time browsing in Barnes and Noble, comparing notes about our most recent (and not so recent) reads, discussing what's on each of our "to read" lists and seeking out new treasures to add to those lists. Among the books we thumbed through that afternoon was Daniel Mendelsohn's The Lost, which, later in 5768, I subsequently purchased and we both read. So profound was its impact on me that I wrote about it twice for this blog--once before the read and once after.

This year, the day before erev Yom Kippur, I sent my father the following email:

Dear Daddy,

Do you want to go to Barnes and Noble again on YK afternoon the way we did last year? That's where we saw The Lost. Who knows what we might find this year!

XO,
B!

He replied:

Dear B.,

Of course! It's a good way to spend the time between services and, you're right, who knows what we'll find. See you tomorrow.

Love,
D.

And so the ink was sealed on our new minhag.

Last Thursday's jaunt in Barnes and Noble uncovered a few books in particular. For the parasitologist: The American Plague: The Untold Story of Yellow Fever, the Epidemic that Shaped Our History and for his daughter, the Jewish professional ensconced in congregational life: A Time to Every Purpose: Letters to a Young Jew. And, for both of us, having read Meyer Levin's 1956 novel, Compulsion, a new historical account of the Bobby Franks murder: For the Thrill of It: Leopold, Loeb, and the Murder That Shocked Chicago.

Although we purchased none of these (or any other) books that day, stay tuned to follow our reading adventures in 5769.

Third Time's the Charm

2008-10-03T23:29:17Z

By Jill Zimmerman
First posted on the RACblog
On September 6th my best friend's uncles, Dan Henkle and Steve Kawa, walked down the aisle for the third -- and finally legal -- time.

Dan and Steve first became domestic partners in 1995 and were one of the few couples personally married by San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom during the "Winter of Love" in 2004. (Steve is the Mayor's Chief of Staff.) They have shared a home in San Francisco for over 13 years and have two beautiful children, Katherine and Michael. But this September wedding was the first time the couple's commitment was legally sanctioned.

However, a California ballot initiative is threatening to take away the right for couples like Dan and Steve to be married under California state law. Proposition 8, which will be on California ballots November 4th, would amend the California State Constitution to say: "Only marriage between a man and a woman is valid or recognized in California." Similar measures will be on the ballots in Florida and Arizona, and one that would prevent gay couples from adopting children will be on the ballots in Hawaii.

So, instead of asking for coffee makers and monogrammed towels, Dan and Steve asked guests to make a donation to Equality California's No on Proposition 8 (Stop the Marriage Ban).

Jewish tradition teaches that each of us, created in God's image, has a unique talent, with which we can contribute to the high moral purpose of tikkun olam, the repair of our world. Excluding anyone from our community lessens our chance of achieving this goal of a more perfect world.

And in case that isn't motivation enough, Brad Pitt is donating $100,000 to help fight the marriage ban.

Philanthropy as a Rite of Passage

2008-09-22T19:54:23Z

By Gardening Grandma
Every synagogue I know has some sort of "mitzvah" requirement built into the bar/bat mitzvah program. Often the mitzvah is so small--"I spent an afternoon reading to children in an after-school program!" or "I gave my old children's books to the hospital!" -- that the chance that the 13-year-old learned a lifelong lesson is pretty slim.

But today I read about Jared and Colby Kash on Jewlicious. I've no doubt that these two brothers are on their way to a lifelong habit.

What's happening in your family?

Children of the Emek

2008-09-21T18:13:42Z

By Larry Kaufman
For my ninth birthday, my Aunt Rebecca and Uncle Morris gave me a book hot off the presses, written by their friend Libbie Braverman, who was the principal of the Hebrew school at the Euclid Avenue Temple in Cleveland. The book was called Children of the Emek, and had emerged from Libbie's recent trip to Palestine, very shortly before trans-Atlantic travel was halted by World War II.

Children of the Emek told the story of life in Palestine under the British mandate, through the eyes of a young brother and sister who lived in Nahalal, in the Jezreel Valley (the Emek of the title).

I remember their life on the moshav, their visits to Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, and to a kibbutz, and especially their friendship with Elsa, a girl their age who had just come to Palestine as a refugee from Nazi Germany through the auspices of Youth Aliyah.

By the time I was a senior in high school, Libbie had been promoted at the Euclid Avenue Temple and had become education director - and her successor as head of Hebrew, Sara Palay, hired me to teach Hebrew to second graders. Thus I got a chance to get to know Libbie in a context other than as my aunt's friend and as the author of what had been one of my favorite books.

Although as a bookish kid in a Zionist household, I read and re-read Children of the Emek, I didn't properly appreciate it until some 35 years after I first encountered it, when I realized during my first trip to Israel how much of what I knew about the country could be traced to this book I had read as a youngster.

With the benefit of hindsight, I suppose the book was intended as a Sunday school textbook - both of the Reform temples in Cleveland were led by rabbis who were ardent Zionists at a time when Zionism was far from the mainstream of the Reform movement. My supposition about the book's presumed textbook origin was corroborated many years later, when I stumbled on a copy at a used book sale. This turned out to be a 1954 update, in which the characters and the setting remained intact, but the story had been brought up to date to portray the early years of the state rather than the pre-war, pre-state era. Frankly, I didn't feel that the modernization worked - but then, I was no longer nine years old. However, a Google search today reveals that you can still buy copies!

At this season of cheshbon hanefesh, the accounting of our souls, it's appropriate to look back at our mistakes and our regrets. I realize now with regret that when I came back from that first trip to Israel, I should have called Libbie and told her about the lasting impact her book had had on a nine-year old kid - and also on the impact her providing a teaching opportunity had had on a seventeen-year old kid. She would have been in her seventies by then, and I've been told that she lived to a ripe old age, in full possession of her faculties and of her reputation as a peerless educator. I offer this public tribute to a great lady as a substitute for the private message I should have delivered.

Moving and Memory Boxes

2008-09-19T21:12:06Z

By Rabbi Eric Eisenkramer

I despise packing and moving. I suspect that I am not alone in this feeling. Last summer I packed every item that I own to move from Queens to Ridgefield, CT to begin serving as Rabbi of Temple Shearith Israel. I quickly remembered how much I detest the process of making boxes, figuring out what to keep and what to throw away, and trying to get everything done before the movers arrive.

Out of the dozens of boxes that I packed, I had three or four from childhood. I did not even bother to open those boxes. They stayed sealed, the movers put them on the truck, and they came with us. These are my memory boxes. They are filled with greeting cards and old art projects. Within these boxes are my kindergarten class picture, a series of letters that I wrote to a good friend from elementary school who moved away, and then there were the baseball cards. Hundreds of them. Cards that my dad bought in the 1950s and ones that I bought in the 1980s. The baseball cards are a family tradition that my dad and I share, each buying them when we were boys. My wife would rather part with the cards, but I keep reminding her that they might be valuable some day, although in truth I doubt it. The sealed memory boxes that never got opened or looked at, are currently sitting in our third bedroom, just as they sat in a storage locker in Queens before that.

Hundreds of them. Cards that my dad bought in the 1950s and ones that I bought in the 1980s. The baseball cards are a family tradition that my dad and I share, each buying them when we were boys. My wife would rather part with the cards, but I keep reminding her that they might be valuable some day, although in truth I doubt it. The sealed memory boxes that never got opened or looked at, are currently sitting in our third bedroom, just as they sat in a storage locker in Queens before that.

