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That Darn Wicked Child

April 5, 2012 by Patrick Beaulier

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.

 

Filed Under: Community Member Blogs, Passover, Shabbat & Holidays Tagged With: convert to judaism, convert to judaism online, darshan yeshiva, edible torah, edibletorah, online conversion, Passover, patrick "aleph" beaulier, patrick aleph, punktorah, rabbi beaulier, rabbi patrick aleph beaulier, That Darn Wicked Child, the wicked child

Clueless: An Insight Into Doing Jewish “Wrong”

April 2, 2012 by Leon Adato

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!

Filed Under: Community Member Blogs, Judaism & Belief, Random (Feelin' Lucky?) Tagged With: convert to judaism, convert to judaism online, darshan yeshiva, edible torah, edibletorah, Holocaust, how to open the ark, how to receive an aliyah, Judaism, learning, leon adato, patrick "aleph" beaulier, patrick aleph, prayer, punktorah, rabbi beaulier, rabbi patrick aleph beaulier, synagogue

If a Jew Prays in the Airport…

December 6, 2011 by Leon Adato

…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

Filed Under: Community Member Blogs, Judaism & Belief, Random (Feelin' Lucky?) Tagged With: airport, convert to judaism, convert to judaism online, darshan yeshiva, edible torah, edibletorah, online conversion, patrick "aleph" beaulier, patrick aleph, praying at airport, punktorah, rabbi beaulier, rabbi patrick aleph beaulier

Intertwined

November 7, 2011 by Leon Adato

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

Filed Under: Community Member Blogs, Judaism & Belief, Random (Feelin' Lucky?) Tagged With: convert to judaism, convert to judaism online, darshan yeshiva, edible torah, edibletorah, leon adato, online conversion, patrick "aleph" beaulier, patrick aleph, punktorah, rabbi beaulier, rabbi patrick aleph beaulier

Interview Season

September 26, 2011 by Leon Adato

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)

Filed Under: Community Member Blogs, Shabbat & Holidays Tagged With: convert to judaism, convert to judaism online, darshan yeshiva, edibletorah, High Holidays, leon adato, online conversion, patrick "aleph" beaulier, patrick aleph, punktorah, rabbi beaulier, rabbi patrick aleph beaulier

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