I sit here, Motzei Shabbat in early July, at Camp Ramah in the Berkshires, on the precipice of two major life cycle events I am about to experience back-to-back. One I have had the great fortune of knowing directly three times now – the birth of each of my children. Here I have some idea what to expect, though each birth is unique and challenging, and different from any other.
The second life cycle event is the Bar Mitzvah of my oldest child, Rafi. Since arriving at the HJC eight years ago, I can safely say that I have prepared hundreds of B’nai Mitzvah. Like childbirth, each student has presented new opportunities and challenges to me, sometimes difficulties to surmount, and, of course, great rewards and satisfaction to enjoy on the day of the big event. I have never prepared one of my own children for Bar/Bat Mitzvah, however, until now. As I watch Rafi and listen to him chant each week, I find the entire experience both uplifting and unsettling, all at once.
My office is lined with photos of my family. There are a number of pictures of Rafi, from his early childhood, I often look at while listening to him chant. Like most parents facing the obvious growth of their children, I, too, am perplexed by the passage of time that is so clearly delineated in Rafi’s face. His features have not changed so much over the years, but somehow he looks so much older and more grown up.
I have watched this process many times with everyone else’s children. Now I am beginning to prepare students for B’nai Mitzvah whom I first taught as 4-year-olds in the HJC Nursery School. I have been working with these same children over the years in the religious school, so I am not always so overwhelmed by their growth. The big difference, truly, is when it is your own child on the other side of the desk. Teaching Rafi is like being a character in a Chagall painting—I am suspended in mid-air watching a scene unfold below me that I can only observe but not alter. I had a similar reaction here at camp, watching him participate in Shabbat singing after dinner, seeing his unbridled joy, arms draped over the shoulders of his bunkmates, completely enveloped in the moment. I am much more accustomed to concrete involvement in his life, and not existential observations from the sidelines, as it were.
My son is now becoming his own person; he is not so dependent on me to do his daily tasks, and he is literally moving into adulthood before my very eyes. That is the true significance of becoming a Bar Mitzvah – one phase of life, childhood, has drawn to a close, but adulthood is still years away. The teen years are a constant tug-of-war between parent and child: needing and wanting attachment versus needing and wanting independence. We do not relinquish our influence on our children as they become adolescents; we must acknowledge that we, too, as parents have entered a profound transition. The impact— both good and not so good—we have on our children will be measured by how we weather the sometimes stormy seas of growing pains and ultimate maturity. The Bar Mitzvah is really just the beginning of all that our sons or daughters will become as adults, and perhaps that is what is truly humbling about this life cycle event. It is a recognition, in front of the entire community albeit, that our children are now moving into the next phase. Our connections to them will change, our influence on them will be different, and our sense of centrality in their lives will be altered as they mature. How far removed this seems from cradling a tiny baby in one’s arms for the first time!
It is with great joy and anticipation, and a good dose of humility that I approach the birth of another Chesler and the Bar Mitzvah of the bekhor, our first-born, Rafi. Ken yirbu— May the joy continue to increase.
Shana Tova to each of you from the entire Chesler mishpacha!
Since Cantor Chesler is on maternity leave, the following is a reprint of an article that she wrote a few years ago.
When you arrive at the synagogue on the eve of Yom Kippur, you rush to get a seat as the chanting of the Kol Nidre is about to commence. Not to play upon a stereotype, but most people do not usually arrive at shul on time the rest of the year. Few are late on this particular holy day, however. There is both a sense of foreboding and optimistic anticipation in the air. The hope is that the year ahead will be wonderful and prosperous, complete with good health, happiness, and satisfaction. On the other hand, there is always the possibility looming somewhere beneath the surface that the coming year will be a difficult one. Watching the hundreds of worshipers quietly file into the synagogue, I ask myself, why is it so important for everyone to get to shul on time?
Standing up on the bima, looking out at a capacity crowd in the sanctuary, I wonder what are the thoughts of those assembled before me. Is it tradition, rituals passed from one generation to the next, that brings people to shul year after year? Or, is it the burden of this day, the need to annually cleanse ourselves, that brings people back? In the first four notes of the Kol Nidre lies the answer.
Musically speaking, just about any congregant could sing the first two words chanted on Yom Kippur eve: “Kol - Nee - drei - ei. . .” The first three syllables are chanted to the same pitch, and the final syllable goes down a half-step. This musical interval, a half-step between two pitches right next to one another, needs to be resolved. It is obviously dissonant, sometimes unpleasant (as when two people sitting near one another are singing the same melody a halfstep apart), and unsettling. In the Kol Nidre the dissonance does not resolve itself back up to the original pitch. The melody continues descending for a moment, making the listener wonder, where is the resolution? Am I to be left here in the shul, hanging in suspense? Perhaps, yes. It occurred to me that the theme of human vulnerability essential to understanding the High Holy Days is displayed in all its glory right here, at the commencement of our observance of Yom Kippur.
What makes you feel vulnerable? A job interview? Someone giving your resume the once-over? Lying in anticipation of a doctor’s worrisome prognosis on the examining table? Hearing the pilot announce, “Flight attendants, please take your seats as we’ve been cleared for take-off”? Or even standing in a department store dressing room with your mother? Perhaps the reason we all arrive so punctually at the synagogue on Yom Kippur eve is the need to feel vulnerable, at least once a year. And we know that those first ever so familiar strains of the Kol Nidre will bring us back, yet again, to a place we forgot about all year long. The lack of resolution in the opening passage is symbolic of our annual search for resolution. Whether or not we take the phrases literally, “Who shall live and who shall die. . .who shall have rest and who shall go wandering,” we return to the synagogue to hear them chanted both on Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur. Somehow, we fully understand that for all our efforts, we’re not the ones running the show. The opening notes of the Kol Nidre serve as a yearly reminder of that very fact, and that’s why we rush to get to shul on time. Each of us, in whatever way we envision it, prays that when that great Book is shut, we’ve got a reservation booked for a good year. G’mar hatima tova.
My family and I wish that you, and all those you care about, be inscribed for a wonderful and satisfying year in 5767.
There is a particular aspect of my life in the synagogue I have rarely detailed here in the Bulletin, that would be participation in our Ritual Committee. This group gathers three times a year to discuss a variety of topics, all concerning some facet of the religious life of the congregation. Do we need a new tallis rack outside of the sanctuary? If so, the group studies a variety of designs photographed in other shuls. Should we purchase new prayer books for use on the High Holidays? If yes, which edition, and how will the money be raised to pay for them? How can we best insure attendance at evening holiday services for the festivals of Sukkot and Passover? Do the present gifts being given to B’nai Mitzvah need to be updated or changed? At the annual October meeting there is always an extensive review of the High Holiday services. Did everything proceed smoothly? Were the children’s services properly chaperoned? Did everyone have a ticket? My one regret during this discussion is that I couldn’t have some filing system set up during the services on which my thoughts and reactions could be recorded for future use. Given the holiday observance, and this is relevant to Shabbat as well, no ideas, concerns, or reflections could be jotted down on paper during the davening. I have always wanted to share some of those thoughts with you, while they are still fresh in my memory.
