Why Service Work Sustains Jewish Peoplehood

My love affair with Jewish learning began at an early age. I was an unusual kid who loved Hebrew school from the start. But my classmates didn’t share my affinity and my passion for yiddishkeit. I recall an early high school reunion where a group of old friends gathered around a table in a suburban Philadelphia catering hall. I noticed that all of us at that table had been members of the same Hebrew school class. Thirty-three of us were confirmed together in 1974.  Reuniting, we gravitated to one another as naturally as old family members would. Most notably to me was the fact that of all of the kids who were confirmed together, I was the only one who was Jewishly engaged at all.

Of course, at that point few of us were yet raising children, the entry point for synagogue affiliation for so many people. But still, the complete disconnection from anything Jewish was sadly striking to me.

Today’s Jewish leaders are wringing their hands about the next generation, fearing that the current model of synagogues is no longer appealing to the next generation. While many in my generation eventually found their way to synagogues, their Jewish connections are more tenuous for them and for their children.

There are several new trends responding to changing needs and interests of younger Jews.  One is the popularity of hands-on service work. Tikkun Olam (a kabbalistic term, meaning, “repair of the world”) is the buzzword and its appeal, as an expression of Jewish values, is transforming the Jewish narrative in our day. It has become a key element of this generation’s Jewish identity.

Looking back on my Jewish upbringing (my family’s life revolved around the synagogue), I can’t recall many experiences of going out into the world to help those in need. One exception was the annual Christmas volunteering at the hospital, when it felt like the staff humored us by giving us busy work because they didn’t really need us. In Hebrew School we collected tzedakah, but we had no personal connection to those who received it. It wasn’t so much about needy people; we gave our money to JNF for trees in Israel. We gave as much support as we could to help Israel and to efforts to free Soviet Jews. Jewish peoplehood was our cause.

Maybe that is why my classmates were so disconnected 15 years after our confirmation. In adulthood we entered an open, increasingly diverse world and embraced the freedoms of American culture. Our Hebrew school education had done little to help apply the values of Judaism to our world.  What we needed was Jewish engagement that informed out lives and infused our secular world with meaning.

That is why social justice work is so important.  It is the complement to the study of the ancient Jewish texts and ideas. Jewish texts teach tikkun olam as our responsibility for the world. The mitzvot/commandments are what make the work uniquely Jewish.  Social action infuses our Jewish communal life with ultimate value.

Recently, our synagogue participated in a Habitat for Humanity build sponsored by our community’s interfaith council. The experience was inspiring. Our volunteers spanned three generations. While adults laid flooring and painted, several teenagers did the back-breaking work of digging a ditch. Everyone gave the work their best effort and worked alongside the Habitat client who will soon have a remarkable opportunity to own their own home.  This wasn’t busy work — we knew we were making something happen that will transform lives.

We have traveled to New Orleans to rebuild after Katrina, and we regularly help to feed hungry people in our community. There is so much more we could do, including advocacy work to address the root causes of poverty and need. But our work is a good start, and it is also a living classroom for our children.

Today’s Jewish leadership is worried about the loss of attachment to Jewish peoplehood. I share that concern. But the “service work” trend can strengthen Jewish identity. This generation will, with our help, come to appreciate the value of the Jewish prophetic message to engage in social justice.  That is a powerful answer to the question, “why be Jewish?”

This is what Rabbi Mordecai Kaplan meant when he talked of the value of living in two civilizations — the Jewish and the American. What a blessing that we are giving our children the opportunity to make Jewish learning come to life in this way!

 

“Working Together to End Hunger”

Fighting Poverty With Faith Event

I was privileged to be a speaker today (11/30/11) at the NJ Fighting Poverty with Faith: “Working Together to End Hunger” event. This was an inspiring interfaith program held at the NJ State House in Trenton, which included voices of Jewish, Muslim, Christian and Hindu faith traditions. The call to action was eloquently and forcefully delivered by Rev. Lisanne Finston, of Elijah’s Promise Soup Kitchen in new Brunswick. The growing ranks of the poor and near-poor are in great need of our advocacy, activism and leadership. It is not just about feeding the hungry — though, of course it is first about that — it is about a society that helps those who are poor to find their back to independence.

