“And my House shall be a House of Prayer for All People”

            Yesterday morning offered me a very strange, but incredibly moving opportunity. Sam, Max and I were at our Truma project and had the chance to perform a Mitzvah by being part of a minyan for an adult-woman’s Bat Mitzvah ceremony. We were more than willing to comply, both for the experience and for want to help out!!

            The service was beautiful in its own right, but it served as a reality check for the three of us, a reminder of what we will face in the congregations we (they) will be facing next year (and I will face the year after that). Our congregants will be people who want to put their foot in the door and be met where they are, without the necessity of learning and knowledge. Not all of them are like that, but many American reform Jews carry baggage from their childhood, of being forced into shul and Hebrew school and therefore don’t have the desire to remain involved.

            However, that was not the point on which I wanted to dwell. Instead, I was interested in what I experienced in the synagogue yesterday morning. We used the old Gates of Prayer: Gray gender sensitive edition, which I haven’t used for at least 5 years. Looking through the service, I noticed that the Hebrew came first, than the italics, and then the English. It was as if the prayer book was saying that Hebrew was more important, that Reform Jews had a responsibility to learn Hebrew, that if they didn’t, they were somehow Jews of a lower caliber. Obviously the format of the prayer book was thought through in thoroughly, but this just struck me as an odd occurrence. In Mishkan T’fillah, the Hebrew and the transliteration are side by side, at least allowing the reader to choose a knowledge of Hebrew or the language of transliteration. This option simply feels more egalitarian, more inclusive.

            Another issue of interest is that I was able to see all the parts inexplicably missing from the siddur. Okay, not unexplainable, but without an explanation. The editors simply chose to leave out certain parts that didn’t follow the Reform movement’s ideology or that we just had stopped doing over time. The Reform movement is the only sect of Judaism I know of that actually GET’S RID of liturgy instead of adding more, like the Orthodox seem to have done over the years. The problem however, is that there are whole generations (mine included), that grew up not knowing that there were other options. At least Mishkan T’fillah allows me the opportunity to understand what we do not use, and to actively decide what I want to include in my prayer and what I don’t.

            Also, Gates of Prayer tells us where to stand and sit, separating the Shema from the V’ahavtah, separating Kedushat haYom from the prayers that conclude the Amidah. Truthfully, I just want to know where this idea came from and why.

            The contrast between the chapel, which fully embodies the Israeli community feel, and the service itself was surreal. The chapel was complete with micrography on the walls and ark which symbolizes the seven species of Israel, as well as a room that is incredibly comfortable and welcoming, but not necessarily what would ever be found as the main place of prayer for a congregation in the states. However, had I closed my eyes, I could easily have been in a learners service in the states. I appreciated the service and the way Miri wove together a T’fillah experience rich in narrative and story for this family. Yet I was struck by the place where I was sitting and the community by which I was surrounded.

Parshat Shemini, D'var Torah

Although it's from a few weeks ago, here is the text of my D'var Torah!

Shemini D’var Torah

Elana Nemitoff

Shachrit, 4 March 2013

Silence.

Silence is uncomfortable. Silence is painful. Silence is funny. Silence often has a reason.

In Parshat Shmini, Leviticus 10:3, we hear, וידם אחרון, Aaron was silent. Why? This occurs after Aaron’s two sons bring אש זרה as a sacrificial offering and are swallowed by God. Aaron is represented as silent in the following moment, as God dictates that God will be sanctified through these two boys, saying בקרובי אקדש ועל-פני כל-העם אכבד. The Torah continues with the disposal of the bodies, and in verse eight, God begins speaking directly to Aaron, telling him the rules of what he can and cannot imbibe.

However, looking back at 10:3, Aaron has still not uttered a word. Why not? Is he silent because of his leadership role? Or, is he reacting to Moses’ retelling of God’s chilling words that he will lose his sons to God?

Most of the medieval commentators had different interpretations of Aaron’s silence. Rashi says Aaron is silent in order to receive a reward - aשכר טוב על השתיקה. Instead of blaming Aaron, Rashi suggests that Aaron directly received the gift of the word of God, which until that moment had only come to him through Moses. Aaron might suffer from the deaths of his sons, but the reward is greater than the pain.

I disagree with Rashi and am inclined to agree with Ramban who offers two suggestions for why Aaron is silent. One is that הוא בכה ואחר-כך הוא וידם, he was crying loudly and ceased once Moses stopped talking. He listens. The other interpretation, using Lamentations 2:18, אל תדום בת-עיניך, saying, don’t let the apple of your eye cease, is that the word וידם actually means cessation and not silence. Aaron stops crying but isn’t silent. Ramban’s assertion is that Aaron must grieve privately, not that he must cease his pain.

    Another interpretation from Midrash גור אריה (vayikor yud bet, bet) suggests that Aaron is silent because Moses had already told him of his sons’ impending deaths and he had time to process the pain. He didn’t need to call out. Ramban still seems to have the strongest argument, as pain is pain, even when expected!