I suspect that the reason that I held on to these childhood boxes for so many years is that I want to hold on to the past. The boxes are heavy, I look at their contents maybe once a decade, but it does not matter. They symbolize the experiences that I had as a child and in college. To throw away those boxes would feel like throwing away the memories themselves. I suspect that we all try to on to the past in some way, like carrying boxes with us from house to house.
Judaism teaches that it is fine to bring things with us in our travels, even if they can get heavy and burdensome. When the Israelites were wandering in the desert for 40 years, they actually brought not one but two arks with them. One ark contained the shattered pieces of the 10 commandments that Moses broke after the Golden Calf. The other ark contained the second set of tablets, a whole set, that Moses received from God. Why did the Israelites carry around that broken set of tablets for 40 years? Why not leave them behind and take the new set only?
Perhaps our ancestors carried the broken tablets to remind them of their mistake in worshipping the calf, so that they would not repeat it. Or maybe the broken tablets were now a part of their story, a part that they would not want to leave behind. Just as the Israelites carried those shattered tablets with them, our memories, both positive and negative, are a part of who we are.

However, the problem with holding on to the past is that it can get heavy. There is value in getting rid of old things and starting fresh. As my wife and I packed boxes, we threw away a lot. Being an environmentalist, I recycled as much as I could, especially old papers and files. There was something cathartic about getting rid of stuff, even mementos, so that we could travel lighter, and let go of the past.

There was a story in the newspaper about a couple who moved every few years. Each time they went to a new apartment of house, they literally threw everything away, their furniture, silverware, plates, and linens. Then they would buy a fresh set furnishings and kitchen supplies and start from scratch. You would certainly have to be well off to live like this! Nonetheless, there is something tempting about the idea of starting completely fresh. The article did not say if the couple threw away all of their files, papers, memories and mementos. I would think not.

In dealing with our past, we are constantly being pulled in two directions, the desire to keep or to throw away, the desire to remember or to forget. Judaism counsels us to cherish the past, but just to be careful not to let it become a burden. We all carry boxes that we move from house to house without ever opening. We also hold on to regrets, guilt and some bad memories. Just as the Israelites carried around those two arks, one with the whole tablets, and one with the broken, it is allright for us to hold on to the memories of our successes and struggles, as they make up the true story of our lives.

A friend of mine's mother is in her 80s. He was in her basement recently, in the house where she has lived for decades. The basement is full of boxes, memories and stuff that had not been looked at in years. Peering at the large piles, my friend thought about how someday he will have to go through all of that stuff and decide what to do with it. He was not looking forward to that job on many levels. My friend told me that maybe it might bring back some good memories too.

Like most of us, I think that I will probably end up like my friend's mother. I will have a basement someday full of stuff that my children or grandchildren will have to clean out. But when they go through the writings, and mementos and pictures, I hope that they will smile. I hope that they will enjoy seeing part of my journey on this earth and that it will make them feel good.

Rabbi Eric Eisenkramer serves as the spiritual leader of Temple Shearith Israel in Ridgefield, CT. He also writes a blog, The Fly Fishing Rabbi, about Trout, God and religion.

What no one could tell you about losing a child

2008-09-11T18:33:39Z

By Marge Eiseman
No one could tell us what to do. Zach's bar mitzvah was looming and even beginning to plan brought up huge pain. No matter what, big family events are a delicate balancing act, trying to find the right way to acknowledge the loss of loved ones while still finding the joy in the moment. This goes for recent losses and even the distant ones - because love and loss are inextricably linked together.

Last spring at Andy's 50th birthday party, one of our friends remarked, "That's your family - three boys and Baki's framed jersey!" and it was a strange summary statement. No one who knows us ever forgets that we lost our child, Baki, a mere three and a half years ago, but we all realize that life goes on.

The big event in our lives was our youngest son's bar mitzvah celebration last Shabbat. Over the weeks leading up to Zach's big day, we had numerous little cloudbursts - I teared up thinking of how Baki didn't want to become a bar mitzvah, and then died when he was only 12; when my friends mentioned how they were thinking of Baki and how hard it must be for us, it brought back all the love and loss. How were we going to make this bar mitzvah ceremony be about Zach, but recognize everyone's attention to the missing child?

We decided to use the tallit ceremony at the beginning of the service to mention Baki - actually, we wanted to use one of his favorite kipot, but couldn't find one. Next best was to create a tallit (in the same way I've been making "Comfort Shawls" with people around the country). In presenting it to him, I explained the symbolic representation of Baki (his favorite number 10 appliquéed on a heart within a heart in the center back) as part of the enveloping love that we know surrounds Zach at all times.

By putting it out there at the very beginning, we know we helped avoid the "elephant in the room" syndrome. It freed us to celebrate with all the joy that is possible - as it says in the Shehechyanu: "Thank you God for enabling us to reach this season!"

Straight or Gay, Marriage is Sacred

2008-09-10T21:18:47Z

By JanetheWriter
Three years ago last week, the California Assembly voted to legalize same-sex marriage in the Golden State. Earlier this week, the JTA reported that on September 4, perhaps to mark this anniversary, Orthodox Jewish and Catholic leaders signed a statement that affirms that affording same-sex unions the status of marriage "dilute[s] the special standing of marriage between a man and a woman."

The signatories "hope that even those outside of our common religious traditions will recognize that we speak from the truth of human nature itself which is consistent with both reason and the moral life." Although one of the statement's signatories, Rabbi Fabian Schonfeld, chairman of the OU/RCA Joint Committee on Interreligious Affairs, and I share a religious tradition, I don't believe that he speaks from the truth of human nature and I certainly don't believe that that truth is consistent with either reason or with the moral life.

My truth tells me that the sanctity of my parents' 50+-plus-year union is on a par with the much more recent one of Josh Wayser and Richard Schulte, who together are raising five (yes, five) kids in a loving, stable home.

My truth tells me that the marriage between Laura Moskowitz and Robin Shore equals in holiness the one my grandparents had. My truth tells me, too, that their daughter Mariah, with two loving parents devoted to each other and to building a Jewish home together, is one lucky kid.

My truth tells me that, as Philip Smith wrote in a recent post on Jewcy, "...God might not care... whether you love men or women, as long as you love. Instead,...I would assume that God would be more concerned with how you move through the world, how you express love, and how you contribute to others."

And thus, my truth tells me that because of the ways in which Rabbi Victor Appell and his partner Colin move through the world, express love and contribute to others, their union, although not sanctioned by the State of New Jersey, is, nonetheless, holy. Like Josh and Richard, Laura and Robin, these two loving adults have devoted themselves to each other and to raising two Jewish children.

And lastly this: My truth tells me that, as with politics, all definitions are local. If the Orthodox community wishes to define "sacred" -- for the Orthodox community -- that's fine. If the Catholic community wishes to define "sacred" -- for the Catholic community -- that's fine, too. However, truths are not laws, and none of us--least of all Josh and Richard, Laura and Robin, Victor and Colin, or the thousands of other loving individuals building sacred, holy unions as same-sex couples--need be restrained in any way by someone else's truth.

Tribalism, Reform Judaism, Rites and Choices

2008-09-05T02:18:48Z

By dcc
Answer this question for me honestly: Do you, as an active Reform Jew, practice a Jewish tradition simply because that is what Jews have always done? Professor Carol Ochs writes in this week's d'var Torah that our portion teaches us that we can't "keep doing something just because we have always done it." I don't observe rituals simply because my parents do (or don't) observe them, but in all honesty my family's observance does inform my personal observance. And for that matter my community's observance plays a significant role in the formation of mine as well. But I can say with no doubt in my mind that I do not follow Jewish tradition simply because it is the way it has always been done.

So why do we continue to practice the brit mila?

In the most recent edition of Reform Judaism magazine Rabbi Mark Washofsky, HUC-JIR professor, Reform responsa scholar and general reference for all things Reform Judaism, wrote that Reform Jews continue this practice simple because that is what Jews do.

I think that the answer to these questions lies largely in the words "ancient tribal rite." For that's what berit milah is. That's why we do it, and, really, it's the only reason we do it.

