Wishing Everyone a Sweet New Year!

I'm going to keep this post, my last of 2010, short & sweet, so to speak.  While visiting grandparents in Florida, my kids ably met the challenge of enjoying indoor activities during the coldest December in Florida in more than 100 years.  Imagine our family's delight at finding a free tour of  Angell & Phelps Chocolate Factory in Daytona Beach.  We were like kids in a candy store!

Our guide shared trade secrets and free samples during a brief but informative tour of the facility.  We watched through the glass as she explained why the employees use copper pots to heat the chocolate-- they are better than stainless steel for maintaining heat-- and conveyor belts to cool the chocolates.  Meanwhile, mint creme-filled, dark chocolate-covered, delectable pieces made the 15 minute journey through the factory alongside us, as 2 air conditioning units cooled them to 54 degrees.  Can you see the man in the background of the picture?  He stands at the end of the conveyor belt, removes the chocolates one handful at a time, checks to ensure that the bottoms of the candies retained their shape and emerged undamaged, and then he boxes them to be sold.   Creating such delicious treats is quite a labor-intensive process.

We did spend an hour, on the warmest day of our visit, collecting sea shells and deeply inhaling the ocean air. We did not, however, collect the hand-crafted, chocolate sea shells pictured above.  Sadly, as we considered our 2011 resolution to eat healthy foods, we were forced merely to imagine this candy melting in our mouths.

The Rabbi's Secret

I guess if I write about it, it won't be a secret anymore.  

I guess I don't mind too much if you know my secret:

I love Christmas songs.

Since I feel such a sense of relief at sharing this secret, I will add some details:  My delight in Christmas songs began when I first sang them in my elementary school choir, merely mouthing the lines that referred to Jesus as the Christ or Savior.  During my high school years, Christmas Eve dinner spent with my friend Lisa's family was followed by caroling in her neighborhood.  In college, I discovered gospel music.  Much of the Christmas music that I love consists of upbeat, cheerful (jolly!) melodies, festive piano chords mixed with bells and tambourines, drums and horns.  Some of my favorites-- traditional tributes to the season-- were actually composed by fellow Jews. If the great Irving Berlin can dream of a white Christmas then it can't be a shameful secret that I know the lyrics by heart.

This holiday season, thanks to a quirk in the Hebrew calendar, Hanukkah ended during the first full week of December.  This allowed me additional time to indulge my Christmas joy without interference from Hanukkah music.  (In the interest of full disclosure, I would like to add that I enjoy listening to Hanukkah music, a preference that I have never attempted to hide.)  Nevertheless, halfway through the eight-night celebration, I lit my menorah and headed straight out the door to my first Christmas concert of the season.  My daughter and I were delighted to hear her friend perform with the Georgia Regional Girl's Choir at St. David's Episcopal Church in Roswell.  The girls' angelic voices filled the church and our hearts with joy at this preview concert.  The next day, the girls performed downtown with the Atlanta Symphony Youth Orchestra at the Woodruff Arts Center.  Still, being a traditionalist, I am glad to have attended their church concert.

The following weekend, my spouse and I ventured to Buckhead to hear the Atlanta Gay Men's Chorus perform at the Cathedral of St. Philip. More than 110 singers strong and celebrating their 30th year, the men of the AGMC were joined by the Atlanta Young Singers of Callanwolde on stage. The pews were packed to capacity with an appreciative audience, while the balcony and aisles filled with a standing-room-only crowd.  The first act set a more serious mood, especially the stirring debut of a commissioned piece, Ring Out Wild Bells.  In the second act, we were regaled with a more lighthearted set, which included some cartoon favorites. I left the church humming about the Grinch, and strains of A Charlie Brown's Christmas echoed in my head as I drifted to sleep that night.

In Atlanta, perhaps everywhere in America, there is a wealth of Christmas music in the air.  But what I most appreciate is the opportunity to hear beautifully-sung Christmas music in majestic, richly-adorned churches all around the city.  As a rabbi, I celebrate my own spiritual legacy of Jewish music; as a music lover, I rejoice when my spirits are lifted by Christmas songs.

The Rest is Still Unwritten

We all have stories to tell, and often we want to tell them.  We want other people to hear them, to validate our feelings and to share their stories in return.  Writing is one medium we use to share our stories.  We are all writers.

Although I have heard that blogging is passe and has been surpassed by Twitter, I know so many people who blog.  While not all of my blogger friends are using their blogs as a platform for serious writing, they are all writers. Of course, not everyone's writing is equally polished.  I guess that fits the paradigm, since not everyone's story is equally compelling to others. 