    A more humanizing interpretation comes from Matthew Berkowitz of JTS. He suggests that Aaron is silent in a moment of humility, showing him t as a role model for how to bear pain and mourn. Ron Wolfson, writes that the bible often shows people wailing in pain. Yet he also writes that when people first hearof a familial loss they go into shock and often don’t know their emotions or just go through the motions. It would seem that is Aaron’s fate. Aaron is distraught over his son’s deaths. His silence is not passive acceptance or anticipation of a reward. Rather, it is him taking a moment to internalize the memory of his son’s.

    In our lives as Jewish professionals, we will often work with individuals who have suffered harrowing losses. Our job, which we see from Aaron, is both to allow the outburst of tears, anger, frustrations – whatever emotions we may find peope displaying – and give them time to recall the positives of the deceased individual’s life. Not only that, but we must be the example, caring for our own grief as well. Aaron takes the opportunity to mourn, however short it is, in order to continue on in his role as high priest. We too, have and will continue to have taxing roles in our community. However, unlike Aaron, we must recognize that it is not only acceptable, but necessary to take the time to grieve appropriately. Wolfson suggests that only when one takes the time to grieve, can life move on. Otherwise, one remains stuck in a constant dead-hold of depression and denial.

    Therefore, we must recommend, both to others and ourselves, that time is necessary when it comes to grief and mourning. The initial outburst, as well as the after-effect of shock or other emotions are all normal. They should be cared for delicately, and only after the fact can one truly return to everyday life. Aaron teaches that life moves on, but we must listen to our hearts and pause a moment or many moments to recognize our sorrow. In the periods of שבעה, שלושים, ירצית, יזכור, we slowly return to our lives. We return to our lives having taken care of the pain we felt. We allow the pain to continue, but in doing so, we also make room for the memories of our loved ones. We take Aaron’s example and learn to continue on, but as we do, we will always remember.

Somber silence

             At ten minutes to eight this evening, we heard a voice calling for silence. We were walking through the parking lot, just arriving at the tekes being held by the local Israeli scouts, near Gan Sacher. We walked into the open square to see burlap wrapped wire supported by giant wooden frames, tied together with rope and protected by aluminum foil.

            The square was filled with people of all ages, chatting quietly among themselves. As the disembodied voice announced that it was ready to begin, people started to quiet down and turn their attention to the front.

            Five minutes to 8, all was quiet. There was a little whispering, but for the most part we just waited. As 8 o’clock struck, we heard the siren wind up and begin to wail. Immediately, everyone took a solid stance and turned their gaze slightly downward, as if in prayer. Almost nobody moved.

            For a minute, everyone stood just so. Everyone remembered.

            The poignancy of that moment cannot be described. Just imagining everyone feeling the one degree of separation from death in this country is beyond my capacities. Each and every person feels some pain on this day. Even the outsiders can feel the mourning and grief experienced. But everyone is silent – even the little boy next to me, full of questions for his tired mother, stands in silence and listens, waiting.

            I stood there and bowed my head as well, feeling something stirring within me. It was pain and the need to mourn, but something else, a sense of pride. Pride in this country, in this incredibly, resilient people. Pride in being a part of a group that cares so much about collective memory and identity, actually takes the time to ensure that this memory is formed and revitalized every year. Pride in the unity that I experienced.

            The individual stories of people who died, the specific Kaddish recited on this Yom HaZikron, Kaddish Yatom as a blanket memorial prayer. The songs and poems written about loved ones, friends, neighbors, countrymen. The entire country feels the power of these words. And knows that memory is one of the most powerful ways of continuing on.

            I will always remember the sound of that siren, of the silence in the square. I will remember the flag at half-mast and the collective mourning this country experiences. I will remember, and I will live out the blessings that show tribute to the lives of those who died so I could live in this country.

Mea Shearim: A world within a world

I'm reminded of the song from fiddler on the roof: at three I started Hebrew school at five I...." Although I don't necessarily remember the words of the song, the idea is of importance. Starting at the age of three, orthodox, but especially Haredi children have their first hair cut, begin wearing Tzitzit katon and peyus, and most port antsy, start going to school. The learning process is not held off until the rest of the worlds kindergarten, but rather begins at three.

The father brings his son into the school, wrapped in his Tzitzit, eyes covered for fear he will learn bad ways. In the school, he does not even have a ball to tempt him into the other, secular world. Rather, he must learn the ways of his forefathers, first learning the aleph bet and slowly immersing himself in the words of Torah and the rest of tradition. By the time a child is six, he will have learned all of berashit and shemot (genesis and exodus) by heart. He learns the words as well as the commentary associated with it. And  the time he is bar mitzvah age, he know the tanach as well as Talmud and Mishna by heart. Then, it's off to yeshiva to do the real learning and debating. Although I'm really not sure what they learn there...maybe ,rabbinic commentary?