The following were my remarks at the event today:

An editorial in the NY Times last week asked the question: “What is it like to be poor?”   Thankfully, most of us do not know how this feels from firsthand experience. But it is very close to home: “One in three Americans — 100 million people — is either poor or perilously close to it.” (NY Times editorial 11/23/11)

Jewish sacred texts struggle with the reality of poverty – throughout the ages our sages have wondered why there are rich and there are poor.  A midrash, an interpretive lesson from the text, commenting on Ecclesiastes 7:14, teaches:

“In the day of prosperity, enjoy the prosperity.” (Ecclesiastes 7:14). Rabbi Tanchum bar Chiyya said, “In the day of your fellow man’s prosperity, rejoice with him. And in the day of adversity, reflect. If adversity confronts your fellow, consider how to do him a kindness and save him… But why does God create both poor people and rich people?   In order for them to draw riches from each other, as it says, ‘God has made one for the other.’ (Pesikta deRav Kahana.)”

As Tevye said in the Jewish folk tale, Fiddler on the Roof, “It’s no sin to be poor, but it’s not great honor either.” We have mutual responsibility for each other, whether rich or poor.  We share this society – and through the sacred obligation of what Jewish tradition calls “tzedakah” – which means “righteous action” but is commonly translated as “charity,” we can change it.  Jewish religious law mandates the creation and sustenance of a just, righteous, and compassionate world.  We live for the greater good of all of us.

The growing divide between the rich and the poor in America is more than a crisis. It is a moral failing of our society. 49.1 million Americans are below the poverty line and 51 million more are considered to be “near poor” — with incomes less than 50 percent above the poverty line.

“In 2010, just over half of the country’s nearly 17 million poor children lived in households that reported at least one of four major hardships: hunger, overcrowding, failure to pay the rent or mortgage on time or failure to seek needed medical care.”  The consequences of these conditions can be staggering, potentially impacting a family for generations.

The inequality in our country is a travesty. As wealth is concentrated at the top of the income scale, poverty spreads and suffering grows.

The quintessential work on the nature of suffering in the Hebrew Bible is the Book of Job. A midrash – an interpretive lesson on this book, imagines the following conversation between God and Job:

“God said to Job, “Which would you prefer – poverty or suffering?” Job responded, “Master of the Universe—I will take all of the sufferings in the world as long as I don’t become poor,  for if I go to the marketplace and don’t have any money to buy food, what will I eat?”… This shows us that poverty is worse than all of the other sufferings in the world. (Sh’mot Rabbah 31:12)

We are taught that we are no more worthy than anyone else, and our neighbors who are hungry deserve to be treated with dignity and compassion.  The Torah commands us to care for the needy, leaving the corners of our fields, that those who are hungry may come and eat. “…Do not harden your heart and shut your hand against your needy kinsman. ⁸ Rather, you must open your hand and lend him sufficient for whatever he needs. ¹¹ For there will never cease to be needy ones in your land, which is why I command you: open your hand to the poor and needy kinsman in your land.” (Deuteronomy 15:7-8, 11)

We share a responsibility to care for the needy and to help them to rise up out of poverty. This central spiritual value is a moral imperative.

As people of faith, we know that humility, kindness, and generosity shape a compassionate society. We are committed to working on behalf of those who are struggling. We can’t do it alone. This is the purpose of community, and indeed the value of government – to care for the welfare of its citizens.  There is no loftier or more essential purpose to being “One nation, under God, indivisible, with Liberty and Justice for all.”   Together we shall lead the movement to fight poverty with faith, to become what we are created to be: caring human beings sharing our world in mutuality and loving-kindness.

To read more about the Fighting Poverty with Faith campaign:

http://fightingpovertywithfaith.com/f2/

To read my Fighting Poverty with Faith blog post on the Rabbis Without Borders Blog: 

http://www.myjewishlearning.com/blog/rabbis-without-borders/tag/thanksgiving/

 

What’s A Jew to Do?

