“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.

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.

The full circle of life

Waking this morning, I ventured into Facebook to check in with the world. I saw that someone had posted a video of kittens, a very adorable piece of infancy and new birth at its finest.

However, during my walk to school, I saw a cat lying dead on the sidewalk. The sad fact is, I have no idea how common an occurance this is. To die, to leave this adventure, is one of the scariest things for a human being to encounter face on.

However, what about animals? Are they faced with that same sense of the fleeting nature of life and existence? Do they even have the brain power to consider such an ephemeral existence?

Regardless, I do know that I am not indefinitely for this world. Seeing the youth and then death reminded me of such a truth. It reminded me that I need to truly experience and live my life, not simply allow it to pass me by without attention. Awareness of my fallibility also came about, as I recognized my full potential to both take for granted or fully grasp and immerse myself in life!

16:55

I was walking from Rachel's apartment, all the way to Emek R'fai'im to meet a friend, and took a pit stop at a bakery. Jeff had shown it to me previously, and I was excited to try something from this incredible place. However, when I walked in, there was no one there. So I looked around for a little while and another woman came in. She also was looking to buy something (it took me a minute to figure out she wasn't the shopkeeper), but we couldn't see anyone. The strangest thing is that all of the sweets were just out in the shop, easily accessible. I was shocked-an Israeli trusted people to just leave his or her shop unattended?