What inspires me on Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur? Hearing the congregation sing with me on many of the well-known melodies of the holidays. Sometimes I stop singing just to listen to the voices. The melodies I sing are no longer unfamiliar or new; when they are sung, they are embraced like old friends coming back after a long journey. I used to think that the Chassidic melody for the Kaddish Shalem, or full Kaddish, was only to be sung by the one leading the service, the Ba’al Tefilah or Chazzan. Now I know that nearly everyone likes to sing this tune at the end of Musaf, and it is a wonderful moment, hearing everyone sing. I love the sound of the community singing the beginning refrain of the “Unetaneh Tokef” together. The melody is powerful, and gives a sense of foreboding, conveying the drama in the text. The sound of a thousand voices singing in unison is incredibly moving, as it is during the chanting of “Kol Nidre.”
I truly enjoy looking out at the congregation and seeing the following: Grandparents with their grandchildren coming up to the bima to hear the shofar, a parent showing affection to a son or daughter, people closing their eyes while singing along with the prayers, people weeping when they are so moved, congregants smiling at me when my eyes meet theirs. As the Musaf service comes immediately after Rabbi Kurshan’s sermons, my mind is often haunted by the themes he highlighted while I am singing. On this past Yom Kippur morning, his theme was the image of empty chairs, and those loved ones who occupied thoughts were not of empty chairs but of silenced voices—the sounds of chazzanim who influenced me throughout my career whose voices will never be heard again. Each time I reach the words “Sh’ma Koleinu” on Yom Kippur, I see the image of my dear friend, Renee Coleson, and I hear her dramatic soprano voice rising up emphatically declaring to God, “Hear our voices!” I often hear the voice of Max Wohlberg, my teacher at JTS, in his diminutive body, chanting one of his original melodies for me that is now sung in synagogues around the world, asking, “Have you ever heard of this one?” with a devilish grin on his face. I look down at my enormous music binder and see a name like Ben Belfer--also a teacher of mine at JTS and the cantor of B’nai Sholom in Rockville Centre for many years— as the editor for the arrangement of the “Kol Nidre” I sing each year. So many great voices have been silenced, but then I understand that through singing their melodies, their legacy endures. And knowing that their life’s work lives on in the voices I hear singing on the High Holidays in our sanctuary is a true source of comfort and inspiration.
Strangely enough, when I began to hear voices in my head I thought I might be losing my mind, which is now a distinct possibility with four children! Those voices, however, are the souls that sing to me, and to you, and live on in the musical and spiritual life of our congregation. And in the end, here lies the essential focus of our Ritual Committee.
At the beginning of the movie, “What’s Love Got to do With It?,” a biographical film detailing the rise to fame of pop star, Tina Turner, the very young Tina is participating in a church choir rehearsal singing the title of this article at the top of her lungs. The choir director becomes incensed by her behavior and scolds her, demanding she sing in a more appropriate manner. She simply cannot do it, such is her joy and elation, and she is then summarily removed from the rehearsal, with a look of shame upon her face. A similar joy and elation is the core value in letting our own lights shine, on the upcoming festival of Chanukah. Unlike the young Tina, we are not only encouraged but commanded to let it shine, to display the lights of the Chanukah menorah where all may see them. In so doing, everyone will know the miracles of this festival — that thousands of years ago the Jewish people fought for religious freedom and succeeded, that the few were triumphant over the many, that even as the Temple had been defiled it was ultimately restored to its grandeur by the Maccabees and the lights within were rekindled using the remaining pure oil they found. There are very few rituals connected to the festival of Chanukah beyond lighting the menorah and reciting Hallel—the Psalms of praise and “Al Ha-nissim” (on all of the miracles) in the Amidah. The nightly kindling of the Chanukah candles is therefore the central activity of the holiday.
This year, unlike most others, Chanukah begins on Shabbat, Friday evening, December 15, and concludes the following Shabbat, Dec. 22-3. I only noticed this peculiarity when assigning the Bat Mitzvah student of December 23 the proper Haftarah for the second Shabbat of Chanukah. I did not recall if I had ever either sung or taught this particular portion. In any case, I realized that the order of the lighting of both Shabbat and Chanukah candles is a bit confusing, even if one regularly reads the Luach ha-shana, the Jewish calendar devoted strictly to the order of tefillot (prayers/services) for the entire year. Which gets kindled first? Shabbat, because it comes every week? Chanukah, because it only comes once a year? Is it the holiday which is more important? The Chanukah candles are lit first, for after the Shabbat candles are lit, we cannot light another match or create another fire. The Chanukah candles cannot be the conventional ones which come to us each year in the little blue box. These candles barely burn for a half hour. The candles needed for Shabbat use must burn (as it is written on most boxes) for at least an hour into Shabbat. Why? Candle lighting for Shabbat is always listed on the standardized Jewish calendar at eighteen minutes prior to sunset. Chanukah candles, on the other hand, are to be lit after nightfall. Therefore, a longer burning candle is essential. I would also add that if you light more than one menorah, and in our house we light one for each member of the household, you might wish to stock up on these longer burning candles as you will need them both the first and last night of the holiday.
One other interesting note for all of the women: according to the rabbis (Shulhan Arukh Orah Hayim 570:1) while the candles are burning, the women of the house are not allowed to do any form of work. The more often you use the long burning candles, the better! To all of the matriarchal heads of households reading this, please remember to take full advantage of this rabbinic edict, and make the other members of the house do the work, prepare dinner, wash the dishes, finish the laundry, etc., while the candles are still lit. Prop up your feet, have a glass of wine, and savor the true joy and spirit of Chanukah. From my family to yours, a Chag Urim Sameach!
People are creatures of habit, and I am no exception. Most mornings I get up and participate in a set routine, preparing myself for the day, getting my children ready for their various schools and activities, and eating the same breakfast while reading Newsday. People thrive on structure, when life has certain predictable patterns and one knows what to expect at any given time of the day. What happens when some piece of that structure is changed or altered? Many of you have experienced that sense of uncertainty and upheaval when part of your home is under renovation or construction and you cannot use it for some period of time. How do you prepare a meal without a kitchen? How do you take a shower without a bathroom?
We are creatures of habit when it comes to life in the synagogue as well. What happens when one piece of the set structure of our synagogue changes, even if it is for the better? My first year at the HJC the mantles on the Torahs and the curtain of the Ark were changed. Certainly this was visually more beautiful than before, and the adjustment was easy. Now we have new prayer books, or siddurim, the new edition of Siddur Sim Shalom, generously donated to us by our Sisterhood, for Shabbat and holiday use. This is not the first time books have been changed, and I am certain it will not be the last. The Chumash, or Five Books of Moses, was changed from the Hertz edition to the Eytz Chaim. The weekday prayer book was changed from the blue Hadas edition, to the new Siddur Sim Shalom. The possibility of changing the High Holiday Machzor has come up many times in Ritual Committee discussion. The question for me is how do I adjust to this new siddur? The prayer book is the tool of my trade, like the ball is to an athlete, the scalpel to the surgeon, or the clay to the potter. I grew up in a Conservative synagogue in St. Louis, where we used the black Silverman prayer books. Though the English translations were archaic and alienating, I knew where to find everything. When I first became a cantor, I learned my way around the first Siddur Sim Shalom, which was also the one used here in the HJC. Now, along with each of you, I have a new set of page numbers to learn! It is disorienting to not know where the frequently recited prayers are found, especially when instructing a Bar or Bat Mitzvah student. It is disorienting, and inconvenient of course, but not necessarily a step in the wrong direction. On the contrary, the new Siddur Sim Shalom has many advantages over the first edition.