Circumcision is a tribal rite in the same way that every Jewish ritual observance is a "tribal rite": a means by which the members of our "tribe" express their identity as a people, as a community covenanted with God, through the performance of a "rite" meaningful only within the context of that covenant. Putting it another way, if we seek to explain why we light Shabbat candles, or fast on Yom Kippur, or hold a Passover seder, it would be enough to say simply that "we do these things because we are Jews, because only Jews do them, and because we rehearse our uniquely Jewish identity by means of these uniquely Jewish acts."

I don't buy this at all. Earlier in the article, Washofsky notes that throughout Reform Jewish history boys had been circumcised, but not always by a mohel (or more recently a mohelet). Yet in the past few decades there has been a revival of the practice of the brit milah. So people don't just do it because it was always done, there is a choice that takes place in the mind of parents. They choose to identify with a past. They learn about their history and make the choice to connect to tradition.

There are also those who choose to identify with the past, learn about history and choose not go through with this practice. There has been a growing movement of "intactivists" (clever name I know) are gaining ground, even in some segments of the Jewish community. These folks tend to be young, upwardly-mobile, urban, professional types (there is some clever name for them too) who may or may not be connected the organized Jewish community.

Regardless of this movement or the so-called revival, the same issue is at its center: parents making a choice for their children.

Recently, Rabbi Danny Rich, leader of the Britain's Liberal Judaism, was quoted saying that he holds ethical requirements of Judaism over ritual practice; the article in which he is quoted focused on circumcision. DK, the Kvetcher, has long been harping on this particular issue and it seems that he believes that the brit milah will be gone from all streams of liberal Judaism with in a few generations. He uses Rabbi Rich's statement as proof. I disagree.

As the Reform Movement in North America continues to explore our past as a way to inform our present and build our future, the brit milah revival will continue and so too will the advancement of the intactivists. But the act of circumcision will not disappear from the liberal Jewish world. As long as choice remains a major aspect of liberal thinking and Reform Jewish ideology, people will continue to make the choice to engage with this tradition.

I am curious to hear the reaction of others out there in the Jewish, Reform Jewish and Intactivist worlds. Let me know.

An Ageless Rite of Passage

2008-08-27T19:04:06Z

By JanetheWriter
From the matriarchs to Judith, Esther and Ruth, right up to some of the more recent pioneers in our own Movement--including Rabbis Sally Priesand, Elyse Frishman, Stacy Offner, Laura Geller and Janet Marder, among others--our tradition is filled with great Jewish women.

To this list I'd add the names Henrietta Blend, Dolores Wyde, Diana Wuntch, and Harriet Newport. Recently, these four seventy- eighty- and ninety-somethings culminated nearly a year of Jewish study and learning with a joyous b'not mitzvah celebration in an assisted living community in greater Houston.

Mazel tov and yasher koach to each of them. May they continue to go and grow from strength to strength, and, as they already have done for me, teach and inspire the rest of us along the way.

Sunday School is a Bummer

2008-08-25T14:57:30Z

By Mary Hofmann
I went to a workshop this week aimed at giving Sunday School teachers insight into and assistance in instituting and utilizing Union's Chai Curriculum. As the only teacher from a tiny congregation (we have six to eight kids in our whole "school") I listened sadly to the tales of woe from the urban teachers. As the facilitator said, Jewish education has always been considered supplemental education--not supplemental to public school, but supplemental to what kids get at home. Sadly, it is no longer a supplement. In many, if not most, temples, Sunday School is the whole ball of wax.

What a bummer.

Made me nearly reel in gratitude for our little Shabbat School. Bucking all trends, my grouplet meets Saturday morning, a fact which met with a chorus of "but what about soccer?" from the big city folk. While in little Merced I may moan about numbers, it seems everybody else is worried--and horrifying so--about trying to jam into their Sunday mornings the child's entire Jewish identity and experience. No wonder camp has become the Holy Grail, you should excuse the expression, of Jewish identity for modern liberal Jewish kids. And I always sorta thought the big camping push was really just a slick marketing trick. No. I guess camp really has become the make-or-break for most Jewish kids' identity because it's the only place where they get an immersion experience.

My class may be tiny, but they show up with their parents to my house every Saturday morning for two hours. And most show up with their parents every Friday evening for services, often driving us to distraction, but they're there. They've been able to at least parrot the Shabbat table blessings in Hebrew since they were two or three and Shabbat is part of their little lives, not something their parents drop them off for hoping somebody else will give them what they aren't bothering with at home.

I'm really excited about starting this fall with my little guys and Chai, which will be a great supplement to their lives. But what about all those other kids out there? The kids with the "advantage" of having a building and lots of members and a real school?

We always bemoan how small we are and try to figure out ways to grow. Is that what we have to look forward to if we do?

COMMENTS PRIOR TO TECH ISSUES

M. B. said:
I learned in college that a big class or a big school isn't a prerequisite to a good education. One of my friends was young woman who had attended a one room school in a small town. She learned enough to gain admittance to a top ten university and proceeded to beat much of the competition, graduating near the top of her class.
Some of the great figures have been self educated in religion. Take Thomas Jefferson for example.
Leaning is a life long process. It should be an enjoyable and exciting one. All we can hope to do as teachers is to awaken the interest of the young students in our history, our ethics, and Bible and to give them some of the basic knowledge to explore themselves. That and to give them a little orientation about the holidays, temple and rituals so that they can feel at home. They will absorb some from their family, including, hopefully, a few good recipes or at least the appreciation for some of the better Jewish food. Jews are renowned for their voracious reading, justifying the printing of many more books and articles on Jewish history, issues and theology than our small numbers would seem to predict.
Some of the big schools with all the money, students, and other resources, wind up wasting most of it on busy work and repelling the students instead of attracting them to Judaism.
August 25, 2008 11:19 PM

Marge Eiseman said:
Mary,
My rabbi always said, "Judaism isn't about the numbers!" If it were, we'd have given up long ago -- and as you and your congregation already discovered, that's not an option!
Keep going and grow if that's what needs to happen, but keep focused on having Jewish experiences and making meaning. That's what will ultimately ground your children AND their parents in being life-long Jewish learners and participants.
You're doing great!
-- Marge
August 26, 2008 3:11 PM

BZ said:
M.B.:
"Jewish food"? What happened to universal prophetic values and being fully integrated into American society?
August 26, 2008 8:54 PM

Larry Kaufman said:
Mary, I was startled at your definition of supplemental as supplementing the home rather than the public school. But I'd like to propose that the public school provides (secular) education, the home provides (Jewish) values -- and what you are doing that is unique is that your little school synthesizes Jewish education and the Jewish values of mishpacha, family, talmud torah, learning, and of Shabbat.
What you have going for you, I infer, is that unlike us big-city big-congregation people, you have peer pressure working for you rather than against you -- and motivating the parents, not just the kids.
My wife grew up in a small town with only a handful of Jews -- but 50+ years later, she is still in some sort of contact with virtually everyone she went to religious school with. Meanwhile I barely remember the names of my Sunday school classmates.
So count your blessings, as hopefully your students of all ages count theirs in having you.
August 26, 2008 10:50 PM

M. B. said:
BZ:
Hey, we've all got to eat!
August 27, 2008 1:22 AM

David A.M. Wilensky said:
@ M.B.: I think what BZ was implying is that the notion that there might be such a thing as Jewish food is entirely tied into the notion that there is a Jewish culture. It's a little odd coming from you, given that you've often talked in your comments on this blog of Judaism as religion only as per your extreme classical leaning.
August 27, 2008 3:43 PM