Regardless, this knowledge comes from today's visit to Mea Shearim, which it turns t is much smaller than I initially realized. The neighborhood itself is a cross section of the ultra-orthodox world, representing Haredim, Litvaks (ultra orthodox from Lithuania), mitnagdim, and chasidim. Each group has their own special way of dressing and interacting with the general public (as Michael Marmur said at the beginning of the year, there are many different shades of black). Some may avoid a female gaze while others simply want to inform.

The neighborhood itself is full of small alleyways and men coming in and out of the synagogue all throughout the day. At all times, for the most part, there is a minyan, ten people, prepared to daven together. The mikvah being located right next door is convenient, and offers the members of the community their daily necessity of cleansing (and gossip) before they are ready for the day. Directly across the street are two schools, one lLitvak and one Haredi. We entered the Litvak one and were immediately assaulted by loud screaming. Turns out the children were on a break and playing on their playground located in the dirt center of the three story building. The building , with rooms on each side, contains classrooms the size of a small dorm room, with as many as thirty children stuffed into benches, seated with the Chumash on the thin table in front of them. They chant along in unison with the rabbi, their teacher, as he translates the Hebrew or Aramaic into Yiddish. All the learning is in Yiddish, although outside of the classroom it would seem everyone speaks Hebrew.

The synagogue itself is a work of beauty, with the ceiling painted in the style brought over from Lithuania, with the names of the months on one half of the ceiling and the names of the twelve tribes of Israel on the other. Next to each is either the zodiac sign associated with the month or the symbol associated with the specific tribe. The room itself is set up for hevruta study, with benches facing each other and a table in between. A few pairs of old men and young boys sat opposite one another, engaging in reading and dialogue, but the room  a mostly empty. However, from the looks of the books strewn across the tables, Torah study or Talmud was a regular practice in this space.

Most surprising to me was our ability to walk into this building, no questions asked. Although we were with a former member of Mea Shearim, I still didn't expect to be able to walk in and peek around. Yet peek we did, as the children peeked back at us from behind their hands. The wide array of white, blue, gray, and black that stared back at us was unsurprising, but for its openness.

The principal came up to us on the stairs and started talking about the school, about the importance of teaching these children from a young age and what exactly is taught. It turns out that the children learn math and grammar, but only at a young age and only until a basic level of understanding. They learn how to add subtract, multiply and divide, using fractions and decimals, but after that there is no need. They will be learning for most of their lives and therefore don't need to engage in what the rabbi called לימודי חול, or secular learning.

Previous to this encounter, we passed a girls school, which is supposedly one of the last remaining schools of its kind. It is taught only in Yiddish and goes up until the ae of 16 or 17, when a girl is suitable to start finding a husband, or being attached to her chosen match. The school's main purpose is to teach a girl what she will need to know in married life: sewing, cooking, knitting, laundry, family expenses. She may learn a very selected version of history, and maybe math, but there will be no Talmud study. Not funded by the government, this is a very extreme version of ultra-orthodox education. The more popular kind of learning for females is at beit yaakov, which is partially government funded and therefore teaches more of the secular subjects.

Showing up in my jeans skirt past my knees and long sleeved purple shirt, I thought I was dressed modestly. It turns out that it wasn't what they consider modest, due to the colors in my clothing and the length of my skirt, not to mention a small part of my chest showing. Although I am aware that this is the lifestyle that has been chosen, as a way to remain connected to what they consider the true way of practicing Judaism, I became immediately sure that this was not the world I wanted to live in, nor was it the world in which I was prepared to raise a family. Jewish values are important to me and always will be important, but so is the modern world. Technology is an asset in the world (for the most part) and I believe that as Jews, but also as people, we have a responsibility to participate with the rest of the world in making this a better world in which to live. If they want the messiah or messianic age to come, how is studying Torah going to bring that about? What will the words on the page do to make this world better? Studying Torah and learning Judaics is a way of looking at the world, of developing a belief system, but there is more to life than that. It is our responsibility to take what we learned and then go out into the world and affect change from our own actions. We must, as Ghandi said, be the change we wish to see in the world. Only then can we start to see what a messianic age might look like and how we can be a part of it.

Being a reform rabbi may not be the path I need to take to get to affecting that change. However, people will always need counselors and therapists, people who are both spiritual and secular guides as they traverse the confusing world. That in and of itself is helping make the world a better place, both directly and indirectly. Indirectly, it is helping people find the greater wholeness inside of them to do good and directly it is helping them believe in a power that is greater than themselves. Prayer is a way to connect, to feel a community around you. And that allow one to know that he or she is not alone in the task of making the world better. Is it my destiny to be a rabbi...that is yet to be seen. But it is my destiny to help others and touch the lives of those around me. And that I am looking forward to doing.