I have been thinking a lot about the process of writing lately, as well as about the process of becoming a writer.  Here are some conclusions that I have drawn, in no particular order:

1. Writing is not a "demanding mistress" (that's such a demeaning and sexist characterization), rather a "colicky infant." In my experience, the need to write cries to me, insistently, at inopportune times.  In rare moments of grace, I am able to soothe the cries, to put my story into a coherent sequence of transcendent words.

2. Writing is not an occasional stroll around the neighborhood or a game of catch in the backyard, rather a daily, physical education class or scheduled workout with a personal trainer.  Thus, a writer must dedicate time in her day to write.  To become a writer is to affirm a commitment to daily practice.

3. Writing is never finished.  Or, more accurately, the process of writing that entails revision is never finished.  Unlike the clay, which eventually reaches a stage of dryness that denies the potter access to make changes and improvements to its form, the written word is at once preserved in stasis and offered for modification.

When I see a copy of my recently published book, I am struck by its physicality as an archive of my stories from a certain period in my life.  It is, in a sense, finished.  And yet, the rest is still unwritten.

Smoke & Mirrors

Ten is one of those mystical numbers in Judaism. Its special significance is introduced in biblical literature, and the rabbis of the 1^st century codify ten as the number which represents critical mass in a Jewish community.  A Jew can pray alone, anywhere, but he or she is required to find nine others with whom to recite the prayers designated as most important.  Ten is called a minyan, quorum, and sometimes nine Jews gathered for prayers will pause in the service to wait until the 10^th arrives.

Sometimes it feels like there are only ten Jews in the entire world, and the rest of us are a magician’s stunt, an illusion produced using smoke and mirrors.  I feel this most keenly when I play the game that Jews initiate upon meeting each other for the first time: Jewish Geography.  It is similar to Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, only a much older and more beloved version, and it goes something like this:

Jew #1: You’re from [name of town in New Jersey]? Do you know [name of random Jew from that town, with a common Jewish name, such as Cohen or Levine]?

Jew #2: Of course! He is a few years older than I am, but I grew up with [name of Cohen’s younger sister or cousin].

In Jewish Geography, it’s usually fewer than six degrees of separation, too.  We are a small clan, and just a few generations ago it was not uncommon for distant cousins to marry each other for the sake of endogamy.

So I should not have been at all surprised when I met a fellow Jew for the first time a few weeks ago and he asked me: “Did you go to JTS?”  For a fleeting moment, I wondered if he was curious about my rabbinic training or checking my credentials, as I will be reviewing his book for a journal next month.  Then I realized, from his follow-up question, that he was playing the game:

Tom: Do you know [name of rabbi who also attended JTS]?

Me: Of course! He was a year behind me in school, but I think he is a few years older than I am.  We work together at camp and our sons are going to be bunkmates this summer. I’m going to be visiting him in [name of town in Florida] in January.  How do you know him?

Tom: He was my roommate in college.

Ten Jews.  Smoke.  Mirrors.

I had the feeling that if we’d played Jewish Geography a few minutes more, we would have discovered a common ancestor.

As the evening progressed, we discussed mutual interests and affiliations, and chatted about his book, the publishing industry, politics-- the usual agenda of people getting acquainted.

Leaving Starbucks and saying goodbye to my new friend, I understood that we are actually old friends, possibly mishpochah (family), in the sense that we are part of the quorum of ten Jews who, wherever we gather, comprise a community.

My children have bested me!

There is a famous story in the Talmud that describes several rabbis arguing about whether a fellow's oven is fit for use.  In the course of trying to prove his point, the rabbi who holds the minority opinion attempts to convince his colleagues that he is correct by calling upon God to support him.  After the river runs backwards and a voice calls out from heaven that he is correct, his colleagues scoff, saying that they do not determine legal matters based upon heavenly voices.  They quote God, who told Moses and the people of Israel that the law is "not in heaven," but in their own hands (Deuteronomy 30:12).  The story concludes with God laughing and declaring "Nitzhuni banai," my children have bested me! This is one of my favorite images of God: the parent who is delighted upon realizing that the next generation has finally grown up to be independent adults, who are indeed smarter and more capable than their parents.