M. B. said:
Jews are known for some great foods like corned beef sandwiches with kosher dill pickles and potato salad, kosher hot dogs or for the perfect for Passover flourless chocolate cakes our ancestors invented in Italy. Food provides a powerful association for those of us who grew up in Jewish homes, especially at the holidays. My family thinks fried matzo is delicious on Passover or any Sunday morning. Its all just a fringe benefit of being Jewish.
A lot of people pick up bagels every morning and eat kosher hot dogs often who aren't Jewish at all. They just like the food, as Jews enjoy foods from other lands and ethnic groups. Hundreds of thousands speak Hebrew now who are Muslim or Christian. Jews tend to be sympathetic to the underdogs, but so are a lot of other people. Some people adopt the culture without the religious beliefs and others the religious beliefs without the culture.
Culture is changeable, especially fluid in the modern world in the age of radio and TV, and particularly so in a country like ours where families in our communities are of many racial, religious and ethnic groups that are constantly cross-pollenating each other.
August 27, 2008 11:05 PM

Mary Hofmann said:
Thanks, everybody, for your encouraging responses (though I'm stymied by the several references to food . . . we do make Hebrew letter of the week cookies at Shabbat School, but that's pretty much it, in terms of food) . . . Anyway, my guilty secret: the truth is, I LOVE my tiny class and what we do. I've been everything in the congregation--from president on down, often repeatedly--and what I love best is teaching (not surprising, since I'm a teacher in my day job as well). During my lengthy tenure as responsible board member, my emphasis had to be on growth and development, of course (not that it did much good). But the truth is, I too believe kids at a big temple are losing out in terms of what they're kids are getting compared to ours, and except for that residual guilt from too many years on the board, I'd be very content to stick with my little group throughout their entire Jewish educations!
August 28, 2008 1:43 AM

David A.M. Wilensky said:
M.B., you're making my point for me! You're saying that food, which you openly admit is part of a cultural heritage, can be a powerful device for creating an association in a student.
This is exactly the argument for Judaism as a religion AND a culture! Without the cultural elements, like the corned beef without the rye, the religion just comes apart!
August 28, 2008 3:55 AM

An Unusual Family Bar Mitzvah

2008-08-20T21:00:00Z

By Marge Eiseman
The preparations for my youngest son's bar mitzvah celebration are getting underway. I am not feeling stressed about it, nor will we spend a fortune (that we don't have). Here's a peek at some of the process.

We are admittedly an unusual family -- we began our preparations over a year ago, and never hired a party planner, a caterer or a disc jockey. I think the first thing Zach and I did was read through the Torah portion together, Shofetim, to see which section Zach wanted to read. He saw the most famous verse, "Tzedek, tzedek tirdof" (Justice, justice shall you pursue), and owned it!

Last August, I had brought home a Tzedaka Village Charity Box Kit (from the Creative Judaica Kit Company), which I had seen at the CAJE conference in St. Louis. He enthusiastically covered every square centimeter with the colorful stickers, and declared his intent to raise lots of money for a variety of causes. I went back to CAJE this summer, and bought 50 more kits to use as centerpieces (with the obvious hope that people will use them to further their own pursuit of justice).

During December, we went to see "The Great Debaters", and I suggested that he watch this through his "Shofetim eyes" -- to see what felt just and unjust, and how some people actually pursue justice, and others look away. This phrase became code for "pay attention" and has become part of his philosophical outlook. (Yes, my 12-year-old is quite articulate about philosophical thoughts.) Some of these conversations have made their way into Zach's d'var Torah as well.

As we went along, I recruited his older brothers to chant Torah, and then I offered that Dad and I would also each prepare three verses. I'm pretty sure this will be a first at our synagogue!

When it came time to invite people to celebrate with us, we sent email invitations -- and put a note on the bottom about Ba'al tashchit the commandment not to waste. We are thrilled to say how many people commented positively -- and everyone replied via email as well.

My friends and I are catering the luncheon, cooking in the temple kitchen over the next weeks, and using as little single-use materials as possible. When people offer to help, I actually say "Yes, thank you." The desserts will be home-made with love -- it doesn't get any better than that!

Now we're in the home stretch -- and since Rabbi Cohen recently agreed that we could do Storahtelling during the service, my theatrical, musical and very Jewish family is collaborating on creating a meaningful heart of the service. We still have the tzitzit to tie on his home-made tallit, and then Zach will be prepared to lead and teach, and take his place as a member of the tribe of creative Reform Jews. I'm so excited!

A Special Rabbi

2008-08-13T00:57:51Z

By Elise May
My family and I recently came together for a weekend of celebration in Memphis, TN. Cousins and close family friends that I hadn't seen in years flew in from around the country. What was the occasion? My parents were celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary! Such a joyous event that is almost unheard of today.

The Rabbi who married my parents has passed away, and, since their small congregation disbanded a few years ago, my parents don't really have a Rabbi they can call their own. However, my father began corresponding with a Rabbi in Memphis some time ago.

With the nearest congregation being an hour away, I think my father wanted to feel that connection to the Jewish community that he is currently far removed from. Poor health prevents my parents from making the drive to Memphis to attend worship services, so my father's letter writing to his "Memphis Rabbi" has become very important to him. It allows him to keep that Jewish connection.

I met this Rabbi when he visited my parents in the hospital when my father has been admitted there, but he didn't know us as my siblings and I were growing up. He doesn't have the history with my family that most Rabbis have with their congregants. My parents are not even technically members of his congregation, but he has made the time to respond to all of my father's letters. He and my father have quite a meaningful relationship, and I know that brings great pleasure to my parents.

I was so touched when I found out that the Rabbi would be joining us to say a blessing for my parents. Even a prior commitment didn't stop him from joining us for a few minutes to say wonderful, touching comments about this remarkable couple who has shared love, tears, good health, and not so good health for 50 years!

Having the Rabbi there made the evening even more special for my parents. It just goes to show that no matter how far removed you may be from weekly worship services, your faith can still be strong and the connection to your Jewish identity even stronger. Thanks to a special Rabbi who is an hour away, my parents are able to stay connected with their faith and each other. Here's to the next 50 years!

Jewish Teaching Begins at Home

2008-08-07T18:44:41Z

By JanetheWriter
Recently, my college roommate called me for some advice. Her 12-year-old son had been invited to the bat mitzvah of a classmate and she didn't have a clue about what he should wear or what type of gift would be appropriate.

As one of only a handful of Jews he knows, I was excited for Matthew. B'nei mitzvah are meaningful and fun and, as a young man who is well-versed in the rites and rituals of the Catholic Church, this would be a great learning experience for him.

After I'd advised Terry about his attire and a gift, I asked her just one question: "What's the name of the congregation?" She didn't know, she said, but read me the entire invitation. To my double dismay, the bat mitzvah was to take place as part of a Havdalah service at the family's country club.

It then occurred to me that, unless there were circumstances that were not apparent from the invitation, this might not be such a great way for Matthew to learn some of the basics of either Judaism or of b'nei mitzvah. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I realized just what he (and his parents) would learn.

For one thing, they'd learn that some of us consider country clubs to be suitable houses of worship in which to conduct religious rites of passage.

For another, they'd learn that some of us view Havdalah is an appropriate time of the week to welcome a young person into the Jewish community as an adult.

And lastly, they'd learn that some Jews read Torah on Saturday night as though it was a Monday, a Thursday or Shabbat.

And so it was that I found myself teaching my longtime friend the basics, as I understand them, of b'nei mitzvah, Havdalah, and the ins and outs of Torah reading.

From me Terry learned that I believe that religious rites of passage belong in the synagogue. Synagogues are, after all, our religious homes, the places where we strive to encounter God and, says Rabbi Eric Yoffie, "the dynamic heart of Jewish existence...the one institution in the Jewish world that doesn't just use Jews; it makes Jews."