I am a visual person, so the first thing I notice about this prayer book , compared to the previous one, is its size (much lighter). The use of the space on a page is much more pragmatic. The words of the prayers are arranged more logically, and often poetically, on the page. Rather than having to turn the page to complete the prayer, the entire text is often displayed on one page, with the first word(s) of the prayer in bold print to assist you in finding your place. There are many footnotes and commentaries to assist you in understanding the words you are reciting. The translations have often been updated to reflect changes in the way we speak English today. Transliterations of common Hebrew text are interspersed more often. Page numbers are at the top of the page, rather than the bottom; main sections of prayer have the Hebrew name transliterated at the top of the page as well, like Shacharit or Ma’ariv.
Of great import is the inclusion of the Matriarchs in the Amidah. A few years ago the Ritual Committee voted to offer this option in the original Siddur Sim Shalom. The “Imahot” (Matriarchs) text was pasted in to the prayer books, with a written explanation provided by Amy about the significance of this new addition to our liturgy. Now, in the new siddur, we have two options, the traditional text or the newer version listing the ancestral mothers (page a or page b). One other notable change in the language is not imposing any gender specific language for God’s names. Adonai is not translated to Lord; it is simply read “Adonai” in the English. Melech ha-olam, or king of the universe, is translated “who rules the universe. There is still use of the singular third person male in the pronouns used for God, he, him, his, though these words appear infrequently.
In time each of us will find our way through this new siddur. May we each find spiritual growth in its pages.
Many years ago, when I was a new cantorial student beginning my studies in Jerusalem, I went to the Kotel one Friday evening with the hopes of finding a place to enjoy Shabbat dinner with my friends. Tourists, students, and those just needing a meal could be “fixed up” with a hosting family who lived in walking distance of the Old City. A large group of us, with actually a few smaller groups combined, ended up at the lavish home of an art dealer, whose palatial apartment overlooked the Kotel plaza. The price for dinner in this home was listening to a pitch for Shabbat observance (most of those at the table looked American, not terribly religious, and hungry), in the Orthodox interpretation of our host. “How do you spell Shabbat? F-AM- I-L-Y! Let’s repeat it together: F-A-M-I-L-Y!” I was young and single at the time, so this message was slightly lost on me. I was actually more aware of the smallness of the Jewish world that night; I met the obstetrician at this meal who had delivered me, on the eve of my 26th birthday, no less. In any case, the equation of Shabbat and family came back to me recently while sitting with my daughter, Aliza, at the first B’nai Mitzvah workshop for parents and kids. When asked what was a favorite family/Jewish experience, we both individually replied Shabbat dinners together. Lo, these many years later, the message and intent of the art dealer resounded inside me.
Shabbat can be the ultimate family experience, in an era when quality family time is a rarity. In my home, Friday evening dinners and Saturday afternoon lunches are filled with delicious foods (and lots of them!), singing, praying, conversation, and a lot of laughter. There is no sense of rushing or urgency to leave the table. Time takes on a different dimension altogether. In the words of Abraham Joshua Heschel, Shabbat is called, “A Palace in Time.” In his book, The Sabbath, he continues, “The meaning of the Sabbath is to celebrate time rather than space. Six days a week we live under the tyranny of things of space; on the Sabbath we try to become attuned to holiness in time. It is a day on which we are called upon to share in what is eternal in time, to turn from the results of creation to the mystery of creation; from the world of creation to the creation of the world” (p. 10). The sanctification of time – how we physically mark the time of Shabbat as holy – is what happens as the candles are lit Friday afternoon and the Havdalah candle is lit Saturday evening. During those 24+ hours, each of us is removed from the frenzy of the week, the treadmill of daily life, and placed in the jacuzzi (one of my favorite metaphors for relaxation) or welcoming comforts of Shabbat.
The opportunity to celebrate both Shabbat and its concluding rituals, or Havdalah, as families and community together, is coming up this month on Saturday, February 10th. The essential components of Shabbat observance are each featured beautifully in the HJC Havdalah programs – eating, singing, studying, praying, and unhurried shmoozing. The only element missing is rest, or Menuchah; all Shabbat naps should be taken before 4:30 on February 10!
The HJC Havdalah program is geared to all age groups in our synagogue community, with something for everyone to enjoy, be it the food, music, studying, youth programs, davening together, or simply marking the conclusion of Shabbat as a community. The Rabbi features a group study session using the Pirkei Avot, the Wisdom of the Sages, as the traditional text. There is always some interesting issue(s) regarding ethics and behavior to be discussed. The songs we sing reflect the slower and more relaxed pace of Shabbat afternoon and the mood of reflection as the end of Shabbat draws near. There is actually a hint of sadness that Shabbat will soon depart for another week, and we must resume the affairs of the week. The spices are part of the Havdalah rituals for that very reason, to raise up our spirits through the beautiful fragrance, as Shabbat concludes.
In the words of the Shabbat morning Amidah, “Adonai our God, grant that we inherit Your holy Shabbat, so that the people Israel, who hallow Your name, will always find rest on this day.” I look forward to sharing our “Palace in Time” together with each of you on the afternoon of February 10th.
Shabbat Shalom!
My favorite verse in the entire Haggadah for Passover is the following: “B’chol dor vador chayav adam lirot et atzmo k’ilu hu yatza mi-mitrayim.” “In every generation each person is obligated to see himself/herself as having personally left Egypt.” These words bring the ritual of the seder into the present tense. Many Passover rituals seem archaic and out of place in the modern world, for example burning the last chametz or searching a darkened house for chametz with a feather and a candle. These two in particular are actually favorites with the children as they are both mysterious and powerful in nature. To me, the seder holds relevance and meaning year in and year out for its timeless nature; the texts, songs, and discussions annually transport us back to the shores of the Red Sea. The people around the seder table vary, but the traditional text and the favorite foods do not. Perhaps that is exactly why the Passover seder is the most observed of any Jewish ritual.
A more recent phenomenon is the advent and popularity of the women’s seder. Why the seder? Why not a book discussion group of Ruth for Shavuot, or an annual Purim Shpiel about Queen Esther, one of the most famous of all Jewish heroines? The key to the centrality of Passover and its appeal to women specifically are the themes of freedom and redemption. The seder becomes the vehicle for adding individual voices and experiences to the mix: “We are told that each one of us personally left Egypt, and each of us must re-experience the Exodus, telling the story of our own freedom. When we truly do this – using our own voices, valuing our own insights, and building on the rich texts of our evolving tradition – we create inspirational seders and participate in the transformation of Judaism. Through this process, we can experience the blessing of being free to embrace the past as well as the future.” The Journey Continues: The Ma’yan Passover Haggadah, page 6.