Just over one year ago, I wrote an essay about the demise of the Japanese maple tree which adorned our front yard.  Its trunk was eaten by ambrosia beetles, and we had to remove it and treat the surrounding trees to protect them from the fate of their neighbor.  At the time, I was bereft at the loss of the tree and I could not foresee a future moment when I would be laughing in delight, taking in the visual splendor of the tree's child.  While I knew that our maple tree was female --it had dropped many seedlings in the yard, most of which did not grow beyond a few inches-- I was unaware that a sapling had taken root and begun to flourish in the sunshine that now reached its branches.  Once its mother had been removed, the child was no longer hidden by her shadow from the sun's rays.  Today, I imagine that old maple tree would be laughing with me, nodding her agreement and rustling in the fall breeze, whispering nitzhuni banai, my children have bested me.

Counting to Ten

I recently agreed to review a new book by Thomas Block, titled Shalom/Salaam: A Story of Mystical Fraternity.   When the publisher excitedly pressed the book into my hands, I simply couldn't refuse. Knowing the limitations of my organizational skills, I requested a deadline and was given six weeks.  Now, sitting at my desk, I am faced with the daunting task of reading the book and writing the review.  My mind wanders while I procrastinate: When did I become a girl who can't say no?

The truth is that I think I may be turning into a softy. Not just a bleeding-heart liberal; but a softhearted, peace-loving, idealistic, naive sap.  At first I considered not writing these words and posting them publicly, because I fear that they evoke a caricature rather than a clear picture of my character.  But as fall breezes give way to winter winds, I am warmed by the thought of revealing myself.  I have been waiting-- counting to ten-- deciding whether to share these thoughts since September.

In early September 2001, I was happily living in the moment.  I was pregnant with my third child, and although I was still nursing the wounds inflicted by the 2000 Electoral College, I was guardedly optimistic about the future.  Now I am warily living for the future, dreaming of where I will be in September 2011.  I hope to be praying at an interfaith gathering to honor the memories of those who perished on 9/11.  Not because I am a sap who believes that all God's children must live together in peace.  Rather, because I am a person of faith -- faith in God and faith in humanity-- who believes that we must learn to heal our broken selves by working together to live in peace.  

I used to discuss these ideas with some of my Jewish friends, but I find that we are no longer united by shared beliefs.  For too many months I have heard the now-familiar refrain, "Where are the moderate Muslims? Why don't they speak out about the extremists?" But I have barely heard a word about the rising Islamophobia in western countries or about the self-inflicted damage to our own ideals and principles.  When we allow our anxiety to fester and we nurture our grievances against an entire people because of the actions of a few, we hurt ourselves in ways that we rarely acknowledge.

And so I find myself compelled to ask, Where are the moderate Jews, whose grandparents fled countries in Eastern Europe, Russia and the Ukraine to escape rampant Judeophobia, and who arrived in this land of freedom only to be humiliated and censured by their German-American brethren who did not wish to be associated with immigrants? Do we no longer share the collective memory of being reviled that ought to inoculate us against revulsion and pronounced hatred of "the other?" Or do we believe that we have arrived in our safe haven where, no longer defined as "the other," we are free to despise others?  

As I count the remaining months on my fingers from now until September, I see my hands stretch open wide.  I hold them, palms facing upward and fingers splayed, ready to receive God's forgiveness.  I imagine that God's loving hands will protect us from ourselves.

I count to ten again and open the book, supporting it with my widespread fingers. The time for procrastination is at an end as I begin reading, careful to keep my mind open wide like my hands. And I pray that God will protect my soft heart.

Barriers to Breaking Bread

There was a flurry of emails -- back and forth, over several days-- with the host insisting that nothing was too much trouble.  She wrote, "I make menu changes for everyone. I once had a dinner with 7 major religions and 2 extreme allergies.  No one died or had to go to confession afterward. What can't you eat?" I thought that my response was clear, but I discovered later that it was not explicit enough.

You see, I keep kosher and I adhere to pretty strict rules within the system of Kashrut, the Jewish dietary laws that originate in the Hebrew Bible as part of a holiness code.  Their original context is important: this code created definitive boundaries for eating, along with other daily activities, to draw a distinction between the Israelites and their neighbors.  The earliest Jews were not permitted to break bread with "others," the inhabitants of the land, whose practices and customs were different and deemed -- in many cases-- abhorrent. 

Kashrut is not necessarily about eating a healthy diet, which I also strive to do. But like my healthy diet, it does restrict me from eating certain foods altogether, eating some foods together with others, and eating certain foods at certain times.  This system of eating gives my everyday life tremendous meaning, as it helps govern my food choices.  At the same time, it also affects where and with whom I can eat. 

The night of the dinner meeting I arrived a few minutes early, the Imam walking in just after me and the Pastor, and the Pastor's wife. The host led us all into the kitchen, letting me and the Imam know immediately that she had cooked the beef roast before the pork roast, using different utensils.  The Imam, a generally easy-going fellow, smiled and thanked her.  The rabbi, a more intense personality, felt a panic triggered in the brain begin to seep into her stomach.