The Thanksgiving leftovers may be nibbled over and gone, but still I can’t get Thanksgiving out of my mind. Even as we sat around our holiday table reveling in the company of family and the joy of delicious food, I was thinking about a brief exchange I saw on morning TV the day before the holiday. That morning, the banter on trends and culture was about a list of news items, ending with a question posed to the show’s threesome of commentators: Matt Lauer asked them for their favorite Thanksgiving dinner foods. When one of them noted a favorite ham (or pork) dish, another commentator noted that this wouldn’t work for Jews, since Jews don’t eat pork. So what’s a Jew to do?

I marveled at this brief and spontaneous banter on the nation’s most watched morning program. Surely, they must know that kashrut, Jewish dietary laws, are not observed by all Jews (especially since a couple of the commentators are Jewish.) I’ll bet that one of them may know that Muslims don’t eat pork as a matter of shari’a law, which, by the way, is observed by a higher percentage of Muslims than kashrut is for Jews. But most noteworthy was that we Jews, who are something like 3% (or less) of the population of America, got mentioned at all. This wasn’t a discussion of religious practices – it was pitched as fun prelude to the Thanksgiving feast. Isn’t Thanksgiving an all-American holiday – one that unites us as Americans, momentarily erasing ethnic and religious differences? The endnote of the segment left this viewer (and probably many others) wondering how Jews uniquely celebrate this quintessential American holiday.

There are a few ways to slice this. One may say that the very notion of our uniqueness echoes painful anti-Semitic canards. Another view is that this is yet another demonstration of just how much we Jews have “made it” in America, not just blending in, but more – influencing culture and thought and, of course, entertainment, far beyond our numbers.

Both would be right. But I had a different reaction, finding resonance in both the Jewish and American aspects of my family’s Thanksgiving experience. My family is inspired by the Jewish Food Movement, with its focus on justice in the treatment of farm and food production workers, the care of the earth and the animals we eat, as well as concern for nutrition and health. For us, these values jump off the pages of the Jewish sacred texts. So, we are careful to buy free-range, grain-fed poultry, and mostly fresh ingredients for everything else. With four vegetarians out of the 12 people at our table, we serve a variety of colorful vegetable dishes in addition to the stuffing and sweet potatoes. And since we find value in the Jewish sacred eating requirements of kashrut, we only use kosher turkey and do not use dairy products in any of our food preparations.

This may sound like a lot of restrictions, but it isn’t really; it’s just a matter of choices. In fact, our Jewish cultural background added to the delight of our feast – our pumpkin squash soup contained sweet potato matza balls (a Sukkot recipe I found in a new Jewish cookbook that has become a family favorite.) Our Thanksgiving dinner was delicious and plentiful, and we had much cause for gratitude and celebration. As I thought about the TV conversation, I was struck by how much my family’s Thanksgiving was both American and Jewish at the same time in wonderful ways.

That seemed like as good a realization as any, especially as we enter the December holiday season. This time of year challenges us as Jews, and as Americans as well.
As Christmas celebrations, decorations and culture inundate us; our Jewish selves can be eclipsed. It is not easy to navigate this time of year while keeping perspective on the meaning of being a Jew. Jewish values that are most resonant at this time of year are indeed unique: such as Chanukah’s core meaning of dedication to the covenant of the Jewish people (the word Chanukah means “dedication”). Other Jewish values, for example: being satisfied with what we have, being grateful for the gift of each day and seeking to be spiritually holy people who pursue justice, run counter to the consumer frenzy of this season in America.

Rabbi Mordecai Kaplan, z’l, the founder of Reconstructionism, framed it well when he said that we have a great opportunity to live in two civilizations: the Jewish and the American. This is a privilege that our great grandparents did not have. But to sustain the great value of this privilege we should constantly ask ourselves the question raised, oddly enough, by a quintessential American voice, the Today Show: “What’s a Jew to do?” This time of year, their voicing that question was a gift in itself, and for that, I give thanks.

Happy Chanukah!