What are some examples “of our evolving tradition?” I remember the seders of my youth, oh, so many years ago, and there was never a “Miriam’s Cup” on the table, filled with water, wine, or any other liquid. This cup, “[i]s a new ritual object. . .[It] serves as a symbol of Miriam’s Well, the source of water for the Israelites in the desert. . .The waters of [Miriam’s] well were said to be healing and sustaining waters. Thus Miriam’s Cup can be seen as a symbol of all that sustains us through our journeys. . .” [Ibid., p.15] Where did the orange on the seder plate originate? Susanna Heschel, daughter of Abraham Joshua Heschel and well-known Jewish feminist, once encountered a nay-sayer of sorts, whose famous words were, “A woman belongs on the Bima as much as an orange belongs on a seder plate.” Most women’s seders also include the use of tambourines to accompany the music (and dancing), to re-enact the dancing of Miriam and the Israelite women after crossing the Sea of Reeds.
I mention Passover now, slightly ahead of schedule, as our Sisterhood and three local chapters of Hadassah are planning a second annual women’s seder here in the shul on Wednesday evening March 21st, which I will be leading. I have enjoyed leading women’s seders for both the Mid-Island Y and the Brandeis Women in recent years. Here at HJC, a committee of dedicated women has created a special Haggadah, with opportunities for all present to actively participate. We will sing, recite blessings, dance, eat, and enjoy a festive evening together, during which participants will not have to get up from the table to serve others! Herein lies the true secret behind the popularity of women’s seders – they afford women the luxury (the freedom) of enjoying a seder without having to do any of the hours of preparation, serving, and clean-up. The committee planning this event would like to open it to registrants’ daughters as well. Then the words, “B’chol dor va-dor,” [in every generation] will resound with even more joy and meaning.
From my family to yours, a Chag Kasher v’Sameach!
Last summer, after our baby girl, Galit, was born I posted the news on my professional computer network, “Hazzanet.” Many of my colleagues responded with a hearty Mazel Tov; some of the comments made in the postings were actually quite funny and memorable. Upon hearing that I had given birth to a fourth child, who was given four names, one cantor wrote, “That is too many names to remember!” Another wrote, “Now you have one child for each of the Four Questions,” to which I responded, “It’s a good thing there are just Four Questions, and no more.” This remark caused me to think about the changing dynamics of my own family as it has grown, on a personal level, and the make-up of the cast of characters seated around our seder table, on a broader level. Furthermore, my colleague highlighted my children’s involvement in the seder in asking the Four Questions. He did not state, “Now I have one child for each of the Four Cups of wine,” or even more fitting, “Now I have one child for each of the Four Sons.”
The ritual of the seder is one that truly features the family at its core, perhaps more so than any other holiday observance. As it says clearly in the Haggadah, “B’chol dor va-dor chayav adam lirot et atzmo k’ilu hu yatza mi-mitzrayim,” “In every generation, each of us is commanded to see ourselves as though we personally came out of Egypt.” The act of Teshuva done on the High Holidays is more of an individual act, even when asking those we love for forgiveness. The Menorah can be kindled on Chanukah with any variety of people present. The Sukkah is a place for guests of all sorts. Purim masquerades and Megillah readings involve the entire community. Passover, however, is the home ritual par excellence, and the family is the featured artist(s). No wonder it is more observed than any other Jewish holiday or ritual. Even as its popularity endures throughout history, what is the relevance of Passover today as the Festival of Freedom? What’s more, how do we explain freedom to a four year old or a teenager? Beyond asking the Four Questions and retrieving the afikoman, how are the children (of all ages) around the table involved in recreating the Exodus from Egypt? Finally, what of the seder experience will they take with them into their adult lives to transmit to their children (in addition to the family recipe for charoset and the favorite melody for Chad Gadya)?
I ask myself these questions as I see the children around my own seder table both change individually and grow in numbers! Clearly, there are basic principles and values in the Passover experience that annually merit transmission to the next generation – fighting for religious freedom, maintaining faith in God’s connection to the Jewish people, and of course, the bad guys do not always win! I asked some of my favorite experts how they explain these concepts to children, and I would like to share their thoughts with you. Susie Meisler, director of our Nursery School, commented that concepts like slavery and freedom must be discussed and explained in ways that young people may better understand, using language and stories/situations that are age appropriate. She quoted the Dr. Seuss story, Yurtle, The Turtle, in describing someone who wants to rule over everyone else, to be in control of their actions, similar to Pharoah. In the end, Yurtle is reduced to king of the mud, and rules over no one; everyone is free to choose what he or she wishes to do. Freedom is having opportunities to make those choices. For young children, that could be, what toy do I want to play with, or who do I want to play with today at school. Susie explained further, “Create a scenario that (the children) can understand.” Ultimately, in Susie’s words, “People are free to do what they want, within reason.” After surviving some of my own children’s temper tantrums and meltdowns, I, too, understand that the freedom to choose also comes with necessary restrictions!
Sue Remick-Topek, the early childhood director at SAJES, felt that making the larger concepts, like slavery and freedom, experiential, interactive, and dramatized could help younger people both understand these ideas and participate more fully in the seder as well. Sue suggested that everyone around the table dress up in biblical-style costumes; have the leader ask each person (children included) who they are and where they are going. “I was a slave in Egypt, and now I am free, in Israel.” [“Avadim Hayinu”] The repetitive nature of the response, as well as the use of opposites (slave/free), help each child understand the idea of freedom. Sue also suggested using sensory experiences, like walking, moving, dancing, singing, tasting and touching to involve the children. For example, tasting maror is a way of understanding bitterness. Smelling/seeing fresh parsley conveys the beauty of spring. Finally, in Sue’s words, “Freedom is about being who you want to be.” Whatever you choose to do in your celebration of the Festival of Freedom, my family and I wish you a “Zissin Pesach,” a very sweet holiday.
On the seventh day of Passover there is a tradition in our shul of honoring our Torah readers by recognizing them from the bima. Dr. Joseph K. annually adds some appropriate words to this ritual as he praises both the act of chanting from the Torah, and the readers themselves. This year, he began by talking about someone who is Jewish and lives in China, as compared to someone who is Jewish and lives in England. He said that people adopt the styles and ways of those with whom they live. What is the common thread, however, between Jews everywhere? The Torah! He continued that the interpretations of the Torah vary from synagogue to synagogue, and even within the same congregation, but the words themselves remain constant. Torah is our everlasting gift, our inheritance, our connection to God and the Jewish people throughout time and space.
It is this gift we annually celebrate on the Festival of Shavuot, which falls on May 23rd and 24th this year. One of the names by which we call Shavuot is “Z’man Matan Torateinu,” the time of the giving of our Torah. Of course, on Passover we commemorate and relive the Exodus, “Z’man Cheruteinu,” the time of our liberation. Seven weeks later we stand at Sinai, ready to receive God’s word as delivered by Moses. The rabbis attached this name to Shavuot when its significance as a harvest and Pilgrimage (to the Temple) festival was no longer the main focus. Certainly today, the majority of the Jewish people worldwide do not farm the land; therefore, harvesting the first fruits is impossible. Furthermore, the Temple has not existed for nearly 2,000 years; the act of making a pilgrimage to Jerusalem and performing the requisite sacrifices is also impossible. Years ago, however, when I first met Rabbi Chesler, we did make the sunrise trek to the Kotel to daven the morning service. We were as close as one could be to the remains of the Temple on the morning of Shavuot, along with thousands of other Jews, and it was a sight to behold.