From me she also learned that although Reform congregations and their clergy are fully autonomous--determining individually when they schedule b'nei mitzvah--such services typically are held at times when Torah traditionally is read. These include Mondays, Thursdays, Shabbat morning, Shabbat afternoon, and holidays, but not Havdalah, the Saturday evening service that marks the separation of Shabbat from the rest of the week.

And I shared this too: in Jewish life, particularly when it comes to b'nei mitzvah, the role of the community-at-large is paramount. Indeed, the absence of community--other than the young woman's family members and friends--to witness her coming of age seems to me to be a Jewish lesson gone awry.

Sadly, from where I'm sitting, it appears that neither the bat mitzvah family nor the rabbi who officiated seemed to see it that way. Sadder still it seems, the place we must begin teaching this and other important Jewish lessons is at home.

Keep the simcha simple

2008-06-27T01:04:24Z

By Mary Hofmann
While I enjoyed reading the many perspectives of the contributors to Reform Judaism this month, I was truly saddened by the plight of Elise Silverfield May and those in her situation (which includes a whole lot of us, on a lot of levels!)--the perceived high price tag of being Jewish (page 61 or online here).

Her particular alarm rang concerning the temple members' expectations around her son's upcoming bar mitzvah, which were terrifyingly grandiose. This concern connects well with Rabbi Yoffie's comments at the Biennial regarding congregants reclaiming Shabbat morning services from the grip of private "parties." If we don't want Reform Judaism to become increasingly about status and wealth, I believe this problem needs to be addressed both in terms of reclaiming both the sanctuary and the sanctity of the event. I guess it has to do with the values established at each congregation--and all of our opportunities (and obligations?) to revision those values regularly.

Sometimes I feel lucky to live in a remote community where Jews with visions of grandeur wouldn't settle. In Merced, California, our first bar mitzvah (my son's, in 1980) was pulled off on a wing and a prayer and a lot of scrambling with the entire community involved in every aspect--from Rob's training and preparation to building the service to putting on a sort of planned potluck luncheon. It was a triumph for all of us--and set a pattern that has continued for nearly 30 years. We've had a few catered, but the norm is homemade from the get-go, the celebration is for everybody, the child not only does the regular mitzvah training, but helps with everything else, the family (and friends) create the service booklet, the child is invited to participate in adult (including board activities), and the party--lunch and something geared for kids--wraps it all up in another hour or so.

Our kids aren't missing anything. I'd guess our kids are as, or more, prepared than most. I find it sad that anybody has to feel such a warm and wonderful family and community event has to be a burden on anybody. I bet you'd all love our celebrations--and wouldn't feel like anybody had to be the envy of anyone to feel warm and fuzzy and accomplished.

For the Sake of a Namesake: L'dor v'dor

2008-06-23T23:14:01Z

By JanetheWriter
A few months ago, during an informal visit in my apartment from my parents, my sister and my nephew Ian, I was stretched out on the living room floor and Ian, as five-year-olds are want to do, was walking on my back and climbing all over me. When his weight hit a spot that made my back crack, I groaned, "Oh, Ian, just call me your personal Uncle Irv," before squirming out from under all 40-something pounds of him.

"Like mother, like son...like aunt, like nephew," I thought.

I remember how my sister and I used to climb all over our beloved Uncle Irv for piggy back rides and how, as part of the nightly bedtime ritual during his visits, he'd swing us around and around and around before finally tossing us from his arms through the air into our beds, amid peals of dizzy giggles and squeals of "Do it again, Uncle Irv! Do it again!"

Retired from the furrier business long before I even knew what a furrier was, Uncle Irv, my maternal grandfather's brother and a confirmed bachelor, rarely uttered an unkind word, managed to see the good in even the most difficult people, and always had time for a mitzvah, frequently driving his neighbors back and forth to doctors' appointments and the grocery store.

Following Ashkenazi custom, Ian is named in memory of Uncle Irv and, in fact, was born on the exact date of his yahrzeit. Although he hasn't yet finished kindergarten, in his community, Ian is known to be a kind, compassionate, generous and joyful kid (yes, I am more than a little bit biased, but his teachers, the parents of his classmates, his nanny, and his friends, as well as his grandparents, of course, concur), demonstrating, as I like to believe, that a part of Uncle Irv's soul truly lives within him.

Our family's inveterate gardener, Uncle Irv spent many a day visiting his nieces and their families, often showing up while we were all at work and school and letting himself into the house with his key to await our arrival. The sight of his car-first a green Ford Torino and later, a light blue Ford Pinto (jokingly dubbed the "Death Mobile" by us after the exploding-gas-tank scandal came to light in the 1970s)-when we returned home always created a wonderful flurry of excitement.

During the winter, Uncle Irv read John le Carré and James Clavell novels, browsed the latest Burpee seed catalog, carefully selecting seeds to order for next summer's garden, and relished the beef stew--his favorite --that my mother frequently cooked for him during his visits. Although he never called me anything other than "Janey, dear" (most appropriate for me, the eldest with definite first-child syndrome), my sister (also most appropriately, I thought) often was referred to as "Amy...you little vonce, you," and frequently questioned about her activities and whereabouts as in "What are you up to, you little kochleffel?" (For the non-Yiddish speakers among you, a vonce is a bedbug and a kochleffel is a cooking spoon or, more figuratively, a busy body, first dipping into one pot and then into another, which, once explained to me, describes my sister to a tee.)

During the spring and summer, we'd often come home to find Uncle Irv out back, lovingly tending the organic garden he'd tenderly coaxed from the Burpee seeds ordered the previous winter. More often than not, he also was hiding--quite unsuccessfully--the forbidden cigarettes he always smoked on the sly. Perhaps the nicotine enhanced his ability to garden because despite New Jersey's red shale and lack of topsoil, every year for summers on end, Uncle Irv managed to cajole tomatoes, peppers, lettuce, cucumbers, zucchini, string beans and more from the earth, all with little more than organic fertilizer and dried pigs' blood to keep away the deer, rabbits and other critters with whom we shared our backyard. Tall sunflowers lined the fence around the garden and bachelor buttons, marigolds and strawberry vines dotted another patch he'd cultivated closer to the house. Try as he might, though, Uncle Irv could rarely get my sister or me to help with the watering, the weeding or the pinching off of the strawberry blossoms during their first season of growth. Sadly, despite his best efforts, gardening held little appeal for either of us.

Perhaps my sister is right, though, and such interests, in getting passed down within our family, skip a generation or two. Regardless of whether or not Ian possesses Uncle Irv's green thumb, his strong back or his taste for beef stew, he does obviously possess Uncle Irv's loving heart, a blessing for its own sake and for his namesake. Through Ian, our beloved Uncle Irv lives on--enabling us to look back with fondness and forward with hope.

Where are we?

2008-06-19T17:33:31Z

By Rabbi Richard Address
In developing our project on the aging of the baby boomers (Sacred Aging) a host of questions have emerged. Many have to do with how we, given the gift, we pray, of longevity, can continue to answer God's question of Genesis 3: "where are you?" (ayecha) So, I decided to try and start a small dialogue on our blog about these issues.

The recent post about the aftermath of Tim Russert's death also feeds into this. Faced with, we pray, decades of life after the children grow and leave, the transitions open to us from the demands of daily work, and the reality of still having to care for our own parents, what do you wish to do with this gift of longevity?

So a first question: Given the gift of time and relative health, what do you wish to do with your life? How do you see living your life, to paraphrase Frankl, so it brings you meaning and purpose?

Contemplating Mortality

2008-06-18T17:25:47Z

By Gardening Grandma
I suspect I'm not alone in finding myself looking my own mortality more squarely in the face because of Tim Russert's untimely death. As the outpouring of emotion and tributes attest, he died doing something he absolutely loved. He clearly relished his work, making each moment he was on air count, but he also made sure there were plenty of moments for his private life.

