B"H

The Real Miracle

 

“Fairy tales are more than true; not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten.”
— G.K. Chesterton

I picked up this picture and quote from my friend Aaron, who runs at OpenSource Judaism (click over there and say ‘hi’. Also congratulate him on his new baby.). It reminded me of a similar quote from my friend and teacher Naomi Chase.

She was talking about Chanukah, and the various narratives around it. Being a stuck up know-it-all at the beginning of what was to be a long (and ongoing) Jewish learning experience, I wanted my Chanukah information unvarnished and honest. No more baby stories about oil. I knew better.

  • The holiday is 8 days because the last holiday the Hasmoneans (ie: Maccabees) missed was Sukkot. So upon re-dedicating the Temple, they gave a nod to that festival and added an additional day at the end to commemorate their victory.
  • The oil story was added later, by Rabbis who were uncomfortable with the reality of Jew-on-Jew violence that the Chanukah story contains.
  • The whole holiday was a mere footnote on the calendar until about 150 years ago, when a certain other gift-giving seasonal event became prominent, and some people felt the need to compete.

Naomi listened to my dissertation, nodding in understanding. I was proud that I had learned the grown-up version of the holiday. I didn’t need any babyish…

“What about the miracle?” she asked.

I was at a loss. I had just explained that the miracle story about the oil was added later.

“Yes,” she continued. “But as much as some scholars – ancient or modern – might have been prone to either equivocation or exaggeration, they weren’t in the habit of publicly pronouncing a miracle from God where there was none.” she stated. “If our liturgy talks about miracles as explicitly as it does, then it is incumbent on us – even though we *are* adults and not babies – to determine why they would add that language. The Jews have won a lot of military conflicts through the years, and none of the rest of them have this kind of attention. So I’m asking again: What about the miracle? Al Ha-Nissim and all that, ‘We thank you for the miracles’. What miracle are they talking about?”

Deflated and defeated (but now curious as well), my meager supply of Jewish knowledge used up, I replied “I got nuthin.”

And that’s when she laid it on me. The quote that matches Mr. Chesterton’s above:

“The miracle we find in the story of Chanukah isn’t whether oil lasted for one day, or three, or eight.

It’s that, after all they had been through and all they knew could befall them in the coming weeks and years,

the people still chose to light the menorah in the first place.”

I’ve since connected with the idea that this is the reason we light the candles each year. Not because we are re-enacting the first oil crisis to hit the middle east. No, we are recreating the act that mattered:

The Jewish people: some alienated from their own faith by years of assimilation, others polarized into fanaticism in an effort survive when other groups had been consumed, and still others trying to reconcile where they stand day by day, moment by moment. Both groups healing from hurts (real or perceived) inflicted on them by the other – those people still felt it was worthwhile to clean up their holiest space, to set things right again, and to observe an ancient practice not because they were obsessively holding onto the past, not because they were fearful of anything new, but because they believed it was an essential part of who they were.

More importantly, they believed it was important to express – visibly and publicly – that belief in who they were.

I recognize that many things are the same today as it was then. In the spectrum of the Jewish people, some of us have assimilated, some have clung to tradition, some are in motion between those two points. All of us have an emotional stake in where we are and where we want to be. In our varying views we haven’t always been gracious or supportive or even polite to the other. Hurts – real or perceived – remain unhealed. The Holy Temple – our spiritual center-point that exists today in our heart rather than any fixed place on the planet – still needs to be put back in order.

But this year most of us (even those who have lost hold of any of our other traditions) will stand again in front of our Chanukiah – a reflection of the Temple’s menorah during that initial moment of dedication after destruction. If we reading carefully, the abrupt shift in tense – from past to present – will not be lost on us.

Al Ha-Nissim…

“And [we thank You] for the miracles, for the redemption, for the mighty deeds, for the saving acts, and for the wonders which You have wrought for our ancestors in those days, at this time

(Originally posted on The EdibleTorah)

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If a Jew Prays in the Airport…

…and nobody makes a fuss, God still hears the prayer.