Beyond the consumption of cheesecake and blintzes, in what way do we mark Shavuot today? Many people study during the night the holiday begins, as a means of celebrating the giving of the Torah, called a Tikun Leyl Shavuot. Others display the first fruits of the community, as we do in this congregation through the welcoming of the newborn babies. The Aleph Consecration is often connected to Shavuot, as it is the true beginning of studying both Hebrew and Torah, in a formal manner. When I was a child, I received a very tiny Torah, roughly the size of my hand, at my own Aleph Consecration. Today the children receive a new Siddur.
Shavuot perhaps is connected to the giving of the Torah to bring it relevance in a post-Temple, post-agricultural world. Unlike the other two pilgrimage festivals of Passover and Sukkot, Shavuot has no Seder and home rituals of ridding the house of chametz, nor of dwelling outside in a hut for a week. The celebration of our greatest gift, the Torah, is the focus of this holiday. We even chant the portion including the Ten Commandments that day to highlight the moment of Revelation at Sinai. This infusion of one of the most important moments in Jewish history and peoplehood brings meaning to the celebration of Shavuot. It allows us to express gratitude for our inheritance, the Torah, and to acknowledge our ongoing connection to the Divine who gave us an everlasting gift. We continue to chant from it, study it, re-interpret its laws and stories, and derive benefit from its teachings. It is the highlight of our weekly Shabbat service. Chanting from it is required of every Bar and Bat Mitzvah student. In truth, no other gift compares to the Torah. It is one of the few means I have of reconnecting with students after Bar and Bat Mitzvah studies are long completed, by inviting teens to return to the bima to chant from the Torah.
Together with my husband, Barry, and my children, Rafi, Aliza, Avi and Galit, I wish you a Chag Shavuot Sameach, a joyous Z’man Matan Torateinu.
June is a time of transition and nostalgia. Not only is the school year drawing to a close, the season is changing - with all of the joys of summer just within reach. Many milestones are about to occur: weddings, anniversaries, graduations. We watch our children speed from one level of schooling to the next. It seems there are many more “moving up” ceremonies today than a few decades ago. One such celebration will be here at the HJC on Friday, June 8 – the graduation of the 4 year-old class (and the subsequent entrance into Kindergarten of these children).
One of the highlights of my work in the HJC is teaching music to all of the students in our Nursery School each week. Every year, I assist in preparing the oldest children for their graduation; I teach them a number of songs they will sing to their parents during their “commencement exercises.” This repertoire is constant from one year to another, for the music is timeless. The themes of these songs continue to resonate with the values we hope to instill in the children – love, friendship, kindness, bonds of family, brotherhood of man, the love of Judaism, and basic principles in the Torah. The teachers even sing a blessing to the children at the conclusion, with the words of both the Sh’ma and the Priestly Benediction. This is our way of bestowing good wishes on the children as they head out into the larger world of elementary school.
In years past, rehearsals with the “4’s” (in the synagogue sanctuary on the bima steps) were often conducted by Yvonne Cohen. Her absence has been all the more noticeable as the children sing the words to one of her favorites, “A kind, kind heart is the way every heart should be.” Exactly a year ago I eulogized Yvonne here in the synagogue bulletin, wondering how the words might be fulfilled, that a person’s memory may be for a blessing. Yvonne’s blessing has been evident in the Nursery School, in teaching the children about the wonders of life and how to be a mentsch. A recent science project was a case in point, as the children marveled at the process (conducted right in the classroom) of witnessing a caterpillar turn into a butterfly. As we mark her first yahrtzeit, it is good to remember the gifts and blessings Yvonne so freely gave to this congregation.
It is a bittersweet moment, watching one’s own child make the move from the friendly confines and protected environs of nursery school to the larger, more impersonal world of elementary school. My son, Avi, has literally grown up in this congregation, from infancy on. He has been my minyan buddy. He has often been an assistant to Debbie or Marilyn in the office, helping stamp envelopes, make copies, or even fold fliers. People often refer to him as the Mayor, as he conducts court with his peers and a variety of members of the community. I know he runs the halls of the HJC like it were his own home! His presence in the synagogue has punctuated my workday and my work life. He has been my helper in teaching music to his class. Avi did not have Yvonne for a classroom teacher, though he often enjoyed her as the leader of nitzanim on Shabbat morning. He did have an array of outstanding educators, and for that I am grateful. The HJC Nursery School has been the ideal setting for his own growth and development. He has benefited from the social connections, the open play, religious observances, wonderful curriculum and just plain fun.
Life is a series of passages, movement in time from one stage of development to the next. We marvel at the changes in our children over the years, how they move from total dependence on us to complete separation and self-sufficiency (Godwilling!). My present group of B’nai Mitzvah students was my first 4’s to graduate from the Nursery School nine years ago. I remember teaching them the songs for their graduation. In the words of one of my favorite songs from this celebration, “Love grows, one by one, two by two, and four by four. Love grows round like a circle, comes back knocking at your front door.” It is a joyful experience watching the children of this community grow and mature, helping them prepare for the big moments, celebrations, and times of transition in their lives.
May you have a restful and enjoyable summer! See you in September.
I attend a number of gatherings of Jewish professionals each year. At these conferences and conventions I usually purchase several things at the local “Shuk” or marketplace – music, CD’s, Judaica, gifts, etc. Not long ago I bought a beautiful guitar strap with the words, “Sh’ma Koleynu” printed on it. The words are part of the High Holiday liturgy recited on Selichot and Yom Kippur, “Hear our voices.” While singing with a group of kids at Camp Ramah a camper noticed my strap and asked what the words meant. As I explained it to her, I thought about why I picked this particular guitar strap (there were other phrases from which to choose, for example, “Sing unto God a new song.”).
A basic and inherent piece of being a hazzan is the hope that God will hear our voices, and specifically my voice, especially on the forthcoming High Holidays. These are the words chanted at the close of the Hazzan’s prayer, the “Hineni,” sung at the beginning of Musaf: “Praised are You who hears prayer.” The hazzan’s prayer is both a confessional and heartfelt petition in one. Before the entire community a declaration is made, [I am]“unworthy of my sacred task.” What qualifies the cantor to beseech God on behalf of the congregation? If you read the words of the “Hineni” it says, “Oo-z’kunah m’goodal v’kolo na-im,” which translates, a big beard and a sweet voice. I cannot embody the former quality, but I can hope to have the latter of the two! (When this prayer was composed there certainly were no female hazzanim.)
Another person, this time a teacher at Camp Ramah, asked me how I negotiate this prayer, which is seemingly full of contradictions. How is it that one openly states ones’ lack of qualification for the job, but then goes on to implore the Almighty to be merciful on the people because of a pleasant voice and a big beard? The images evoked in the High Holiday liturgy are often difficult to understand, process, and clarify. In my mind, they are not always to be taken literally. For example, after listing all of our transgressions from A to Z, Aleph to Taf, God is supposed to be lenient and merciful on us, despite how awful each of us has been in the past year. What if we actually did all of those rotten things we list again and again on Yom Kippur? Would we, should we have any right to expect God’s mercy? Are repentance, prayer, and deeds of loving kindness truly enough to avert the severity of God's decree?