Softly, but deeply, I exhaled a long and steady breath.  The nausea subsided.  I told my host that I couldn't eat the meat, only salad and vegetables.  I explained that although she had gone to the trouble of using separate utensils, the meat itself was not kosher, not ritually slaughtered.  I thought to myself that I was already bending the rules by eating rice and vegetables cooked in her non-kosher kitchen, but I didn't get into those particulars with her. I had made a conscious decision to enjoy a meal of fellowship with others, whom I no longer considered to be "others." I had chosen to compromise my personal observance of ritual law in pursuit of fulfilling an ethical imperative to love my neighbors.

In the face of such warm hospitality and genuine friendship, Kashrut seemed to me exposed as a divisive barrier to establishing community, rather than an enlightening channel to practicing holiness. I exhaled gently a second time, smiled and complimented my host for preparing a bountiful array of side dishes in the manner of a true Jewish mother.  The Imam led us in a prayer, in the kitchen, inviting God's grace to our gathering. My Lutheran sister poured me a glass of wine, and invited us all to the table, where we sat down to break bread.

Love Your Neighbor As Yourself

On the afternoon of Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement and arguably the holiest day in the Jewish year, the Holy Ark is opened and the Torah is taken out to be read.  According to the traditional liturgy, the reader chants from the book of Leviticus, chapter 18, a litany of laws pertaining to the uncovering of nakedness, known as gilui arayot, which concludes with the statement: “And you will keep my charge: not to do any of the abominable customs that were done before you; and you will not become impure by them, I am YHWH, your God.” (Leviticus 18:30)

          Reform rabbis, in their wisdom, chose to institute the reading of a different passage from Leviticus 19, often referred to as the Holiness Code.  This reading also contains many laws governing human behavior, most notably laws against withholding the wages of a day laborer, cursing the deaf, holding grudges and exacting revenge.  This holiness code also concludes with a summary statement: “And you shall love your neighbor as yourself. I am YHWH.” (Leviticus 19:18)

          It is unusual to find Jews in complete agreement about anything– Jewish tradition is predicated upon argumentation and differing opinions.  However, the ancient rabbis agreed that the principle of v’ahavta l’reyakha kamokha, love your neighbor as yourself, is of paramount importance.  Rabbi Akiva referred to this verse as a fundamental principle of Jewish law, kl’al gadol ba-Torah.   He could not have predicted that thousands of years later his statement would be put to music and the catchy tune would be taught to children in Jewish day schools in North America.  This law is adopted by Christianity and Islam, and it exists in some form in every religion that I know.

It is a problematic verse, however, because love is an emotion and emotions cannot be legislated.  In fact, Rabbi Akiva called it a principle, rather than a law, perhaps acknowledging that he and his colleagues were limited to creating laws governing actions.  As such, this rule or principle is often understood to encompass acts of hesed, loving kindness, which cannot be repaid, such as visiting the sick, burying the dead and comforting mourners. While there is general agreement that we must treat others with respect and kindness, it is not surprising that the rabbis do not agree about the particulars, namely, how to express that love and to whom it extends.

          Here are some excerpts from the generations of biblical scholars, who wrote extensive commentaries on the Torah, and from the legal experts, who wrote codes of Jewish law based upon the mitzvot, commandments, enumerated in the Torah:

Maimonides (12^th century) defines v’ahavta l’reyakha kamokha, loving your neighbor as yourself, as a specific action, that of taking care of your neighbor’s material objects in the appropriate manner: “When he protects the possessions of another person, he must think and feel as if he is guarding his own possessions.” 

Sforno (15-16^th century) defines v’ahavta l’reyakha kamokha more as a state of mind, as putting yourself in your friend’s position, and praying for your neighbor in the appropriate manner. He gives the example that if your friend is ill you must think to yourself: “If I were ill myself, what would be the best blessing I could receive from God?” Then you must pray that your friend receives that blessing.

Nahmanides (14^th century) offers a more realistic approach, recognizing that it is impossible for a person to love anyone as much as he loves himself.  He cites Rabbi Akiva’s statement in Talmud that if a person is in a situation in which he has a choice to save his own life or the life of his companion, his own life takes priority.  Therefore, v’ahavta l’reyakha kamokha means that one should not only pray that his neighbor receives all the blessings he hopes to receive himself, but also not allow himself to envy another’s good fortune, because envy leads to hatred.