You may remember my friend who was so inspired by seeing another person davening at the airport, that he (and I) got our own set of tefillin. If not, you can read the original blog post here. He’s been busy – both in his “regular” work life, traveling and doing what he does; and spiritually, slowly taking on the mitzvah of wrapping tefillin and taking a moment to connect with The Infinite each morning. But so far it’s been a private affair. Each morning in his hotel room or home, he’s been able to set aside the requisite minutes and then pack up his things and move on with his day. Until this week. I got this on Monday:

“My first time laying Tefilin in a public place, at the airport. I think I violated Halacha, too early, but it was either now or later in the day in CA. I am confident HaShem understands. I found it tough to concentrate even though it was very quiet this early. Hopefully comes with practice.”

…and then on Thursday morning, this follow-up:

In Sacramento, found a relatively quiet spot but still  surrounded by people, first time “in public”,was very self conscience, sort of weird. Actually alerted the gate agent that these were not bombs I was strapping to my arm and head. Did I scare people or cause personal reflection in others, move them to greater understanding or a desire to learn, cause them to scoff at ancient rituals, or be in awe of them, who knows. Is it unfeeling to think “who cares” this is between me and my G-D?

In talking with him about it, I made the following observation:

I think – once you get past the initial self consciousness that comes with any new habit – it is perfectly reasonable to focus on your experience. It’s not a show after all. You aren’t responsible for others’ perception. It seems very much like your habits of exercise and vegetarian lifestyle. You don’t do it for show, you don’t draw focus to it. You do it for you. You are willing to talk about it with people who approach you, but otherwise, it’s a non-event. Your davening is (or will become) part of you, your routine. If others derive inspiration that is great, but it’s a by-product.

The conversation made me reflect on my own experience with tefillin so far. I’ve been traveling for the last 3 weeks - something that I haven’t done in a few years – and I discovered it to be easier to make time for ritual when I don’t have carpools, homework, or plunging toilets to distract me. Which was an interesting counterpoint to a post  by The Velveteen Rabbi, where (as a new mother) she is coming to terms with the challenge of juggling the irresistible force of her baby’s needs with the immovable object of the time-bound mitzvot.

It comforted me to realize that there might be a natural ebb and flow in all this, so I don’t have to worry about being “there”. I should just stay focused on being “here” and moving toward “there”.

Originally posted on The Edible Torah

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How Thankful Can You Be?

As part of the daily prayer cycle, we say “Modim Anachnu Lach” – “We are thankful to You”. But how often are we? Forget being thankful to God. How often are we thankful to, or for, anything?

Today, in a display of just how awesome the Internet can be sometimes, I stumbled upon a site named “thxthxthx“.

Leah Dieterich, the author, sets out on an exercise in thankfulness – to write one thank-you note a day. Sometimes tongue-in-cheek (“Dear Meeting, thank you so so so so much for being over“), sometimes funny (“Dear Spring, thank you for making boys want to eat salad“) and often disarmingly sincere (“Dear orange tree, thanks for convincing anyone that LA is a magical place.“), her blog posts stopped me in my tracks.

How often can we see past our own immediate circumstances to find and be thankful for what each moment has to offer?

How often do we take the chance to actually thank someone in a thoughtful and mindful way – not just “thanks a lot”, but actual acknowledgement for what that person has done (beyond what they have done for us) in that moment?

How often do we stop ourselves on purpose, to proactively find something to be thankful for?

If I were being trite, I would thank everyone who took the time to read this post.

If I were in a suck-uppy kind of mood I would thank Leah for her blog, or Seth Godin for once again finding useful nuggets of Internet goodness.

Instead, I’m going to take a longer long view, and thank everything that caused the Internet (yes, the whole thing) to come into being and in a form where it feeds me music and inspires me from so many unexpected sources, allowing me to write this blog post and still keep up with all the other work I need to accomplish before I can thankfully fall into a soft bed and sleep uninterrupted for a few hours.

Originally posted on The Edible Torah

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Let Us Bow Our Heads and Give Thanks…

Last year I commented that Thanksgiving is really sort of an empty experience, when you put it up against a powerhouse-of-a-holiday like Passover, Rosh Hashanah, or even Shabbat. I received some wonderful comments over on the URJ blog site, which kindly reposted that essay, which I fully intend to incorporate this year.

And Ima on (and off) the Bima has once again posted not one but 3 amazing Thanksgiving “seders” for you to use before, during or after carving the bird. Your time would be well-spent to check them out.