The Hineni is an annual reminder of several things for the hazzan. The task of being the messenger of the community, the Shlicha Tzibbur, is overwhelming. The job must be approached with humility, but the plea made on behalf of the congregation must be declared with beauty and grace, with sincerity and devotion. Even if the image of the Book of Life is not taken literally, with God's accounting of our deeds written therein, what, then is the goal of these Ten Days of Repentance? What have each of us accomplished by the final shofar blast of Yom Kippur?
"Hineni," Here am I. On Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur both hazzan and congregant stand before God with a sacred task, to repent and move forward. It is a contract between us and God, to be signed again each New Year.
On behalf of my family, I wish each of you a Shana Tova u-m'tukah.
A number of years ago, I was the same age as my oldest son, Rafi, is now – a 9th grader, 14 years old. I had a great year in school, I remember, and one of my favorite classes was biology. The teacher was rather eccentric, outspoken and often truly outrageous. He scheduled an out-of-theordinary field trip for us to the Missouri State Hospital, a place that housed many of society’s outcasts and forgotten souls, those who were mentally ill and many who were physically and mentally severely disabled. I remember arriving at the complex of buildings, tall, gabled, red-bricked, foreboding in appearance, wondering who lived in this place. It did not look too welcoming.
We visited some of the residents, and it was probably my first exposure to people who were so highly incapacitated as to be “institutionalized” for life. I came home from this trip with the vision of some of these individuals glued to my memory, haunted and saddened by what I saw. More than 30 years later I remember how I felt that day. I have often wondered what became of these people born with severe disabilities. It certainly was not uncommon, in those days, to place people such as these in institutions for life. Similar thoughts run through my mind, in fact, each time we drive to or from Camp Ramah in the Berkshires, as there is an enormous complex of buildings that once housed a state institution right as you pass through Wingdale, New York.
Today, their living situations are (I hope) vastly improved. A number live in group homes and engage in day programs where they do simple tasks and engage socially with others. These day programs, or adult day care centers, are right here in our neighboring Huntington village, at places like Carillon and even right across Park Avenue, in the same complex as the Cinema Arts Centre. A few times a year I visit these centers and sing to the people attending programs there. The lovely social workers who schedule activities for them call our shul looking for volunteers to come explain the Jewish holidays to them, sing to them, tell them stories, and engage them at their level of understanding. What I end up doing is a combination of songs, prayers, stories, and ritual demonstrations (like blowing the shofar, waving the lulav, sharing my matzah, or lighting the menorah, depending on the holiday) to highlight what we do to observe these special days. I often sing songs in English, and I usually include a fair number of selections from my HJC Nursery School repertoire. These songs are certainly more easily understood, always fun, and most often include some puppet or toy that gives them a “visual” with which they can identify.
The people attending Carillon’s Adult Day Care often remind me of those residents I saw in Missouri so many years ago. I enter their activity room to greet many happy, welcoming faces, most of them eager to shake my hand. Some are older adults with Down’s Syndrome. Some are confined to wheelchairs with head braces. Not all are able to communicate in every day common language. Very few, if any, are Jewish. Most, however, are grateful to see me. No matter what I sing or say, they are a genuinely appreciative audience. I am often touched by the demeanor of many of these individuals– some have a smile almost permanently etched on their faces. Perhaps it is their mental disabilities that have left them in the lifelong innocence of childhood. The usual wisdom, and often bitterness, that comes with maturity seems to not be part of the package.
Because of their kindness and joy, I always leave feeling uplifted. For the brief period of time I have spent entertaining them, my reward is greater. I have entered a realm housing many forgotten souls, and I feel all the richer for having done so. It is one of the tougher endeavors of a pastor, but like all people, these individuals also have a right to be served. My first cantorial position (again, a number of years ago) was serving the aging residents of the Jewish Home and Hospital in Manhattan. Working in a nursing home can be demoralizing , but also rewarding. When singing to someone with advanced Alzheimer’s, it is not often clear if there is any connection being made at all. The song still needs to be sung, however. Many times when I face my work with apprehension, my husband, Barry, has a wonderful retort, “Remember, Carol, it’s not always about you ,”– it’s all about them.”
YONI RECHTER SINGS WITH YOUR CHILDREN HERE AT THE HJC!
A wonderful program is coming up here at the HJC this month! In one evening you will have the opportunity to sample some of the finest in Israeli popular music AND see/ hear your HJC children perform on the stage with our visiting artist, Yoni Rechter. Approximately 100 of our religious school children will be taking the stage to sing one of his big hits, “Aich Shir Nolad,” (How a Song is Born) during his concert. The students from our 7th grade, or Hey Class, will be singing a lovely lullaby, “Laila Tov” (Good Night). I have the terrific opportunity to work with these students before the performance and teach them these songs. I cannot begin to tell you how excited I am that Yoni Rechter’s music will be filling the halls of the HJC!
My first exposure to the music of Yoni Rechter was in the early 1970’s in St. Louis, when his popular rock group, Kaveret, performed at the local JCCA. This group was also known as “Poogy,” and went on to produce many beloved songs of Israel, some of which are still popular more than 30 years later. Even today, one of the most requested Israeli dances is “Yoya,” from the “Siporei Poogy” album. I know that I dearly loved the music of Poogy, and listened to it ad nauseam, though I didn’t understand the Hebrew, or have any idea what they were saying. I learned all of the words anyway!
Then, in 1983, I spent my first summer at Camp Ramah in Wisconsin as music director. One of the theatrical productions that summer was, “Ha-keves Ha-shisha assar,” “The 16th Lamb.” Again, I listened to this recording repeatedly until I learned many of the songs, both in order to able to teach them and simply because I enjoyed them so much. It is now 30 years since this album was originally produced, and these songs continue to be a part of the core repertoire of Israeli children. Many of Yoni Rechter’s songs have never lost their popularity; I still teach them at Camp Ramah in the Berkshires during the summers I spend there. This past summer, I taught my daughter Aliza and her Aidah (age group) the song, “Ani Ohev Chocolad,” (“I Love Chocolate”), and the entire camp learned the same song I am now teaching to our Religious School students, “Aich Shir Nolad.” Our children grow up singing “Old MacDonald” and “I’ve Been Workin’ on the Railroad.” In Israel, children grow up with the music of Yoni Rechter. In the words of our chosen song, “How is a song born?/ Like a baby/ In the beginning it hurts/ And then it comes out/ and everyone is happy/ And suddenly/ – How wonderful/ It walks by itself!” Two years ago, the HJC hosted Israeli artist extraordinaire, David Broza; the concert was simply a fabulous evening of grand proportion. So many of you showed your support and turned out that evening. The Israel Committee is thrilled to continue to bring outstanding Israeli artists here to our synagogue and looks forward to another successful event. Please show your support once again. It will be an unforgettable evening of the highest quality. Through your attendance, you support excellent cultural programming here in our shul, strengthen your ties to the State of Israel, and strengthen your children’s involvement in the life of the synagogue. You cannot beat that!
I am about to begin a two-month sabbatical (in fact, the day following this concert), and would like to express a few thoughts on this auspicious occasion. I am now in my tenth year of service to the HJC. It is hard to believe that a decade has nearly passed, but time flies quickly while I continue to sing my way around the shul. I look forward to some time to get recharged; I hope to visit some of my colleagues during this period away and see/hear what they are doing in their shuls. One of the ironies of pulpit life is rarely having an opportunity to experience first-hand what other clergy are doing out there. I look forward to greeting you in mid-January with a rejuvenated spirit!