 

“Pray Different”

I was recently interviewed for a documentary that is being made of the first generation of women rabbis. It was an interesting experience as I was asked questions that caused me to reflect on my life and my work, almost like crafting the outline for an ethical will. The interviewer asked how my work is similar to or different from what I thought it would be when I set out on the course to becoming a rabbi. This is a question I think about a lot – because I am very much aware of how my rabbinic career is both just what I expected and at the same time vastly different from I anticipated.
The contrasts are a result of the rapidly changing Jewish world. The Jewish community of my childhood is long gone – it exists as a memory of Jewish neighborhoods and nearly universal affiliation of suburban Jews. Memories are often romantically viewed, so I try to be mindful of not exaggerating the “greatness” of the past. Still, I notice that the assumption of a Jewish community whose members are committed to its sustenance and future, and whose Jewish identity is primary in their lives, which I felt as a child, is no longer a shared reality. A generation past the empowerment demands of the 1960’s, when “do it yourself (DIY)” Judaism became chic, the tastes, perceptions, needs, and values of this generation are once again igniting a “DIY” movement. But this time is very different from the last; this generation has been influenced by American individualism, universal globalism, the expanded role of technology in every aspect of our lives, social networking and cataclysmic international changes. We live in an age of information overload, a relentless pace of life, and the scarcest resources are time and attention. The Jewish community must respond to these changes of culture and values by providing engaging, meaningful, uplifting and spiritually fulfilling experiences. We cannot assume anything – we must think creatively and act courageously.
It was from this place that last winter I proposed a new vision for the services of the Days of Awe for Congregation Beth Hatikvah. Imagining that we were going on a journey that began with the first service on Rosh Hashanah eve, culminating in our arrival on Yom Kippur at Neilah’s sunset, I envisioned a continuous, multi-sensory experience that would be as seamless as possible. The vision for the services highlighted the experience as a whole, guiding the congregation through immersive communal and personal prayer. This design required relinquishing some treasured participation of many individuals in the parts of the service, which was not easy. We did this for the sake of creating the most spiritually rich worship for the community as a whole. We truly did “pray different.”
The reaction was largely very encouraging and appreciative; some of the accolades that were shared with me were filled with strong positive emotion. From the start, we knew that as individuals, we would each have some parts of the services that we worked for us more than others, and that not all elements would appeal to everyone. But it is clear that so long as we set our sights on the broad view of the services as a journey that was communally shared, we can continue to build on this success to make it even better. We shared a contemporary creation that was both traditional and very new at the same time. We have much to build on for the future.
Now we are beginning to explore: where do we go now? How can we continue to transform our worship and ritual to be as engaging and satisfying as possible? We have created a great platform for imagining the future. And we have an exciting task ahead of us – shaping the vision of our Jewish life together, creating memories for our generation and the next.

 

Leshanah Tovah 5772

The New Year is upon us.  The Jewish tradition offers us a great toolbox for a real opportunity to set out on a meaningful new course for the journey of 5772.  Teshuvah, repentance, means a “turning” from one direction to another. For most of us it is subtle course-correction, returning to our core values and life goals. For others of us, major changes may lie ahead, resulting from new life conditions or a new life-stage, or a significant insight about our lives that propels us forward.

What have we learned or experienced in the past year that may help to direct our teshuvah in this New Year?

This past summer I rather spontaneously agreed to do something I had never before done – and likely would have avoided in the past. When my three kids, who love to travel together and enjoy camping, invited me to join them on a hiking/backpacking trip in Vermont, I simply said “yes!”  Not being a hearty outdoors-person, this was to be a major new experience. As the time for the trip grew near, I imagined how I’d fare spending four days in the wilderness.  My anxiety for unknown and frightening situations was abated by the trust I had in my three kids. They had done this before, acquiring knowledge and responsibility in the process.

It turned out that the four days of mountain hiking in Vermont was about a whole lot more than spending time with my kids – though of course it was that first and foremost. I learned a lot about each of them, about myself, and about us as a family team. I was reinforced in perceiving much about what is truly most important. The values of caring, courage, perseverance, sharing, curiosity, openness, flexibility, gratitude, appreciation, love, family and personal reflection were all reinforced in many ways in that brief trip.