However, here at EdibleTorah HQ I believe that irreverence is a skill best learned early and practiced often. So I was excited to find excerpts from Andrew Silow Carroll’s never-to-be-published opus: Company’s Coming: A Thanksgiving Haggadah for Non-Jews and Other Gentiles.

I have reprinted it here, for your enjoyment:


Every year around this time, the American Jewish Committee sponsors interfaith events, based on their 2001 publication America’s Table: A Thanksgiving Haggadah. The contents are modeled on the Passover Seder, with prayers, readings and rituals.

The problem is that while these events promote fellowship and tolerance, they don’t fully convey the Seder experience for a non-Jewish audience.

That’s why I’ve written Company’s Coming: A Thanksgiving Haggada for Non-Jews and Other Gentiles. Some excerpts:

The table: The Thanksgiving table is set with traditional ritual objects, including your best china, a paper turkey made by one of the children, and an animal-shaped soup tureen. According to tradition, the tureen is hideously ugly and is being brought out on this day because the aunt who gave it to you is invited to dinner.

Welcoming the guests: As the guests gather in the front hall, the youngest child no longer in diapers is asked to take their coats and put them in an upstairs bedroom. Parents are to recite the age-old admonition, “And place them nicely – don’t just throw them.”

The Blessing: Before the meal, two toasts are recited: The first, by the teenagers, is mocking and inappropriate; the second, thanking God, is self-conscious and slightly uncomfortable for everyone at the table. (This is in contrast to the closing blessing, said with deep feeling by the host and hostess: “Thank God we don’t have to do this again for another year.”)

The Bitter Herb: No one knows the origins of this ancient custom, but it involves keeping the liquor away from your angriest guest. In some families he is named “Herb”; in others it is Morris or Aunt Faye.

The Four Questions:

No Thanksgiving Seder is complete without these timeless queries:

  1. Why is my plate different from everyone else’s plate?
  2. Is there gluten in the stuffing?
  3. What’s the score?
  4. What were you thinking when you invited Aunt Faye?

The four answers:

The adults answer the questions, for as the Talmud says, “Who is the wise person? The one who speaks louder than everyone else.”

  1. “I ran out of the good china. Your turkey will taste the same on a paper plate. Yes it will. Oh for God’s sake – Sari, will you change with Daniel?”
  2. “The casserole and the green beans don’t have any nuts. There may be soy in the salad dressing. The kugel has eggs – can you eat eggs?”
  3. “Since Mr. Prince Charming would rather watch a football game than have dinner with his family once a year, let’s ask him. Herb, what’s the score?”
  4. “She joking, Aunt Faye. You know Ruth, always a joker.”

The Thanksgiving Story: The guests take turns reciting the tale of the first Thanksgiving. Since no one actually remembers the story, guests are encouraged to contribute whatever hazy memories they may have from elementary school, touching on the following points:

The Pilgrims left England on the Mayflower so they could worship freely in America. Some of the famous passengers included Miles Standish, Priscilla Mullins, Margaret Thatcher and Ichabod Crane. They landed at Plymouth Rock. It was a bitter cold winter. They met a kind Indian – Squanto, or maybe Pocahontas. One of those. The Indian helped them plant their first corn crop using fish. Then they had a big feast to thank the Indians.

No, I don’t know if the corn tasted like fish. I don’t know why people need belt buckles on their hats. Yes, I’m pretty sure about Ichabod Crane. We’re getting off the point here. The point is we have a feast to remember the brave Pilgrims who settled Plymouth.

The Rebuttal: At this point, it is customary for someone to rebut the Thanksgiving story. Perhaps it is Cousin Leora, home from Brandeis, who reminds the guests that Thanksgiving actually commemorates the genocide of the Indians. Or maybe Uncle Stan will describe the Pilgrims as “anti-Semitten.” Either rebuttal is acceptable.

The Meal: Before the eating of the festive meal comes the carving of the oversized turkey. Like Thanksgiving itself, this is an act begun in a spirit of great enthusiasm but, after 30 minutes or so with a dull knife and confusion about the turkey’s anatomy, ends with muttered curses and a platter of torn and mangled bird flesh. Bon appetit!