These explanations are certainly useful in guiding our behavior toward others close to us.  But they do not offer guidelines about how we are supposed to treat hostile neighbors.

The rabbis who compiled Siddur (prayer book) followed Nahmanides’ approach, that it is impossible to love your neighbor as yourself, and took it a step further, acknowledging that some neighbors are total jerks.  We can infer from the following meditation, which they included in the morning service to be recited every day, that they considered what prayers were appropriate for hostile neighbors and concluded that we are allowed to pray to be safe from these neighbors:

May it be your will, O Lord my God and God of my ancestors, to save me today and every day from arrogant people and from arrogance.  Save me from evil people, evil companions and evil neighbors, from mishaps and destructive powers, from difficult judgments and opponents, whether they are members of the covenant or not.

It is important to note that the ancient rabbis, as well as many of the medieval biblical commentators, lived surrounded by hostile neighbors and had no legal autonomy or equal citizenship as we enjoy today.  Understandably, they defined “neighbor” as referring exclusively to fellow Jews.

In fact, some modern Jews still hold to that definition, and would say that love begins and ends at home, that no one else will take care of the Jews, that we must stick together and take care of our own, and that tzedakah (charitable funds) should be donated only to Jewish organizations.  I cannot disagree: It is critical for every Jew to feel a sense of identification with the Jewish community.  The Jewish people are a small minority in the world, and we must take care of one another in order to remain both vibrant and viable.

At the same time, I am troubled by the legal limitations of v’ahavta l’reyakha kamokha as our sages have delineated them.  It is widely known that the principle of pikuah nefesh, saving a life, is also considered central in Jewish law. The ancient rabbis taught in the Mishnah (circa 200 C.E.), that “He who saves a life, save the world entire.” (Mishnah Sanhedrin)  Furthermore, the next generation of rabbis taught that “saving a life takes precedence over Shabbat.” (Talmud Bavli, Shabbat)  We read in the Hanukkah story that the Maccabees defended themselves on the Sabbath, and we know that doctors, nurses, EMTs and other medical care providers are permitted to work on Sabbath.

This principle, that saving a life supersedes the Sabbath, is so familiar to us that we don’t really question it. However, the rabbis who instituted this rule did not extend it to non Jews:

If a building collapsed on the Sabbath and [the debris] fell on a person, if there is doubt whether he is there [buried under debris] or not there, whether he is alive or dead, whether he is a non Jew or a Jew, they must remove the debris.  If they find him alive, they must remove the debris for him, but if he is dead, they must leave him [until after the Sabbath]. The text does not need to say “whether he is a Jew who is alive or dead, rather, “whether he is a non Jew or a Jew.” (Talmud Bavli, Yoma)

The disturbing implication of this textual analysis by the later rabbis is that extraordinary measures are only taken to save the life of a Jew.  If there is any possibility that a Jew is buried in the rubble, we keep digging with no concern about breaking the laws of the Sabbath.   Not so for a non Jew. Given the historical context in which these laws were written, it is unsurprising.  Still, here the Talmud offers textual evidence to support the claims of those who would only love their fellow Jews.

Later commentaries further constrict the boundaries of v’ahavta l’reyakha kamokha.  Rashbam (12^th century) taught that you must love your fellow Jew if your neighbor is good, but if your neighbor is evil; do not love him, as it written in Proverbs:  “Those who revere God hate evil.”  Radbaz (15^th century) wrote: “It is not necessary to extend oneself to a person who has cut himself off from Jewish people.  The Jewish community is compared to the body of a person.  Just as one would not think of deliberately injuring or neglecting his own limb, so too every Jew must seek the well-being of the Jewish people.” Some of these later commentators add that the reason for v’ahavta l’reyakha kamokha is that God created all people in the Divine Image.  And yet they are clearly stating that our obligation extends only to Jews, or even to “good Jews.”

I don’t doubt that it is easier to extend compassion and loving kindness to those who are like us, who are members of our tribe, our mishpochah (family). And it can be challenging to extend beyond ourselves to our neighbors who are not like us, to the “others” who may not love us.

I appreciate how difficult v’ahavta l’reyakha kamokha was for our ancestors, living among hostile neighbors, and I would hardly suggest that it is any easier for us to observe this law in our own times.  But I would also contend that we live in a world without borders. Therefore we cannot withhold our love for our neighbors.