How often have you heard someone say, "That's the way I want to go," when they hear about someone who was here one moment, and then, suddenly, is not in the world any more?

But is it really true that we want to be at our desks when the time comes? When all is said and done, do I want to be remembered for the work I do?

Don't get me wrong. I love my job. Having the opportunity to feel I am, in some small way, ensuring the vitality of the Judaism I love and also making this world a slightly better place, gives me tremendous satisfaction. It's what makes me tick and keeps me going.

But then I stop and think: have I been able to achieve the balance that Tim Russert so clearly did? And when I'm gone, what will those who remember me say about me?

We live on a corner, and the only place that had any regular sun when we moved in was the corner, outside our hedge. So for 19 summers I've worked at cultivating an English cottage garden, filled with perennials and dahlias. Last fall, however, we lost a third of a giant gum tree that shaded the lawn so now, for the first time in 20 years, I've been able to plant a vegetable garden.

Each morning, before I leave for the 8 a.m. train to Grand Central, I tend to my garden and pick the lettuce that we'll eat that evening. And the first thing I do after I change my clothes when I get home is check my garden. Are the peas in their pods ready to pick? Any tomato blossoms turning into small fruit? Do I need to thin the carrots? And look! Today I found four cucumbers forming.

Being out in my garden, the worries and frustrations of my day fade away. I can feel myself relaxing as my anger and stress evaporate. I remember other vegetable gardens I've had and a flood of memories return: trying every zucchini recipe I could find when our garden overflowed with the squash in Virginia; my daughter picking the corn we grew in Mississippi; canning the tomatoes from my garden in Colorado with a neighbor; my son climbing the fruit trees in our San Francisco garden and shaking out the loquats.

I think I'd rather be outside, cultivating my very small corner of this earth, watching the miracle of seeds turning into sprouts that grow into cucumbers, than just about anywhere else. If I'm going to go quickly, may it be here, and not in my office. My computer won't miss me. My garden will.

Of Covenantal and Other Special Relationships

2008-06-17T18:46:28Z

By JanetheWriter
Last week, I drafted--and ultimately scraped--a post for this blog because after it was written, I came to realize that not only was it much too personal for the vast world of cyberspace, but also, because I wrote it in anger after someone challenged my belief in the Jews' covenantal relationship with God, I wanted to give myself some time to reflect on what I was saying.

Then I read the article in the New York Times quoting a letter from Abraham Foxman to Pastor John Hagee in which Foxman writes, "We look forward to meeting with you to promote a dialogue between Christians and Jews based on mutual respect, reconciliation and the recognition of God's eternal covenant with the Jewish people." Since Foxman raised the covenantal issue with Hagee, I've reconsidered my scraped post and, after a lot of thinking, I'm giving it another shot:

I love to read the wedding announcements in the Sunday New York Times, taking special note of how the couples met each other, the lives they've lived and, in the case of the Jewish unions, the clergy who officiated at the ceremonies. Bolstered by these weekly vignettes of found love, and ever optimistic that there's a great Jewish guy out there for me too, I've been known to prowl the usual cyberspace venues dedicated to such matters--jdate, match.com, and the yahoo personals, always setting the search criteria to "Jewish" for the latter two.

In a recent email exchange with someone on one of these sites, the issue of "chosen-ness" came up, which got me to thinking about the need to answer for myself the question of why it is so important for me not only to limit my search to "members of the tribe," but also to find someone within the tribe who cherishes and celebrates being Jewish in the same liberal way that I do.

Like Abraham Foxman, I believe in God's eternal covenant with the Jewish people. However, I don't think it's at all about God choosing us. Rather, I think it's all about us--individually, collectively and for all time--choosing God by upholding our end of the covenantal relationship with God that I believe defines us as a religious (not a cultural or an ethnic) people.

So what does this mean for me on the dating scene?

It means that rather than settling for the first culturally or ethnically Jewish guy ("Jewish but not religious" in jdate-speak) who comes along, I will wait for someone for whom being Jewish is more than English sprinkled with Yiddishisms, bagels and lox on Sundays, and reading Philip Roth's latest novel.

It means seeking out a special someone who, although he doesn't necessarily count the omer, kiss the mezuzah or lay tefillin, he does treasure and celebrate being Jewish in a way that consciously marks the passage of Jewish time and ensures that it is personally meaningful to him.

It means finding someone who understands that even if our Friday night plans include nothing more than Chinese take-out and Netflix, the evening will be more special if we start by lighting Shabbat candles.

It means being with someone for whom eggs and pancakes in an all-night diner after a Tikkun Leil Shavuot study session is a great date, and it means finding someone who understands that whether or not we believe that we personally crossed the Red Sea to flee the Egyptians or stood at the foot of Mt. Sinai ourselves, Passover foods (both what we eat and what we don't) remind us that even today, slavery and oppression are rampant in our world and it is our obligation to partner with God to erase them.

And lastly this: It means that although I don't necessarily need my special someone to share my view of the covenantal relationship between God and the Jews, I do need him to possess his own defined and active relationship with Judaism, and be willing to share it with me.

The Universe sent me a Shabbat message

2008-06-16T17:29:13Z

By Wendy Nelson

My daughter graduated from high school Saturday. The weather changed from cold and rainy to a sunny 80 degree day. The plague of cicadas awaited for 17 years and due to arrive by now were yet to emerge from the ground. I arrived early and got a front row seat knowing that I could not miss seeing my beloved child on this special day. It was Shabbat and all was right.

The ceremony began with a chorus of beautiful voices of young men and women and by the second song all eyes turned to the heavens. From a very high set of lights that illuminate the field at night there was a nest with two small heads peeking over. Fledgling Osprey, unnoticed before peered down at the choir from their distant perch... and one began to sing.

Ospreys are not known for their beautiful songs; they have more of a call. But today one inspired baby Osprey sang along canary style with the teenage chorus for two songs and then stopped when they did and both babies disappeared from sight. I cried.

Some speeches followed and the chorus returned for another song. All faces turned up immediately to look for the baby birds and within a few notes two faces peered over the edge of the nest. This time, the inspired Osprey began to sing and then fully spread its small wings and began moving rhythmically appearing to dance.

At the song's finish, the speaker at the podium announced that it was time to read the graduates names and wish them goodbye for the final time. And the baby took flight both literally and symbolically while we parents watched all of our babies take flight. As the names were read it soared back and forth far above our heads eventually landing back in the nest. I was mesmerized by the metaphor, by the connection, by the coincidence?

I don't believe in God...never have. I also am an observant, practicing and diligent Reform Jew who can appreciate Godlike moments. If the universe is sending me a message it certainly has my attention. In moments when it feels like God suspend belief and just feel the beauty and the joy and, if you are me, cry.

Honoring our Fathers and Mothers

2008-06-15T05:48:59Z

By JanetheWriter

A short piece on the editorials and letters page in Friday's New York Times suggests that according to the National Trust for Historic Preservation, "the Lower East Side is one of the 11 most endangered places in America..." The article mentions several neighborhood landmarks, including The Eldridge Street Synagogue which, following a recently completed multi-million dollar restoration is now known as the Museum at Eldridge Street.

Dating from 1887 and widely known to be the first synagogue built "from scratch" in America by Eastern European Jews, the continuously operational Eldridge Street Synagogue is an architectural, cultural and historical gem. This Sunday's "Egg Rolls and Egg Creams" Festival celebrates the rich heritage and history of the immigrants--Jewish, Chinese, Italian, and others--for whom the neighborhood was the "Plymouth Rock" in their pilgrimage to America. Indeed, it was so for my grandparents, and on this Father's Day weekend, it is most fitting to honor them--our grandmothers and our grandfathers--for their moxie in making the journey and ensuring a better life for us all.

