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The Real Miracle

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“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)

If You Only Come to Shul Twice a Year…

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Editor’s note: while High Holidays are nowhere near our calendar right now, this old piece is important because it showcases what Purim means, as well as some timely advice for Jews who are unaffiliated.

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)

That Darn Wicked Child

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As we stand at the edge of what is arguably the biggest night in the Jewish calendar, I wanted to share one bit of learning I picked up this weekend from a local Rabbi.

We all have people in our lives who resemble the Rasha – the wicked child of those famous 4 children who make their appearance at this time of year. Heck, at one time or another (or many) in our lives we may even BE the wicked child: the one who is completely disaffected and disconnected; who stands apart – from the seder, from the family, from Judaism itself.

Reading through the four children, we GET this bad-boy of the seder.

So (asked the Rabbi), what is he DOING there? I mean, most people who don’t buy into Passover, or the seder, or Judaism don’t show up in the first place! But there he his, sitting with his sneer next to the Chocham (the wise child) and making snide remarks under his breath.

Methinks he doth protest too much.

I used to teach a parent-child class at my synagogue, to help kids prepare to write the d’var Torah for their Bar/Bat Mitzvah. There would always be one or two kids who would make all kinds of comments – to the embarrassment of the parent seated next to them. In response to the inevitable parental apologies, I would tell that parent it was more than OK – it was my pleasure. See, the kids could only make those comments if they were listening in the first place. As long as they were listening, I knew we were on the right track.

Ditto the wicket child. He’s there. He’s listening. He’s asking questions. What do his actions tell us, versus his words?

Another point the Rabbi brought up was that the Rabbis who structured the Haggadah put those kids in order of importance. Second only to the wise child, the wicket child is considered more favored than the simple child or the one who doesn’t know what to ask. I leave it to you to ponder why.

And my final item to share, in the hopes it sparks conversation around your table tonight: Those four children could easily represent the course of American immigration and assimilation. The wise child is our grandparents, who arrived here from Europe knowing all the traditions and rules they learned in the shtetle overseas. The wicked child is the first generation American, trying hard to distance themselves from all traces of “foreign-ness”. The next generation asks their (wicked) parent “What’s is that?” to which they are told “Be quiet. Bubbie’s crazy.”

And fourth generation (third generation American) is the child who doesn’t know how to ask. Far from a tragedy, this child is open to learn the fullness of our tradition fresh and new, if only we are willing to keep modeling these strange customs and weird holidays, providing experiences to learn and discover…

…until the moment when they start asking their own questions.

Chag Sameach Pesach

Originally posted here.

 

Clueless: An Insight Into Doing Jewish “Wrong”

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I arrived at the kollel, the house of study (literally – this was a house that had been emptied of everything, including interior walls, and re-purposed as a space for married men to come and study Talmud, Torah and other texts throughout the day) at 7:45pm, the usual time. I found one of the few English-Hebrew siddurs and opened it to the section for afternoon prayers and waited expectantly for the rest of the crowd to arrive.

It was all part of my routine since arriving in this neighborhood 4 months earlier. Thursday nights at the kollel: davening (praying) a quick mincha (afternoon) service and then sitting for an hour to study with my “learning partner” (a euphamism for “the incredibly patient young Rabbi who graciously volunteered to shepherd me through the painful first steps of rudimentary Talmud study”).

7:55, the normal start time for Mincha, came and went but the room was still suspiciously empty. Another 5 minutes and 2 other men arrived, but didn’t have that rushed “I’m late to pray” look I would have expected. I began to suspect I had missed something. Screwing up my courage, I approached one of the guys, a solidly-built man wearing the standard white-shirt-black-suite uniform of the frum Jew, with a thick black beard and a kind face.

“Is Mincha downstairs today?” I asked, hoping I had made the easiest of all possible gaffes.

He paused, and I could see him working hard to understand the context of my question. Which caused my heart to sink further, since this was another clue that I had missed something bigger than just being on the wrong floor.

“Mincha?” he finally answered carefully. “We davened mincha this afternoon.”

I tried to make my voice sound both unperturbed and curious, hoping it wouldn’t betray the embarrassment and frustration that crushed down on me. “Oh really? What time was that?”

“1:30. Mincha is always 1:30 after the High Holidays.” while he spoke with nothing but kindness, my insecurity mentally overlaid a patronizing tone laced with derision.

I thanked the man for the information, choosing not to mention (to yet another person, for what seemed like the hundredth time) that it’s hard to know what “always” is when everything seems to be a “first” for me.