My next door neighbor is separated from me by an invisible property line, sometimes demarcated only by her greener lawn.  She is my neighbor because we live side by side. But the woman in South Africa who logs onto my Facebook page to view my pottery is also my neighbor.  We may be separated by the International Date Line (which is also invisible), but we are, it seems to me, living side by side on the Internet.  The nations of the world are interdependent and inextricably bound to one another.  We Jews cannot afford to love ONLY our Jewish neighbors, or those we deem worthy.

I have been looking for textual support for my interpretation of v’ahavta l’reyakha kamokha   , and it has not been easy to find.  I recall the headlines from the beginning of 2010, and I am again gratified by the Jewish community’s response to the earthquake in Haiti.  What Jew would not be proud when Israel, the Jewish state, responds so immediately to a disaster, extending their love well beyond their neighborhood?  I continue to listen carefully for news about the Jewish response to the flooding in Pakistan, which has put some 3 million children at risk for diseases that are carried by contaminated water and insects, not to mention dehydration and starvation.  I wonder whether Pakistani children are our neighbors. Does our loving kindness extend beyond this political border?

Moreover, I follow the current headlines about the French deporting the Roma, about the Dutch fanning the flames of hatred against Muslim immigrants, about our own politicians and law enforcement agents promising to rid our country of Mexican immigrants.  Not only are we not loving our neighbors, we are actively engaged in the segregation of neighborhoods to exclude anyone we deem unwelcome. We Jews know too well what it means to be defined as “other,” to be unwelcome in the neighborhood. I find myself desperate for a definition of v’ahavta l’reyakha kamokha that will restore sanity and hope in our troubled times.

Our Jewish tradition has a legal precedent for defining love of our neighbor with strict limitations.  This attitude and these laws evolved over centuries of our being the oppressed, hated and homeless people of the world. But we are not ancient or even medieval Jews.  We are post-modern Jews, living in 5771, and we have the opportunity to define v’ahavta l’reyakha kamokha as broadly as Ibn Ezra interpreted this verse in the 12^th century:

There should be no difference between what a man wishes for himself and the good that he wishes for his fellow man. The reason: “I am YHWH.” Because I created all of you.

Only when we recognize the Divine Image in ourselves and in EVERY OTHER PERSON can we aspire to the ideal of love our neighbors as ourselves. This is the central lesson of the Holiness Code; this is our duty on the holiest day of the year, Yom Kippur, and every day of our lives. May we have the strength and courage to love all others in the coming year.

DIY-TWO (Do-it-yourself, together-with-others)

It was Ash Wednesday and I was working from home all morning.  Procrastinating, I logged on to Facebook and read a spate of status updates from people who were giving up chocolate, caffeine, and even Facebook for Lent.  Shortly before noon, I arrived at my son's classroom to volunteer and ran into a friend who was taking her daughters to church during the lunch/recess hour.  When I asked her what she was giving up for Lent, she said that she was not speaking about other people.  

Giving up gossip?!  That struck me as an enormous task to undertake for just one day, let alone an entire season of penitence. It is not that refraining from eating chocolate, drinking coffee and wasting time on Facebook are insignificant sacrifices.  It's simply that I found my friend's choice to be on an entirely different spiritual plane.  Her decision to limit her topics of conversation would affect her and anyone with whom she interacts during Lent.  She had already affected me.  In addition, I assume that people sacrificing foods and material pleasures would likely return to their habits of indulgence after Easter.  But my friend's foregoing of gossip for several weeks had the potential to impact her everyday social interactions well beyond Holy Week.  She would now be poised to find the Divine in others.

Last Wednesday, I heard from another friend who sought a spiritual transformation-- in her case by baking her own matzah for Passover.  Realizing that preparing the dough and baking it into loaves within the 18 minute time-limit would require more than one pair of hands, she convinced another friend to join her in the endeavor.  Together they were able to make 14 handmade loaves.  Later that day, as they reflected on their shared experienced with me, both women remarked that they were surprised by how much the matzah preparation of previous generations of Jews depended upon communal cooperation.  By reclaiming the baking of matzah at home, these women deepened their friendship and, I believe, brought God a little closer to home, too. 

In a recent New York Times article about Christians who were performing community service as a form of religious expression during Lent, the Reverend James Martin was quoted as saying that "anything that can help someone experience God in a new way, a surprising way, is very helpful."  I couldn't agree more.  These friends have reminded me that a person who seeks spiritual transformation alone is admirable, and a person who seeks to share in the spiritual transformation of her friends is truly righteous. 

Kol Ishah (The Voice of Woman)

According to Jewish rabbinic law, the sound of a woman's voice is enticing to men and can present a terrible distraction from their service to God.  That is why devout Jewish men do not pray in mixed groups, and when they do, women are forbidden from leading the prayers or even singing in full voice.  The prohibition of kol ishah is also how ultra-religious Jewish men in Jerusalem justify their shouting and throwing chairs at a group of women who wish only to pray aloud on the women's side of the Western Wall.    