New Pioneers of Israel

2008-06-14T00:25:40Z

By Rabbi Stacey Blank
In Israel, even in Reform synagogues, most of the kids who have an aliyah to the Torah when they turn 13 are boys. There are very few girls. It is still not common for girls to have an aliyah to the Torah in Israel (though everyone has a party!). In a country where women fought side-by-side the men in the 1948 War of Independence, where women hold important positions in government, and where women run major corporations, it is hard to believe that girls by and large are not encouraged to enter the religious sphere.

Therefore, on the morning of Shavuot, when over 150 people crowded into the auditorium of Congregation Darchei Noam in Ramat HaSharon to witness a "class bat mitzvah" of 14 girls from a local school, this was a special event. For many of the guests, it was their first time in a synagogue. (Many asked which book was the prayer book and which book was the Torah). For most of the guests, it was certainly the first time that they saw a woman on the bima.

In pairs, each girl had an aliyah to the Torah and read about the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai in front of their parents, grandparents, and the boys from their class who came to cheer them on. Members of our congregation held a talit over their heads as they recited the prayers. All the parents came up to the bima to bless their daughters and at the end, there were hugs and kisses and lots of tears! When I blessed the girls, I spoke to them about how they performed these mitzvot in a way that shows how natural it is for women to read from the Torah and participate fully in Jewish religious life. On the other hand, we are witnesses to their pioneering spirit and they will pave the way for thousands of girls in Israel.

It was truly a joyous Shavuot in Ramat HaSharon filled with Torah and ruach Elohim, God's presence. It proved once again that we as the Reform Movement have a mission in Israel and we have a huge potential audience who are hungry for our message of equality, Jewish renewal, and tikkun olam.

Rabbi Stacey Blank serves as the rabbi of Congregation Darchei Noam in Ramat HaSharon, Israel

A New Window in Time

2008-06-12T22:14:06Z

By Barbara K. Shuman
Having reached the age of 62, I thought I had experienced most Jewish life-cycle events: my own confirmation and marriage, the birth of children, brit milah and pidyon haben for our son, bar and bat mitzvah of our children, the death of a parent and grandparents, and the marriage of our daughter. However, last weekend I added another to the list - the naming of our first grandchild. Like many young adults, her parents are not yet affiliated with a synagogue. They identify as Jews, but shun established institutions.

They waited until she was 9 months old to create their own ritual. I think it was worth the wait.

Jordan's mother (my daughter) researched baby naming ceremonies, and adapted one that spoke to her. We were invited to their home on Shabbat for the ceremony. Parents, grandparents, aunts,uncles and a cousin were each assigned a reading. The words acknowledged the baby's uniqueness, prayers for her health and happiness. Her mother prayed that she "greet the world with passion, courage, humor, creativity and love."

Others invoked blessings of learning, strength, patience and a compassionate nature. Joyfully her parents recited a blessing of bringing their daughter into the covenant of Israel, and we all said Shehekiyanu.

Perhaps the most moving part was the explanation of her Hebrew name by each of her grandmothers. Jordan was named after her father's grandfather and her mother's grandmother (my mother). We shared memories of these loving ancestors, spoke of their qualities and imagined what they would have hoped for this new life. We shed tears and laughed as we remembered them and prayed that their memories would be a blessing, even as Jordan Elyse Pollner, now Yardena Tova, would be blessed. I know we will all long remember this beautiful day and the joy of celebrating together.

Economics of Equal Rights

2008-06-10T22:02:44Z

By dcc
A few weeks ago--even if they didn't know it--the seven California Supreme Court justices gave the state a much needed economic booster shot. The Golden State, often a bellwether of social and economic trends throughout the US, is feeling the pinch of the credit and housing collapse. However due to the Court's ruling on the unconstitutional ban on same-sex marriage, the State's economy may see a finacial upswing, reports NPR's Morning Edition.

California has been working with a major budget deficit for years and the millions of GLBT couples who wish to get married (and spend $684 million dollars on these weddings) may add as much at $64 million to the state budget, closing the gap between the red and green in California.

Who knew equality could help the economy?

Brilliance of Yizkor

2008-06-10T20:04:31Z

By Marge Eiseman
This Shabbat, we will observe my mom's 17th yahrzeit and then on Monday morning, I'll be saying kaddish for her again at the Yizkor service on the festival of Shavuot. Yizkor means remember. What could be more important than that?

I attended a session on "How to Talk to Your Children about God and Death" on a recent Sunday morning at Congregation Sinai. In the room with me were two women whose husbands had died, leaving them young widows with children, and besides myself, there were at least one or two other bereaved parents. There were people who referred to the death of their own siblings or parents, and yet none of them ever attend the Yizkor services that occur during the year. I don't even know if they attend on Yom Kippur afternoon, but it's the most likely one if they do.

Maybe they don't know that there are three pilgrimage festivals, the shalosh regalim, of Sukkot, Pesach and Shavuot, where people gather at the end of the holiday to hold a memorial service to remember the lives of their loved ones who have died. Yizkor isn't just for old people, but you'd never know that at my synagogue.

I use Yizkor as a kind of mental health pressure valve - I allow myself to really feel the loss of my mom and my son each holy day. I cry as I say their names, sometimes, I cry so hard I can't say their names. But, no matter, I feel supported by being in community, and I feel better for having participated. This last time, I remembered to bring my grief shawl, but forgot the tissues.

The brilliance of Jewish mourning rituals became clear during the time immediately following Baki's death, so I continue to observe the customs of yahrzeit and Yizkor as I make my way through the years. Give it a try - if you are mourning the loss of a loved one --and let me know if it helps you too.

Marking Jewish Time

2008-06-07T03:54:17Z

By JanetheWriter
Today is the 47th day of the counting of the omer. And, although I do not possess David A.M. Wilensky's "hyper-awareness of Jewish time," I do, in my own way, mark Jewish time.

As much a part of my growing up as lighting Hanukkah candles and fasting on Yom Kippur was the pilgrimage my mother, my grandmother and I made each summer to Beth David Cemetery in Elmont Queens.

Preferably on a relatively cool day, always early in the morning, and before it got too crowded or too close to the high holidays, we would set out, my grandmother armed with a jar of water (a gefilte fish jar in a previous life) and sharp kitchen scissors for trimming the ivy she invariably knew would be overgrown since the last time we visited, especially on the headstones that lacked a blue "Perpetual Care" sticker.

"Ma, do you want to pick up 'a man?'" my mother would ask upon entering the cemetery gates. With my grandmother's affirmative response, my mother would pull the car to the side of the cemetery's main road and motion for one of the white-bearded, Orthodox men standing nearby to get in. With him in tow (and me crouched as close as possible to the opposite window in the back seat), we'd set off, feeling our way down the narrow roads first to one grave and then to the next...Tante Laura, Uncle Max. Aunt Gertie, Grandma's parents and, of course, Carla, Lunka and Rose Skaletzky--never just "Rose," but always "Rose Skaletzky." I'm not sure exactly who these last three women were, or how we were all related, but obviously they were kin--if not by blood then surely in spirit. At each grave, "the man" would recite El Molai Rachamim, we'd brush away the dirt and leaves that had accumulated since our last visit, place pebbles on the headstone (Carla and Lunka have footstones), and trim the ivy before moving on reluctantly. At the end of the Fischer-Skaletzky graves, we'd go to my "other" grandparents. To me, even then, they were distant memories mingled with family lore--Grandpa, kind, a crinkly-eyed, smiling man whose white-haired ridges in the back of his head mirrored those in the back of my own auburn curls, and Grandma Hattie, a woman with deep, dark circles under her eyes, over-rouged cheeks, and a penchant for repeating herself.