I had a poignant conversation with my son, Avi, last week, which led straight into what I've termed a "nuclear meltdown," or "5- alarm" temper tantrum. Avi was getting dressed for school and could not find his usual kippah of choice; so, he wanted to wear "Sabbah's kippah," or as Avi calls it, my dead grandfather's kippah. This head covering is, needless to say, very special to me for its simple connection to my father, gone now nearly a dozen years. I told Avi I was afraid he might lose it at school, to which he responded, "I never take my kippah off at school, Mom." Then, not getting the result he wanted, he proceeded to melt as the bus pulled up to our house.
So, why could I not let Avi wear this kippah to school? In thinking about this particular kippah, I realized that it is probably one of the few ritual items I still have of my father's, and for that reason alone, it is of great value to me. I saw my son, Rafi, become a Bar Mitzvah in it; he knew my father for only a short time, of course. Avi is named for him— Avner, after Avraham, or Alan as he was called. My father died right after Chanukah, hence the connection of the two Hebrew names, Avner meaning, my father is a candle or light. As his yarhtzeit approaches this month, I think more about the kippah and its significance as a sacred heirloom from my father.
Once a loved one is gone, what keeps memory fresh? What keeps his presence felt, or her laughter resounding? Even more difficult to answer, how do I bring to life these people my children will never know? With my mother, the answer has always been in the kitchen, through cooking, and specifically through cooking dishes she prepared when I was growing up. To carry on her legacy was to become a good hostess, to fill my home with guests on the holidays and to feed them the foods I connected to her. My mother was a wonderful teacher, and I like to think that I carry on that tradition here in the shul.
My father's legacy is more elusive, not so easy to pinpoint. I do not own a sailboat or continue to sail with my family. I crewed for my father, an avid sailor since his own childhood, for many summers on the Mississippi just north of St. Louis. I did not raise my sons in the Boy Scouts, another big part of his childhood. My husband does not ballroom dance; both of my parents loved dancing. So, how do I keep his memory present, his qualities and values alive in my children? Many times my husband, Barry, has turned to me and said, "That's an Alan Reiman moment!" My father loved a good, off-color joke, especially shared at the dinner table. He loved playing in the sand at the beach, making elaborate castles (as an adult!). He was an engineer, so he loved playing with building toys like Lego. He told the same great stories again and again, expecting us to listen patiently as he retold them in meticulous detail.
How he has remained alive for me is in moments when I sense his presence — in K'nex creations that Rafi builds with such finesse, or the humor we share as a family over Shabbat dinner. His qualities of unparalleled loyalty and faithfulness to my mother were traits that played a significant part in my choosing my own partner, Barry. The kippah, on the other hand, is a tangible piece of who he was — something he wore to shul, at home, on holidays, at seders he led.
I was reminded of the significance of these "heirlooms" left us by our loved ones when I flipped over a beat up children's book and found an inscription by Yvonne Cohen, "To Avi. I love you. Love, Yvonne." Both my husband and I have great difficulty parting with accumulated things, and I now know why. When I come across an old letter or card with my parent's handwriting on it, I cannot bear to throw it out. I read and reread the messages my mother wrote to me in the cookbooks she gave me. "I hope that this cookbook brings you many hours of happy eating. Think of me often when you use it." And I do.
May the legacies left you by your loved ones be a source of fulfillment and gratification for you, as you keep memories of them alive in the life you live. Warm wishes from my family to yours for a Happy Chanukah.
Since the Cantor is on sabbatical, the article below is a reprint of an article she wrote several years ago.
I began something fairly ambitious a few weeks ago in the Nursery School. I started to teach the prayer recited upon arising in the morning (Modeh Ani) to each of the children in the school.
There are about 4 or 5 lines sung in Hebrew, with a few difficult words of course, but my sense is that with enough repetition, the children could master this prayer. I sang it daily to my own children upon taking them out of the crib first thing in the morning, and by the age of 2 or 3, they were singing with me. Based on that experience, and some classroom reinforcement from the Nursery School Staff, I hope to create a repertoire of Welcome songs we sing each time we begin a music class.
You might wonder what the significance is of this particular prayer, Modeh Ani. The words are a statement of gratitude to God, the eternal King, for restoring the soul each day when one awakens. The logic, then, is that if a child begins the day with words of thankfulness, a tone is set for the rest of the day. The simple act of waking up is seen as a gift from God, and therefore, even the most mundane aspects of life might not be taken for granted - - by both children and adults alike. The first prayer sung in the daily minyan is Modeh Ani; the imperative to be grateful does not end when we reach adulthood.
Instilling a sense of appreciation in children is a challenge, in this age of ever increasing material luxuries that are all too commonplace. When you hand your child a book as a gift one night during Chanukah, and that child responds, “Is this it?,” you might wonder what’s wrong with this picture. One of my favorite expressions used here in the Nursery School is, “You get what you get, and you don’t get upset!” After some discussion with my husband, Barry, we decided that gratitude must be taught at an early age; otherwise, we would never be able to keep up with their demands for Pokeman, Barbie, or the latest Lego gadget.
A few years ago, while sitting in the library of another shul during one of my breaks in B’nai Mitzvah tutoring, I pulled Rabbi Kurshan’s book on raising your child to be a Mentsch off the shelf. Everything he said seemed so logical and achievable, not rocket science at all. But the lessons he taught in that book need to be repeated frequently so as not to be forgotten. Accordingly, each child can feel a sense of awe and wonder, and real gratitude; waking up in the morning is truly a significant moment during the average day.
During the long and sometimes dreary months of winter, it’s good to remind ourselves of the need to acknowledge our daily blessings. I know my own tendency at this time of year is to go in the opposite direction, longing for the days of summer rather than appreciating the beauty of what is now (even if that means navigating an icy driveway, or spending an hour clearing the snow from my car!). Perhaps if each person could begin the day with a sense of gratitude, as in the words of Modeh Ani, that feeling of appreciation would extend throughout the day.
Because the Cantor’s is on sabbatical the following is an article that was written several years ago.
A recent issue of our synagogue bulletin included an article by our Nursery School Director, Susie Meisler, that provided a wonderful promotion for a daily gathering right here in the shul, our morning minyan. The article’s theme was the need for certain morning activities in order to stimulate the body and the mind so as to insure a productive day — eating crunchy foods, standing in a steamy hot shower, exercising, and even cuddling. After finishing the article, I reflected on my own morning routine of getting myself dressed and the children ready for school, making a pot of coffee, feeding and changing the baby, making snacks and lunches, and getting the children on the bus by 7:15. No where in this list was any self-stimulation, exercise, or even “down time.” In truth, the hour from 6:15 to 7:15 is probably the most difficult time of the day. The saving element comes after the bus has left and Avi and I leave for the HJC to attend the morning minyan. It is my time within the confines of the Leif Chapel, until 8:00 a.m. that truly sets me up for the day ahead, and puts me on the right footing.