Light and Dark: Our monotheistic tradition is one of separation: day from night, kosher from non-kosher, Lewis from Martin. So it is with the white meat from the dark. Whosoever shall choose the dark meat shall choose the dark meat, and whosoever shall choose the white meat will probably need extra gravy. Ken y’

hi ratzon

.

Dessert: Unusual for a carefully structured seder, the Thanksgiving dessert has no formal ritual requirements. In some homes, however, the men shall recline to one side, loosen their belt buckles, and groan. Others groan first, then loosen their belt buckles. Consult your local rabbi.

The Conclusion: The guests recite, “The Thanksgiving Seder is concluded, according to each detail with all its laws and customs. As we have been privileged to celebrate this seder, so may we face minimal traffic on the Hudson River crossings. And we say together: Next year at someone else’s house!”

Andrew Silow-Carroll is Editor in Chief of the New Jersey Jewish News. Originally posted on The Edible Torah


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Intertwined

A few months ago a friend of mine – someone who travels a lot for work – sent me this message from his blackberry as he waited to board a flight:

Dawn is breaking. A young man a few rows down, nondescript except for a small, almost hidden, Kippah  just wrapped Tefillin and began his morning prayers. He covers his head with his Tallit. Oblivious to the physical world he is immersed in a different place. He takes 3 steps back, sways and moves forward again as he silently recites the Amidah. Surprisingly few people stare. Maybe he really is in a different place. Really beautiful.

What takes my breath away even more than the wording (which was elegant and eloquent) was how this anonymous davening stranger captured my friend’s attention and imagination, which in turn caught mine. Even more, that this stranger did it without meaning to and in fact to this day may not realize that he did.

Like me, this friend of mine is on his own Jewish journey. Our destinations may not lead us to the same place and our paths are distinctly different. But he and I both are excited by our mutual travels. Almost every week, our families get together and we have a chance to compare notes, share what we’ve learned, bounce ideas around.

It reminds me of two threads that keep crossing, only to swing way out in the other direction before turning back inward to cross again. We go out during the week, do our thing, meet back on Shabbat and reconnect, and then keep rolling through to the following week. In some ways his movement has kept me on track, and I think I’ve had the same effect for him.

His email was one such point of connection. It got us both thinking and – although we didn’t intend it – set us on our own paths.

This week, on my desk, sits an old and worn set of tefillin once owned by someone I knew and respected. And on his desk sits a set that is completely new, the shine barely off the thick straps that still creak when they are wound. We are both looking for a way to take our place next to that anonymous young man in the airport, to find our way to that “different place” he found so effortlessly.

On the mornings when time and confidence combine to allow me to try on this new habit, I look down at the winding on my arm and realize that the overlapping strands of leather are a perfect reminder of our experiences as Jews: sometimes parallel, sometimes overlapping, and always binding.

Connecting us to God, and to each other.

 Originally posted on The Edible Torah

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Interview Season

In 2007, Rabbi Label Lam made a comment  on torah.org that the Days of Awe are NOT – contrary to popular belief – about looking back or thinking about our actions over the past year, in order to make amends and repent. Rabbi Lam points out that Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur focus on looking ahead to the coming year and making a commitment about what you plan to do with that time.

In other words, it’s a job interview.

I don’t mind job interviews. They force me to evaluate what I know and what I’m comfortable sharing; it gives me a chance to really define what I bring to the table, and what I WANT to bring to the table.

Going on job interviews reminds me that I live in an American state with a policy of  at-will employment, which means any job can be terminated by the employer or employee at any time, with no reasons given or needed. The reality is slightly better than that: employees usually give 2 weeks notice, and most employers usually give reasons for job termination. But if you feel your job has some kind of guaranteed stability, it’s an illusion. Going on job interviews Keeps It Real for me in that respect.

The parallels to Rabbi Lam’s view of the Yamim Norim (Days of Awe) are striking.

The current year is coming to an end. I find myself in synagogue being asked (by the liturgy and my own heart, if not God) what it is that I plan to do with myself this coming year; on what merit should my contract be extended? No matter what achievements I may have garnered over the year (and in retrospect they don’t look so impressive), they only have a minor bearing on my negotiations. This is all about my commitment to, and suitability for a future goal.