I went back to the place where I had carefully laid out my siddur.
Closed it up.
Placed it back on the shelf.
Fought the urge to just ditch it all and leave.
Sat with myself and came to grips with the fact that I was going to miss mincha prayers entirely.
Waited patiently for my partner to arrive

What frustrates me most in these moments (and this was not the only example that led to my writing this post. Nor was it even the first. Nor, I’m afraid, will it be the last.) is not the mistake. What’s really hard for me to swallow is the feeling that there are instructions for these things, but I’m somehow not seeing them, or understanding them. I feel like an illiterate foreigner, sitting at a bus stop on a national holiday when service has been cancelled. Making matters worse, there’s a large sign next to me stating that fact but, being a stranger in a strange land, I can’t read the sign. I don’t even know the sign has anything to do with the bus service. So I wait, and wait, and wait. Until someone takes pity and tells me what’s going on.

The condition of being both uneducated and inexperienced, of having to figure out what’s going on based on “sideways clues” (the guy next to me turned a page. I better turn mine too.), of always having to put on the self-effacing humor and “oh golly shucks I messed up again” smile because pounding the table in frustration (which is what I feel like doing) will only make the situation more awkward, the effort of swimming upstream against my own ignorance is exhausting in a way I find hard to even describe.

*******************

This essay has sat on my computer for some time, and I come back to it each time there is a new embarrassment, a new gaffe that leaves me feeling demoralized. I would work at the words like one might pull at the strings in a knot, solving nothing and, in fact, only making the entire thing tighter and harder to unravel. But I kept thinking that if I could get this post just right, it would help me find a way out of the cycle.

In the end, my solution came from someone much more experienced in these matters. Not a Rabbi, not a Jewish studies professor, not a Hebrew tutor and not even a been-orthodox-my-whole-life friend. It came from someone who knows a great deal about living with, and even embracing, this state of not-knowing.

As we were standing together one Shabbat morning, I looked up from my prayerbook where I had been painstakingly sounding out yet another prayer I didn’t know, to find my 8-year-old son looking up at me. “Are you done reading that already?” I whispered.

“Nope.” he answered nonchalantly. Then he confided, “I haven’t learned this one. So I pray by watching everyone else.”

There were so many things wrapped up in his small, simple answer. Faith that he would, one day, learn “this one”. Confidence that even if he didn’t learn how to say the words, he still had options. Trust that he could still connect to God in a way that was authentic and valid.

But above all, he was unconcerned about not measuring up. To extend a famous quote by Abraham Lincoln, he intuitively knew that his legs were long enough to reach the ground, and that his soul was tall enough to reach heaven.

I began to study how he experienced the world, and discovered a seemingly endless series of things he didn’t know, which he dealt with daily. I saw the way faith and trust and a sublime acceptance of the each moment -asking it to be nothing more or less than what it was – how all of that was a natural part of his responses. I realized that, in growing up and getting all sorts of amazing skills and tricks and knowledge, I lost the very thing that allowed me to acquire all those things in the first place.

That disconnect, more than anything, was my actual problem. I’m now working to fix this deficiency.

The other day, I found myself in that situation again. Asked to open the ark (twice – once when the Torah came out and again when it was being returned) I found that I had no idea about the mechanics of the job.

I didn’t know when to go up. I didn’t know when to open the doors. The leader waited (it seemed to me) until the last possible second to come up and actually get the Torah, and I stood in pure terror wondering if I was supposed to bring it to him. Instead of escorting the Torah around the entire sanctuary, I (practically) ran back to my seat and stayed there (only to be immediately informed by a well-meaning elder of the congregation of my gaff). Later, when the Torah was put back, I closed the ark too early.

But you know what?

A friend told me when to go up. The president of the congregation (who sits up front) clued me when open the ark. The gabbai, seeing my panicked expression, gave me the “it’s ok” sign so I knew to sit tight and wait for the leader. And when I started to close the ark at the end, the leader was up there and explained I was too early. I re-opened it, and we kept going.

We all make mistakes, and as much as my lack of functional knowledge frustrates me, it’s also to be expected. It is understandable for someone in my position. It is forgiven by everyone in this community, many of whom have stood where I stand. If we are brave enough to start at all, we will all have to start somewhere, and some-when for that matter. And after that moment of beginning, it’s a sure thing that there will be mistakes. The scientific term for this, I believe, is “learning”.

I got back to my seat after closing the ark (this time at the correct point in the service). My son was waiting to shake my hand. It was clear that, as far as he was concerned, it had all gone off without a hitch.

And he was right.

Leon Adato is the blogger/director of EdibleTorah.com. For more of PunkTorah’s “Jewish Fails”, check out our YouTube series…Jewish Fails!

If a Jew Prays in the Airport…

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…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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