But I don't really believe that it is merely the melody of kol ishah that troubles men.  I am fairly certain that our lyrics, especially those challenging the established hierarchy or suggesting alternatives to male-dominated institutions, get us into trouble.  Or perhaps it is the combination of tone and text that upset the men in charge: men who lead nations and represent us in government; men who lead religious groups and set their standards; men who in the 21st century in this country allow women to earn only 78% on the dollar for the same work that they do; men who command armies and lead our sons into battle. 

Women who raise their voices in protest at this leadership are often silenced.  I understand that it can be difficult to hear unpleasant words-- words of criticism-- and I recognize the human impulse to squelch that particular noise.  Kol ishah, when permitted to be heard at all, is expected to sing sweetly.


Perhaps that is why I did not find it surprising, though quite distressing, to hear the news that Iranian authorities seized the passport of Simin Behbahani, a prominent poet who has been critical of the Iranian government's policies, especially those directed at women.  Behbahani has not been charged with any crime, yet her freedom to travel has been curtailed in a way that must seem familiar to her after decades of negotiating her freedom of speech with government censors.  Her poetry sings bravely, if not sweetly, about the ways in which men have ruled her country.  Her voice at 82 is still strong as she reminds us that those who lead  us cannot afford to ignore kol ishah.  

In one week, I will  join Jewish men and women around the world in the celebration of Passover, our holiday of the triumph of freedom over slavery.  At our family's Seder, men and women will raise their voices, joyfully praising God for our redemption.  And I will pray for a new era of peace, in which kol ishah will be permitted to sing the melody of truth, and men will add the harmony to our song.

I beg your pardon; I never promised you an herb garden

Until quite recently I believed that I had a black thumb.  I have killed the hardiest plants, including cacti, which are purported to be indestructible.  When I moved here, only one houseplant had survived my years in a NYC apartment.  I left it behind with the Super's wife, hoping it would have a better life with her.  But everything changed for me last week, when I noticed that something STRANGE was happening in the pot of my Jerusalem Cherry Tree.  

As an aside, I feel compelled to mention that I received this particular plant as a gift from someone who did not know about my tendency to hasten death in houseplants.  During the last 18 months, this beautiful plant had lost its bright orange berries and more than half of its leaves, but it refused to die.  In fact, it grew steadily until even I realized that it required a transplant to a larger pot.  Within a week of its transfer, the plant began budding and small, white flowers appeared among the leaves.  I took notice, but maintained a strong skepticism about its survival following such a radical procedure at the hands of an incompetent practitioner.  

Last week, my negative self-talk was drowned out once and for all when I walked by the plant and noticed thin green shoots, which looked like tiny blades of grass, sprouting up around the perimeter of the pot.   "What on earth?" I muttered aloud.   Turns out I should have asked "what in earth?" instead.  You see, my children go to an environmentally savvy school, where they can be Junior Master Gardeners and other students' parents can adopt-a-spot and tend to the flower beds on campus.  Last April, in celebration of Earth Day, they planted seeds in small, decorated pots and brought them home.  Assuming that I would fail to nurture the tiny seeds into actual plant life, I just left the pots in the garage.  Then 9 months later, when I needed additional soil to transplant the Jerusalem Cherry Tree, I saw little point in purchasing a new bag.  I had already calculated the likelihood of this plant's death at 99.9%.  In an effort to reduce, reuse and recycle, I tossed the soil from the Earth Day pots into the larger pot, watered the plant and placed it near a window where I could ignore it for a while.

Apparently, herb seeds can survive many months of abandonment in a garage.  Now I have an herb garden growing alongside my flowering Jerusalem Cherry Tree in my powder room, and I am beginning to reconsider my capabilities as a cultivator of life.  Spring really is a time of growth -- all kinds of growth.

100 years

In a few weeks, one of my favorite students will officially accept the responsibilities of Eagle Scout.  We adults who have watched this young man grow up feel privileged to share in his celebration.  After raising far more money than he needed for his Eagle Scout project -- he built an outdoor classroom at his high school-- he invested the surplus in a fund to help other, less-fortunate, aspiring Eagle Scouts realize their goals.

On the same day of Alex's ceremony, my spouse will attend a training session to become a Den Leader.  I am so proud of him for accepting this responsibility and so grateful that he is an active participant in my son's life.  He was surprised to hear this from me, though, because he knows that I am deeply conflicted about the Boy Scouts of America, and I continue to harbor mixed feelings about my son's participation in Cub Scouts. 