Now, as I approach the beginning of a New Year, I realize that my choice to accept the challenge of the hike in order to be with my kids was my soul’s way of opening to a whole new set of opportunities. I can do more than I thought I could do; I can be more than I was a year ago. Now I have the opportunity to consciously build on that knowledge and to expand my soul’s connection to nature’s beauty and the glory of shared experiences and accomplishments with my emerging adult children.  All of this is a gift from the Divine source of life, human potential and love.

When I injured my leg on the hike because it was far more physically challenging than I had imagined, I also learned about my limitations. My kids were like mountain goats scurrying up the rugged trail, even in fierce rain. But reality hit me hard — I am not so young anymore, no matter how fit I thought I was. As they compassionately told me to lead so I could set a pace that I could keep, I thought deeply about how life-stage perspective is so important. The next time I sign up for a 22 mile mountain hike with a 30 pound pack on my back, I’ll be sure to prepare more than my bags of trail mix.

Isn’t so much of life like this? We enter new life stages, whether by choice or fate, and we have to learn how to do our teshuvah, our turning, in a way that is conscious and intentional. When our kavannah, our spiritual intention, is directed towards opening our souls to the spiritual messages and religious values along the way, our lives will be sustained in powerful ways. Then we will have truly used the tools of our faith to live purposefully.

This moment of teshuvah is such a blessing – for whatever our lives have brought us in the past year, whether good or bad, we can now direct the course for 5772 to integrate the past year into the selves we will become in the coming year.

The provocative Unetaneh Tokef prayer of the High Holy days proclaims that “teshuvah, tefillah and tzedakah will avert the evil decree.” Repentance, prayer and generous giving will sustain our lives and determine the quality of our living.

What have we experienced in this past year? And what have we learned? How will it help direct our path in the coming year?

May we have meaningful journeys of teshuvah and renewed spiritual living in 5772.

Warm wishes for a sweet, happy and healthy New Year. Leshanah Tovah Tikateivu v’teichateimu. May you be inscribed and sealed in the Book of Life for Good.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ten Years Later

Do you remember the day of September 10, 2001?   I recall that day in utterly clear focus, as though it was a lead-up to the traumatic events about to unfold the next day.  I was at home on the morning of 9/11 when the world was shattered. We all remember that terrible morning of 9/11.  But can we also recall, in our minds and our hearts, what it was like for us before that day?

It’s cliché to say that everything changed on 9/11, but the day before, even the moment before the first plane hit, we didn’t realize that we were in suspended animation before the fall. We fell from our sense of certainty, possibility, comfort and safety.  Everything we had worried about, stressed over, worked on, planned for, even dreamed of, was suddenly recast.  Many things that mattered a lot suddenly didn’t matter any more. Our priorities were shifted, our emotional realities recalibrated.

We are still living in that shadow. I had been in Israel in August 2001, in the throes of the second intifada, and just after the infamous bombing of the Sbarro restaurant in downtown  Jerusalem.  It sadly had become common for  Israelis to navigate their everyday lives with fear as a constant presence in the back of everyone’s minds. With heavy security guarding public places, it was understood that this was necessary, but emotionally, this situation takes its toll over time. So when, after 9/11, NY Penn station started to feel like Jerusalem, with a strong military presence,  I recognized this reality and knew about the stress it generated.

We became jumpier, more ready to assume something dreadful had happened with any loud booming noise, any accident that caused damage to public places. We went about our lives in accustomed ways, but got testy with each other from time to time as a kind of collective post traumatic stress had gripped our communities and towns and even our country.

In the ensuing years, three wars later, our nation has managed fear by attacking perceived enemies. So many lives have been lost or damaged or traumatized in the process. Yet we still fear the next terrorist around the corner.

We have demonized the “other,” Muslims in particular, and have devolved into a society of blame, criticism and “us” against “them” politics that disregards the common good. Painfully, it’s all about fear — fear of loss, fear of change, fear of hurt, and fear of life itself.