Over time, my mother convinced my grandmother that we didn't need to pick up "a man" and that she and I could be "the man." And so it was that every year we marked time by clearing their graves, placing small pebbles atop the space we'd spruced, and reciting El Molai Rachamim for Tante Laura, Uncle Max, Aunt Gertie, Grandma's parents--Clara and Fievel--Carla, Lunka, Rose Skaletzky and my "other" grandparents, Abraham and Hattie.

Soon it will be time to visit the cemetery again. But we rarely go to Elmont anymore. Now, a quick drive up Route 1 from my parents' house takes my mother and me to Beth Israel in Woodbridge, NJ, to mark time. Once inside the entrance, we don't pick up "a man," but we do still feel our way through the cemetery's narrow roads, first to one grave and then to the next...Grandma and Grandpa and then to Uncle Irv. And, while we often have plastic water bottles in our purses along with flowers for Grandma and Grandpa, and a fresh American flag on a stick for Uncle Irv, we don't usually have sharp kitchen scissors with us. That's really too bad because even though the headstones all have blue "Perpetual Care" stickers on them, the hedges always need to be trimmed.

I'm so blessed

2008-06-03T01:03:25Z

By Marge Eiseman
"I'm so blessed!", I whispered to the stranger sitting next to me in the theater. We were watching a new play, "Distracted" by Lisa Loomer at the Ashland Shakespeare Festival -- and it was an extraordinary experience. The stage was set as a square with seating on all four sides. The set featured groups of four flat-panel screens that were suspended from the ceiling, facing each bank of seats, all flashing different images that enhanced the dialogue (or made for some visual comedy). The furniture -- even the long kitchen counter and appliances -- were all mounted on casters and split in the middle, so the scene changes happened by characters quickly whisking things off to the corners and down the ramps.

Oh, and the play itself was about attention disorders, and the quest for diagnosis and treatment and advice. Makes sense, doesn't it? Watching the play was overwhelming, and about 2/3 of the way through, I was thinking, "I'm so glad I don't have a kid with ADD." And then I thought, "Whoa! I have a dead child, and one who had cancer, and another who has an implanted defibrillator. How can I feel so deeply blessed?"

After the show, I had made a date to walk with a friend of my sister's. We'd never met before, but I agreed to meet him and his dog near the top of Park St. in Ashland. The incline was so steep that I felt like a hood ornament standing alongside my car, and once we started walking (further up the slope!), I had to make the choice of walk or talk.

It happens that this guy has a degenerative disease, but he's still walking the dog and doing Class IV river rapids, because that's what he loves to do. I told him about that deep feeling of being blessed, and asked, "Where does it come from?" Rationally, we should or could feel cursed. Come on, we've been through a lot -- all of us have.

And as we talked, and we both shared our stories, I got it. People generally have one of two scripts: either "Life in Unfair" and everything that happens eventually proves that point or "Life is Interesting" and everything is material for a good story.

That reminds me...

This Is Your Brain On Age

2008-05-29T17:55:20Z

By Rabbi Richard Address, D. Min
Baseball is a great game. Often, a lot of attention gets paid to the phenom, the "kid." As teams adjust and reality sets in, the reason returns and we often again celebrate the "crafty veteran." It seems that in baseball, as in life, wisdom trumps knowledge.

A recent piece in the New York Times titled "Older Brain Really May Be a Wiser Brain" sheds new light on the expanding research into the older adult brain. These studies are particularly meaningful for my work and our department's major program on longevity and the baby boomers (Sacred Aging). The articles points out that, as we age we take in more information, that here is more "clutter" to sift through. That information is filtered through one's life experience. Truth and falsity are filtered out and, the article says, the result of that filtering may be wisdom.

One researcher: commented that wisdom is word for what happens when the mind is able to take in data, assimilate it, and filter it into its the proper place. "If older people are taking in more information from a situation, and they're then able to combine it with their comparatively greater store of general knowledge. they're going to have a nice advantage."

This is a lesson we are trying to communicate to congregations. The revolution in longevity has produced an older Jewish population (50 years old +) that is easily the most challenging in our history. Look at the people represented in those many generations. The life experiences that they posses. And see how often our congregations ignore them. This reservoir of "spiritual capital" is ignored and we do so at our own peril.

This is the group, especially the boomers, who are changing the face of Judaism and who have created a new American Judaism. They demand adult, sophisticated answers to their life issues, not the often "pediatric" programs that they see. They crave community and relationships, moments of meaning that help define their lives. If they do not find it in their synagogue, they go elsewhere. In these brains is decades of life experience. Our communities need to engage that experience and hear those stories. Stories build relationships and relationships build caring communities.

Work in Progess

2008-05-20T21:17:44Z

By Jennifer Warriner

I do not think any Jewish lifecycle event will ever mean more to me than my son’s conversion to Judaism. For days afterward I walked on clouds because my son was a “member of the tribe” and would be poised to inherit the great legacy of Judaism. Only as time has passed have I fully understood the profound impact this decision would have on our family.

Zachary was just over 2 years old when my partner and I decided we would raise him as a Jew. I remembered from my own conversion that the ceremony involved saying the Sh’ma, so Zachary and I practiced until he could repeat each word after me. At the mikveh, with each dunk of Zachary and each prayer or blessing recited, I became more and more overwhelmed by my belief that his conversion to Judaism—if he took full advantage of it—would be the best gift I could ever give to him.

Before his conversion I was the only Jew in our household. (My partner, who gave birth to Zachary, believes in God but practices no particular religion and has no interest in converting to Judaism.) So I would usually light Shabbat candles without much fanfare after Zachary went to bed. Also, before Zachary’s conversion, while we always acknowledged Jewish holidays in some small way, whether we formally celebrated any particular holiday would usually depend on what other family obligations existed around that time.

Zachary’s conversion shook up the order of our family priorities. Suddenly Shabbat was a consistent dinner-table “event,” with candles, juice, challah, blessings, singing, and occasional post-dinner dancing to Jewish kids’ music. Holidays became a priority too, requiring not only food preparation but also age-appropriate educational materials and craft projects. My partner now knows the Hebrew blessings for candles, juice, and challah, and while she still has no interest in converting, she is a full partner in helping me raise Zachary in Judaism.

Zachary’s conversion also changed my mental and emotional perspective on Judaism. Previously I had been focused solely in the past—on learning everything I could about Jewish philosophy, history, and traditions. Upon Zachary’s conversion I became obligated to think about a Jewish future—on handing down traditions and history, on teaching ethics and morals, on showing Zachary a love of learning and of Israel.

My family’s Judaism, just like my own, is still a work in progress. But it’s a labor of love, because now when I learn something new, I get to evaluate, simplify, and pass it on, with great pride, to my Jewish son.

Favorite Room of the House

2008-05-20T21:11:43Z

By Marge Eiseman

My congregation, established in 1956, is only a few months older than I am. My paternal grandparents were among the founding families, and my parents joined immediately upon moving back to Milwaukee shortly before my birth. I joined to raise my children here.

Much has changed since the days of my youth. Gone is the formal Friday evening service led by the black-robed rabbi and hidden quartet. Gone is the original ark, whose fabric curtain was donated by my grandparents. Gone, too, are most of the founding generation, but the ongoing sense of decorum and intellectual challenge lingers even now, almost 51 years later.

My favorite room has always been the social hall—a large sort of nondescript room with a wall of windows facing west and, until the recent renovation, a stage covered with a gold velvet curtain. In that room I remember my friends and family gathering for my bat mitzvah.

We held each of the brit milah simchas for our four boys there, converted it to an indoor “arena” for a 4-year-old’s birthday party, and then filled the room with joy at the b’nai mitzvah party for our twins.

The back wall of the sanctuary opened, and hundreds of our friends and community filled every available space for my son Baki’s funeral, just as they had done at my mother’s funeral 13 years before.

My synagogue is my second home.