The U’Netaneh Tokef prayer, which asks (in part) “who will live and who will die; who will die at his predestined time and who before his time; who by water and who by fire” reminds me that I live in a state of at-will “employment” – that my next breath is not a sure thing and idea that my future has some kind of guaranteed stability is an illusion.

Rather than give up hope, I see in this a chance to re-commit and re-dedicate myself to doing what’s right. To resolve to make true t’shuvah. As I mentioned earlier in the blogelul challenge, that doesn’t mean promising to stop being bad, but rather to return to my best self and be the person that the world – and I – need me to be.

During a job interview (the regular computer-world ones, not the one that starts on the first of Tishrei), I make a point of stating my feelings about the job. It’s amazing how many people never do that – they never say “I want this job” or even “I think I can do this job”. So I always take the time  (assuming that I want the job) to tell the interviewer:

“Not only do I think I can do this job, I think I can do a good job doing this job. And I want you to know that I want this job.”

During these Days of Awe, as I consider the year ahead and all the things God might ask of me, I don’t plan on being coy about my feelings or intentions. Sitting in prayer with nerves rubbed raw by liturgy that forces me to admit I am imperfect and flawed; edgy and agitated by long services and Hebrew that doesn’t fit easily in my mouth; cranky from lack of food ; and frustrated by an attention span which keeps wandering; In that condition I will be forced to admit that my soul is God’s for the taking.

But on that day I’m going to make sure that I state clearly that this job I’m being offered – the job of living in God’s world for another year – is a job I can do, that I will try with every fiber of my being to do a good job doing, and which I want very very much.

L’Shana Tova

(edited slightly from the original, which was posted on the Edible Torah here)

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I Am Here, And I Am Not Worthy

Even after a few years through the yearly cycle of liturgy, “traditional” prayer services are still very new to me. Even so, I’ve already found a few of my favorite moments – things I look forward to hearing and savor as they pass.

If you are in the right state of mind, the Days of Awe present a lot of those moments. For me, one is the prayer “Hineini” (“Here I Stand”), or “The Chazzan’s Prayer”. You can click here for the traditional text, or here for a more poetic interpretation. But it reads, in part:

“Hineini – Here I stand, impoverished of deeds, trembling and frightened with the dread [...].

I have come to stand and supplicate before You for Your people Israel, who have sent me although I am unworthy and unqualified to do so.

Therefore, I beg of you, [...] Please do not hold them to blame for my sins and do not find them guilty of my iniquities, for I am a careless and willful sinner. Let them not feel humiliated by my willful sins. Let them not be ashamed of me and let me not be ashamed of them. Accept my prayer like the prayers of an experienced elder whose lifetime has been well spent, whose beard is fully grown, whose voice is sweet, and who is friendly with other people. ”

I find myself deeply moved by the private, personal and human tone of this prayer. Many prayers – throughout the year as well as on the High Holidays – are written as communal “we ask you… please help us…hear our prayer” types of supplications. But here is a prayer written for the solo voice.

It’s just my interpretation, not anything I’ve learned formally, but I truly believe this is the voice of the Kohain Gadol as he stood in the Holy of Holies on Yom Kippur. As he stood in the small boxy room, a nation’s hope riding on his shoulders and a rope around his leg to drag him out if he died for some undetected sin, in that moment what could anyone say except “You and I both know I’m not up to this job. But those people out there, they are good and holy people. Please don’t let me let them down.”

Weirdly, this reminded me of one of my favorite sequences from T.H. White’s story “The Ill-Made Knight“. In it, Lancelot is called upon to heal a fellow knight. The problem is that, because of his failings, he no longer believes he can perform such a feat:

“Miracles, which you wanted to do so long ago, can only be done by the pure in heart. The people outside are waiting for you to do this miracle because you have traded on their belief that your heart was pure – and now, with treachery and adultery and murder wringing the heart like a cloth, you are to go out into the sunlight for the test of honour.

Lancelot stood [waiting his turn], as white as a sheet [...] He walked down the curious ranks [of knights], ugly as ever, self-conscious, ashamed, a veteran going to be broken.

“Oh, Sir Urre,” he said, “if only I could help you, how willingly I would. But you don’t understand. you don’t understand.”

“For God’s sake,” said Sir Urre.