Our economic woes are not disconnected from this either. We salved our fears by spending beyond our means, often with our very homes on the line. And when the market tanked in 2008, we had to face new fears for our economic futures. Will there be money for retirement, for staying in our homes? Will there be jobs for us and for our children? These are frightening questions and challenges.

In these difficult 10 years we have still pursued life. We have brought babies into the world, celebrated weddings, b’nai mitzvah, graduations, and other joys families and friends share. We have enjoyed holidays and community celebrations that have shaped our lives.

In many recent conversations I have been hearing a lot of fear — fear about our futures, personally and collectively.  Each of these encounters leaves me yearning for Rosh Hashanah, for a time for reflection, renewal, and reorienting our lives. We have the great gift of a spiritual tradition that helps us to focus on the blessings of our lives and the blessing of life itself. Our ancestor Jacob/Yisrael was plagued by his fears in his journeys, yet he dreamed of angels, awakening to exclaim “How awesome is this place!” He crossed the threshold from fear to faith. We can too.

This September 11 we will mourn the 10 year anniversary of that terrible day and honor the memory of those we lost that day. Now, ten  years later, we seek to understand our lives in its wake. 9/11 occurs during the final Jewish month of Elul, as we prepare for the teshuvah/turning of Rosh Hashanah. In honor of all those who lost their lives to the violence of 9/11 and the years since then, we have an opportunity to affirm life with gratitude and hope. It is from this place of hope that we can find healing from fear, and faith in our future that will direct who we are and who we shall become.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This week’s salutation

Every day this week, every email I exchanged, the opening line was consistent: “How did the storm effect you? Are you ok?” Our area of New Jersey, west of New York City, certainly felt the storm. Some of the most persistent and damaging flooding in Northern New Jersey has been in our area. While  my family feels extremely lucky to have not lost power and not suffered flooding, many of our friends and members of our community have not been so lucky. Some, now four days post-storm, are still without power, and some are out of their homes so they can get by. Many stories of flooded basements abound, and some people’s businesses have been swamped with water and mud.

We are all concerned for each other. We have helped each other in a number of ways and we are anxious to know how we can be of service to others whose needs have not yet been apparent.   It is a time when the best in us rises to the surface and submerses all the negative or apathetic behaviors of ordinary and everyday times.

Along the way, we have now punctuated our sharing of storm stories with huge doses of concern for those whose lives have been more severely impacted than ours.  Folks in upstate NY and Vermont who have endured absolute catastrophe are in our hearts. We await news on how we can help them, and in the meantime, our prayers are with them.

“How did the storm effect you? Are you ok?” This week’s salutation is a reminder of our connectedness and interdependence. I pray that it’s expression of caring extends well beyond this week.

It’s the second day of Elul, a time to reflect on how our ordinary and everyday can be as filled with concern for others as this week has been.

 

Hodesh Tov-Best Wishes for a Meaningful Month of Elul

This is it — it is Elul. It is the time of year when we are given the gift of an entire month to reflect on our lives in anticipation of Rosh Hashanah, the New Year. It’s like a good warm-up before a workout – when we have prepared ourselves during the month of Elul, we are ready to use our teshuvah (repentance/spiritual turning) muscles well on the New Year.

My kids have often reminded me of the need for good stretching before and after exercise. I’m not good at this — I am impatient to get to the bike or the treadmill and get my heart rate up. To be honest I have to admit that I am lazy about stretching before my workout. And I pay the price: my muscles complain and sometimes ache, and it’s all my own fault.

My kids and I recently took a four-day hiking trip on a beautiful mountain trail. It was steep and rugged. They are a lot younger than I am and amazingly agile. I thought I was in good shape — until I began this hike. But I was intent upon keeping up with them and not holding our journey back. In pushing forward, we all forgot about the necessity of stretching — that is, until I was limping from injury.

Now nursing my sore tendon, I am reminded once again of the value of warming up — getting ready, being prepared.

So here we are — we can enter the New Year unprepared and risk that the journey of teshuvah, repentance and renewal, might not work. It could even leave us bruised and alienated.  All those words…all those prayers — they are for us, that we might emerge into the New Year feeling a sense of possibility, hope and optimism — a renewal of spirit.