As recently as this past Friday, I was reminded of my ambivalence when I heard an interview with the new CEO of the Atlanta Area Council.  I smiled as he described the marvelous activities that would mark the 100th anniversary of scouting, and nodded appreciatively as he emphasized the scouts' commitment to the environment.  He spoke of the long tradition of service to the community and of keeping the image of Boy Scouts fresh and relevant to today's kids.  And then he poked a pin in my swelling balloon of joy, when he answered firmly and without hesitation that the Boy Scouts' ban on gay leaders has not changed: "That's been our tradition, and it will remain so."  Unspoken, but clearly communicated, was his moral certitude based on his Christian values.

I had long opposed this stance in my own religion, understanding both the exclusion of gays from leadership positions and the sentiment that homosexuality is wrong to be a most narrow interpretation of one verse in the Hebrew bible.  But as a member of this tribe and a rabbi, I was able to teach alternative interpretations and work toward ending the institutionalized discrimination against gays and lesbians in Conservative Judaism.

I had likewise discouraged my son's participation in Cub Scouts, because I felt that I was without recourse to oppose their policy.  My spouse and other leaders in Pack 1800 reassured me that homophobia would not be felt at the local level.  In fact, one of the boys in my son's den has two mothers, both smart and articulate women who share my concerns.  Still, they encourage their son's involvement in scouting and they participate in local meetings and events.  

My son, who proudly wore his uniform to school today in recognition of the 100th anniversary, has already benefited so much from scouting this year.  He has slept in a tent, hiked in the mountains, visited elderly people in assisted living, and designed an aerodynamic car that earned him first place at the Pinewood Derby--all this with his father by his side.  His father and I continue to discuss our concerns about that one "tradition" in scouting that we simply cannot abide.  But he is only 8 years old.  It isn't time yet for him to share in these discussions.  

How will I mark today's anniversary?  I open my Hebrew bible to a different chapter and read: "There is a season for everything, a time for every experience under heaven... a time for keeping; a time for discarding."  Then I pray: Perhaps it will not take the next 100 years to establish a new tradition.

An Uncommon Person

"I, myself, I'm just a very common person."

These words, uttered by Miep Gies, got me all choked up this morning. Gies, who was honored as a Righteous Gentile by Yad Vashem Holocaust Museum for hiding Anne Frank and other Jews during the Holocaust, died yesterday at the age of 100. She was anything but "common," but her description of herself is a gift to all of us, a reminder that it doesn't take a remarkable person to help others. It just takes a willing person. The sincere humility of Miep Gies is an inspiration to me, a common person.

Having joined the masses of unemployed professionals nearly 18 months ago, I sought purpose in my daily life through volunteerism. A Jewish mother at heart, I chose to work at the Food Pantry of North Fulton Community Charities (NFCC), feeding the hungry. I did not know what to expect, but I hoped that a weekly reminder that there are people more in need of help than I would humble me and keep my self-pity in check. High IQ, years of graduate education, multiple degrees, fluency in several dead languages -- I remain a common person, no better than anyone else, if only a bit "better off."

In the past year, I have been sorting and shelving soup cans, repacking diapers in brown bags, and filling plastic bags with groceries for parents who need a little extra food for their children, cancer patients on special diets who can't manage on Disability, older adults who have stretched their monthly Social Security checks to the limit. They are considered “the needy,” but I have received such an extraordinary gift from them. Every time a client thanks me as I hand them their food, they lift my spirit. And to those who say "God bless you," it is all I can do to flash them a million dollar smile and wish them good luck before running back to the soup shelves to shed tears in semi-private.

What did I do, really, beyond spending a few hours of my relatively empty work week filling grocery bags? NFCC is teeming with wonderful volunteers, other common people like myself. I am no more deserving of God's blessing than any other person, yet I feel so blessed every Friday afternoon when I walk out to the parking lot. My own burden feels lighter for having helped my neighbors, even in such a small way.

Today, listening to the NPR interview with Miep Gies, I was reminded that being a common person is the point. When she was alive, she always made a point of saying that she did not want to be called a hero. She did not want people to think it takes a very special person to help those who need you, fearing that ordinary people would feel discouraged or overwhelmed. She was right, along with being righteous. There is not one of us incapable of helping another person, and we must help not as an act of heroism but as an act of kindness. May we all strive to be as common as Miep Gies, a remarkable person, and may her soul be bound up in eternal life.