Lancelot looked into the East, where he thought God lived, and said something in his mind. “I don’t want glory, but please can you save our honesty? And if you will heal this knight for the knight’s sake, please do.”

[a bit later...]

The cheers which now began, round after round, were like drumfire or thunder, rolling round the turrets of Carlisle. All the field, and all the people in the field and all the towers of the castle seemed to be jumping up and down like the surface of a lake under rain.

In the middle, quite forgotten, Lancelot was kneeling by himself. This lonely and motionless figure knew a secret which was hidden from the others. The miracle was that he had been allowed to do a miracle.”

The days ahead have the potential to transform. There is an opportunity to encounter the Divine and leave our old selves behind us. During the process, keep in mind that the amazing thing might not be that God forgives us, or grants us another year. Maybe the most amazing thing is that we will have the chance to stand before God at all.

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If You Only Come to Shul Twice a Year…

Looking ahead toward the High Holidays, I imagine many Jews are considering (and perhaps dreading) what is – for them – a rare visit to synagogue. Arriving to find a large, anxious and somewhat impatient crowd (and on Yom Kippur add in “cranky from lack of food”), the entire experience justifies why one would want to stay away as much as possible.

If that’s your experience, then take my advice and do yourself a favor.

Don’t Go.

How can I say that? Isn’t it a sin to tell another Jew NOT to attend synagogue on the holiest days of the year? Stick with me, because I have a nefarious ulterior motive.

As you fight your way to an unfamiliar seat, I’ll be in that same crowd with you. I will be looking at the unfamiliar faces this year and feeling sorry for the experience they (ie: you)  are having.

Trapped in a room where no amount of air conditioning could combat the heat of hundreds of bodies, sitting (and standing, and sitting again over and over seemingly without end or reason) through a service that may or may not be  familiar, reading liturgy that is often humbling if not downright accusatory (“we have sinned” and “we are not worthy”). It’s easily enough to send anyone out of the building and straight to the nearest house of pancakes.

I want to stop the service for just a minute, and explain to the beleaguered visitors that on most weeks, there is room enough for people to change seats during the service so they can sit nearer (or further) from the action, or to just sit with friends and enjoy their closeness during prayer; On most Shabbats, the service clips along and the text is one of unbridled joy and peace and renewal; During the year, there is a “relaxed formality” in the room, where we are cognizant of the prayers we are saying, but laid back about kids coming and going, people coming in wearing shorts or sandals, and so on.

But it’s Rosh Hashana/Yom Kippur. There is no realistic way to do that. I wonder if it would help even if I could.

I am reminded, however, of a quote by Rabbi Shimon Apisdorf, in his book “The One Hour Purim Primer.”.

The upshot is: if you are going to be a twice a year Jew, please please PLEASE make those two times a year be Purim and Simchat Torah. Come when there is joy, and celebration; when you are likely to walk away with a positive experience that will make you want to return more often.

“For Jewish kids whose parents only take them to synagogue twice a year, I would like to cast a vote in favor of those two days being Purim and Simchat Torah, not Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. When children – and adults – immerse themselves in the celebration of Purim one of the most important lessons they learn is that Jewish life incorporates the gamut of human emotional experience. Singing and dancing, costumes, fun and all around merrymaking are as integral to Judaism as charity, prayer and fasting. “

You can read the quote in its original context here.

(My nefarious ulterior motive exposed:) I want you to come at a time when you have such an amazing, engaging, interactive experience that you will WANT to come back again. And by the time next year rolls around and the High Holidays are upon us, you too will know that these two moments in time are not emblematic of the entire year. At that point you will understand that there is a beautiful rhythm -  each point on the calendar flowing with unique levels of emotion, spirituality and effort; where some days (like Yom Kippur) are long and intense and require mental preparation. But others are so easy and fast that you feel a pang of regret when they are over. I want you to have a chance to see both ends of that spectrum, and everything in-between.

So if you are planning to be a “twice a year Jew“, please mark your calendars and I’ll plan to see you on the nights of October 20 (Simchat Torah) and March 7 (Purim). You can find me at the door, wearing the chicken costume (on Purim, at least) and pointing newcomers toward the cookies, schnaps and dancing.