The month of Elul is a gift. On this, its first day, let’s unwrap its potential to help us heal our wounds, repair ourselves and be closer in the New Year to our very best selves.

An Elul journey can include prayers, meditations, journal-writing, etc.  Our spiritual practice belongs to us — the challenge today is to decide what it will be, and to try our best.

I wish you a Hodesh Tov, happy New Month. This auspicious month of Elul is the beginning of our journey.

 

An Earthquake and a Hurricane, What a Week!

Growing up, whenever it seemed as though bad luck had visited our household or one of us in particular, my mother would quickly remind us that “bad things happen in three’s.” Karma, fate, the evil eye, Divine intervention, or whatever you would call it, this meant that this spate of bad fortune was somehow happening for a reason. When the third bad thing was something harmless, like, for example, dropping a glass on the kitchen floor, it was such a relief. We were free and clear of bad luck; it was over. Back to happy, and the blue skies of possibility.

Of course, I shed this superstition a long time ago. Rationally, it is clear that the world does not work this way. Some people have worse luck than others; some people suffer more than the average. There is no cause and effect to explain illnesses, accidents and natural disasters. And explaining the evil designs of those who do us harm just doesn’t work. You can’t blame the victim.

The best thing we can do is to try to discern what we have learned from our experiences and how we have grown and changed through the challenges we face.

So I am once again redirecting my thoughts from old world superstitions, to reflect on the past week in the Northeastern USA. This week our area endured two rare and unexpected natural disasters — an earthquake and a hurricane.

The earthquake caught us completely by surprise and fortunately did little more than scare us. But it certainly did distract just about everyone in our area for the better part of a day. The sense of immediate fear gave way to a more unsettling feeling of vulnerability. We thought we lived in an area free from earthquakes, even if somewhere we’d read that it was possible. It just doesn’t happen here. Except that now we know that it does, and the surprise of the quake reminded everyone of our lack of control over our environment.

Early in the week reports of Hurricane Irene in the area of the Bahamas didn’t catch our attention in any particular way — it is that time of year. We sympathize with the people who live in the hurricane zones, but usually in a distant way. We know we may need to mobilize to help some community that could suffer damage, and we are ready for that. This one snuck up on us; by midweek the news of a chance of a Northeast US impact began to circulate. The approaching storm brought with it a slow-motion build-up of fear. Thursday and Friday brought air that was heavy with worry.

As I scurried around our house looking for flashlights and batteries, complaining that we might run out of batteries if the power were out for days, my husband tried to calm me down. We had plenty, he said. I was not ready to give up. We tried two stores just before Shabbat– both were sold out of batteries. OK, I awakened to the reality — we did have enough to get through and I was overreacting. I quickly rediscovered what I really needed — I found it in shul on Shabbat. In spite of the stress because several precious guests of the bar mitzvah family for Shabbat were not going to make it to New Jersey because of the storm, our community found great solace in our Shabbat together, and the bar mitzvah was beautiful. We left the fixation on the approaching storm outside our doors; inside we felt comfort, joy, peace and faith. With a realization that there is little we can control in our environment, and a sense of satisfaction for the Jewish spiritual path that maps out how we can make the best of what we can control, we were at peace. We knew that if the storm brought harm, we would help each other, and we would get through it together. Being together, singing, praying, learning Torah, and shmoozing was great solace. We meant it when we prayed “everything’s going to be alright.”

This storm did cause damage and some tragic deaths. Our hearts go out to the families of those who are grieving as a result of these losses. Having carried anxiety and fear in our hearts for half a week, we can turn ourselves to recovery. In our best selves, we are helping each other. In the process we are reminded of all the best in humanity: compassion, caring, generosity, courage and patience. The primary lessons we take into this new week are the importance of community and faith and purpose in enduring the catastrophes and bad luck that we cannot control. I pray that we remember this and use this lesson for good.

 

Spiritual Reflection from Jerusalem

It’s mid-July as I write from Jerusalem. In this city that evokes so much passion, the dusty summer air is filled with an indescribable mix of loveliness, holiness and some craziness. For many secular Israelis who live beyond this city’s hills, Jerusalem is symbolic of conflict – between secular and religious Jews, and between Israelis and Arabs. But I love walking Jerusalem’s streets and breathing its impassioned air.  It is especially sweet on Shabbat, when quiet descends on the city once the shops and restaurants close early on Friday afternoon. The peacefulness is prayerful.

I find that coming in and out of Jerusalem sharpens my perspective on Jewish religious experience.  In Diaspora synagogues like ours, we pray eastward, toward Jerusalem, historically to face the Temple Mount — now as an expression of the solidarity of Jewish peoplehood.  By contrast, the secular Israeli community Beit Tefila Yisraeli, which meets for prayer in the summer at the Tel Aviv port (the capital of secular Israeli culture), faces the Mediterranean as the sun sets on Friday night, greeting Shabbat symbolically away from Jerusalem. God does not “reside” on the Temple Mount any more or less than God “resides” in the sunset over the sea; our spiritual compass has multiple directions. Prayer at the walls around the Temple Mount has a unique, symbolic power, but the Negev desert and the lush hills of the Galilee breathe their own holiness with their beauty and rich Jewish history.

I take spiritual nourishment from the ancient hills on which our ancestors forged a sacred path.  Jewish prayer started here, traveling through our Diaspora as we learned to seek God wherever we are. Along the way we brought the experience of the mountains, the ocean, the forest and the field, with collective memories of ancient Temple worship. The words and choreography of Jewish prayer draws on these experiences, leading us on a spiritual journey to sustain and guide us as a holy people.

A prayerful heart can be evoked in nature’s beauty, through music, or in the quiet in which we can hear “the still small voice.”  Jewish prayer is a complex tapestry of experiences.  Our prayers are transformative if we have been moved to peel away the layers of everyday distraction to open our hearts.

It is from this place that our Congregation BEth Hatikvah’s High Holy Day services are being re-imagined. We are seeking to capture more of prayer’s essence—a soul-journey of multi-layered experiences inspired by our ancestors, and reflecting contemporary culture.

During my July studies I have reflected a great deal about these ideas with my colleagues at the Hartman Institute in Jerusalem.  As a group of us sang Kabbalat Shabbat with Beit Tefila Yisraeli at the Tel Aviv port, I marveled at the power and beauty of the experience.  The Mediterranean sunset and crowds of families enjoying a secular Tel Aviv Shabbat could not have been more different from the religious atmosphere prevailing over Jerusalem. I hold them both in my heart.

It is that multi-faceted, heart-touching experience that we are seeking to evoke for the upcoming High Holy Days.  The coming weeks will allow us to share kavannot (spiritual intentions) in preparation.

An opening kavannah, a poem from the great Spanish Jewish poet and philosopher, Judah Halevi, (11^th century Spain):

Where Shall I Find You? 

(edited, AJS)

God, where shall I find You?

Your place is lofty and concealed.

And where shall I not find You?

The whole earth is full of Your Glory!

You are praised by Your hosts

But all praises You surpass.

 

The sphere of heaven cannot contain You,

Temple chambers, how much less.

 

Your Presence I have sought,

Calling out from the depths of the heart.

When after You, I went forth resolutely

There I found You, on Your way to me.

Can the Infinite One dwell within finite creation?

 

What can human minds conceive, creatures of humble station?

Yet You, Holy One, make Your home amidst their adoration.

 

Even when You rise above Your hosts on a throne, high and exalted,

You are nearer to them than their own bodies and souls.

Their mouths attest that they have no Maker except You.

Who shall not fear You? All bear the yoke of Your kingdom.

And who shall not call to You? It is You who give them their food.

I have sought to come near You, I have called to You with all my heart; and
when I went out towards You, I found You coming towards me.

I look upon Your wondrous power and awe.

Who can say that he has not seen You?

The heavens and their legions proclaim Your awesome presence — without a sound.

 

(These poetic metaphors are symbolic of our spiritual journey.)