(originally posted on The EdibleTorah)

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Five A.M. and Awesome

Picking up the “awesome” theme from the other day. This morning I got up before dawn and stumbled over to one of the local synagogues to meet up with a few other bleary-eyed Sephardi guys to pray Selichot.

I’ve been doing this since Sunday (my first Selichot service ever – say a Shehechianu, everyone!) although we started at a more reasonable 7am on that day (as well as Monday since it was Labor Day). Yesterday and today, however, was the “real deal” – the groggy and froggy singing that I’ve heard people talking about for a few weeks.

My contribution, it turns out, was to bring “the awesome”, in the form of my two boys (11 and 8 yrs old).

No, they didn’t count toward the minyan, but believe me when I tell you they COUNTED.

Even though they were unfamiliar with the prayers and the tunes (hey, so was I!); even though they spent half the time watching the other guys instead of looking in the Siddur; even though they shuffled their chairs and tapped on the table and fidgeted their way through 45 minutes like any 2 boys would… Even so, their presence had a palpable impact on the group.

The guy blowing shofar blew louder and longer because he saw the wonder reflected in their eyes. During the “round-robin” readings where each person takes turns singing a verse in Hebrew, the men sang just a bit fancier as they watched the boys heads whip around to see how such a sweet voice could come from our wrinkled and stubbly faces.

It was like a Sephardi version of Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel, the story where Mike and MaryAnn could dig just a little bit better the more people watched them.

Before and after the service, several guys incredulously asked me “how did you get them to leave their bed and come?”.

“We get hot chocolate!” they announced, holding up their mugs.

It was a trick I had heard about last year while we were in Israel – synagogues making a community event out of Selichot, waking up together, serving pastries, tea (and yes, hot chocolate) so that rather than struggle through a month of obligation, people looked eagerly forward to (and then wistfully back at) the month of Elul.

In the original “awesome” post, Redefining Girlie asked:

There was a time when you were five years old,
and you woke up full of awesome.
[...]
Do you still have it?
The awesome.
Maybe you just need some hot chocolate.
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The Voice

On Wednesday (Sept 14) Rabbi David Wolpe posted on his Facebook wall:

“American writer Sherwood Anderson was the manager of a small paint factory in Elyria, Ohio. One day, in the very middle of a sentence he was dictating, he walked out of the factory to devote himself to literature. Anderson was forty-five. The mysteries of human nature are endless. Resh Lakish was a robber who became a Rabbi; David a shepherd who became a king. To listen to a voice inside for change inside is a risk. But is ignoring the voice truly safe?”

It got me thinking about the “still small voice” that represents such terrifying (to me, at least) change in people’s life. I am certain it was this same voice which Abram heard sending him and his wife Sarai away from all they knew into the wilderness. It was the voice that told Rebeccah to water that strange man’s camels. It was the voice that called out and stopped Moses in his tracks as he was busy chasing down a wayward lamb.

I remember being both fascinated and horrified when I read the liner notes to Bobby McFerrin‘s second album “The Voice”:

“On July 11, 1977, I distinctly heard a voice inside my mind telling me to be a singer. Soon I began to envision myself on stage, singing, even though I couldn’t hear what I sounded like. [...] So, somehow I just naturally began to sing alone and developed my technique out of necessity – exploring ways to produce the sounds I was hearing in my mind.”

I was fascinated because it was a modern-day version of Abraham’s story, moving away from the familiar into the unknown, with only the vaguest notion of where one will end up.

I was horrified, because that could happen to me. In an instant I might hear a voice that would send my life careening off track and who knows where it would end.

I am, you might say, just a little bit risk-averse.

Bobby continues:

“I gave my first solo voice concert [in 1983] in Ashland Oregon. I winged my way through those two hours, and [...] improvisation still gives me the greatest challenge and the greatest pleasure. I never know from moment to moment where I’ll end up, and sometimes I’m scared to death. Yet, with all the risks, being on the edge is always the most fulfilling place to be,”

What about you? Would you welcome the voice of change or fear it? Have it already spoken to you? What did it say? What did you do?

Here in the month of Elul, as we prepare to stand before God and accept judgement – we open ourselves to the Voice and can only tremble – some in anticipation, some in fear, but all with the hope that we are equal to the task demanded of us.

(originally posted on The EdibleTorah)

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