Why do people attend the daily minyan? What’s the attraction? Here’s another “Top Ten” list: To be a part of a larger, but still intimate community; the need for your presence in order to recite certain prayers, like the Kaddish — 10 adult Jews, and you count!; an opportunity to begin your day by praying and thanking God; the camerderie and friendship of those “regulars;” celebrating life cycle events, B’nai Mitzvah and baby namings; marking yarhtzeits and making a little Kiddush with the members of the Minyan; the opportunity to lead others in prayer (if you know how to function as a Ba’al T’filah); reciting the Kaddish each day after the death of a loved one, in a nurturing environment; fulfilling the chiyuv or responsibility to daven daily; finally, in keeping with Susie’s theory of needing sensory stimulation to get going each morning, the physical and visceral stimulations of davening — the feel of tefillin wrapped snugly around your arm, fingers, and head, the warmth and embrace of the tallit, the pages of the prayer book unfolding in your hands, the sounds of voices singing together and quietly chanting the words individually, the kiss given only to the Torah or the tzitzit (the fringes of the tallit), the moves or choreography of davening (bowing, swaying, rising up on the balls of your feet). So much happens in that brief span of 45 minutes each morning. I imagine that most of you who are regular minyan-goers rarely stop to consider all that is occurring each time you come to shul so early in the day.
In truth, I feel like I’ve acquired a very different perspective on the minyan these last few weeks, both literally and figuratively. Avi has begun to crawl all over the place, and he is even beginning to pull himself up to a standing position, holding on to the benches. I have consequently changed my self appointed makom kavua, or assigned seat, from the front of the Leif Chapel to a rear corner near the stained glass windows. Avi is then less of a distraction to the Ba’al Tefillah, the one leading the Minyan, as he would otherwise be trying to scale the Bima step. The view I now have is entirely different, when Avi actually allows me to look elsewhere! The people with whom I chat are different, of course; ultimately, my feeling of connection to the group has changed as I sit in the midst of them, rather than in front of them. Sitting up on the Bima each Shabbat morning does not afford me the opportunity to sit amongst the congregation (that is why I love leading services from the table in the center aisle!). Thanks to Avi’s physical changes, I can now benefit each morning from taking my new makom kavua.
I invite you to come discover for yourself the early morning beauty and sensory stimulation.
Sometimes, it seems like the world in which we work can be a very isolating place. For example, if you are a teacher, you do get the sense of community working in a school with other teachers, but when do you get to see them do what they do, and vice versa? When do you just sit and observe how your peers would teach the same subject to the same age group? If you are a dentist in private practice, when do you share techniques with your colleagues and discuss the latest advances in technology? If you work in a congregation as a clergy person, be it a rabbi or cantor, when do you get to enjoy a sermon delivered by someone else, or learn a new melody, if each and every Shabbat (outside of vacation time) is spent on your home Bima? The irony of my chosen profession is that I do not get to hear my colleagues in action save at my annual convention. The convention is really a series of seminars and concerts, as well as communal prayer. Seeing someone at work in his/her home environment is a rarity, and it is certainly not something simulated at a convention.
From mid-November through mid-January, I enjoyed my first sabbatical as cantor of the HJC. During these 2 months away from the congregation, I visited more than half a dozen different shuls, and experienced a wide variety of davening styles. I enjoyed all of it! Some of the shuls I visited were specifically chosen as my friends serve these communities as clergy people. One special treat was getting on the train completely alone (my husband is a real angel) and venturing off to New Jersey one cold wintery weekend to see two of my cantorial buddies in their home congregations. I simply sat in the congregation and enjoyed listening to them lead services. I walked away with a stack of new music, a series of fascinating observations about their congregations, and a hankering to return for more dialogue with my colleagues. I hope to incorporate some of the new melodies over time into our services.
My good friend Riki was very excited to be conducting the “Ashrei Club” reunion the Shabbat I was visiting. As there was no Bar Mitzvah that morning, about 20 or 30 kids in the community participated throughout the service, reading Torah, chanting Haftarah, taking Aliyot, leading Musaf, and above all, singing Ashrei together, topped off with an elaborate Kiddush luncheon hosted by a generous family in the community. Riki was kvelling, seeing so many of her present and former students (some well into their 20’s) on the Bima that day. It was a joy for me to understand the high regard Riki enjoys from her congregation, having served it now for 20 years. I was able to return to her community recently for a gala celebration and concert, honoring both Riki for two decades of service, and women in the cantorate for 20 years.
I spent a Shabbat in Manhattan and had the good fortune to return, after several years away, both to the Carlebach Shul (in the morning), and to B’nei Jeshrun on the Upper West Side for Kabbalat Shabbat services. The music is beautifully done, with both the rabbis and the cantor taking turns leading the davening, and a 5-piece band accompanying the entire service. The sanctuary is standing room only, with people constantly arriving and looking for seats. Barry and I sat in the balcony with a great view of the dancing and Bima. An interesting observation by my husband went as follows: “Would you want this every week?” In other words, is it a religious service or a theatrical production, given the logistics, the crowd control issues, the musical arrangements and necessary sound system, the tag-team style leadership, and the transient nature of the Manhattan crowd attending on any given Friday night?
I loved getting to see other davening communities, and getting to experience how people do things very much like the HJC, and very differently as well. One interesting observation in New Jersey was that as I sat in the pews, I did not see one person chewing gum during the service! At B’nei Jeshrun a minyan buddy program was offered where a knowledgeable person could be requested (ahead of time) to help you through the prayer book and the service. In Riverdale, another community I visited, a lovely Saturday evening “Melave Malke” program was offered after Havdalah with a light dinner, games and a raffle/movie for the kids. In Philadelphia, I even attended an Orthodox Carlebach style minyan (where men and women sat separately); the singing was lovely, and I knew many of the melodies, but the location was a new one – a meeting room in the upper floor of a fire station!
It is good to be home again, after enjoying many trips away from Huntington. I return to you restored, energized by my time off, and ready to serve with an open heart!
Best wishes from my family to yours for a joyous Purim!
Though it is not quite time to celebrate Purim, I am already thinking about Passover – not necessarily in terms of excitement, but fear and anxiety. The annual domestic preparations are always overwhelming, the cleaning, changing of dishes, grocery shopping, cooking, etc. I am still unclear why Passover has the other title, “The Feast of Freedom,” when so much rigorous labor is involved in its observance.
Perhaps that labor is why I often turn to the music of this holiday for inspiration. Over the years I have collected a wide variety of recordings of songs/ prayers for the Seder. The music is as diverse as the Jewish people itself! You might be wowed by the vocal gymnastics performed by Moishe Oysher in his famous version of Chad Gadya, or perhaps a mideastern arrangement sung by the “Voice of the Turtle” is more to your liking. Maybe the traditional setting is your favorite, and you have no intention of changing it. Some years ago I created a composite tape including a wide variety of arrangements for Chad Gadya, and many other songs/prayers of the Haggadah. I used this recording at the Sisterhood Seder Sing-down, and gave copies of this cassette to all of those in attendance.
What to do now, you might wonder? First, I look to see what is new in the Jewish recording world, which is easy enough to now investigate on line, where you can hear short segments of new Passover music on particular websites, like Jewishmusic.com. I recently purchased the BJ (B’nai Jeshurun) recording and the arrangements are done well, including some selections in Ladino. Craig Taubman put out a CD of all instrumental jazz selections of your favorite Haggadah hits (“The Passover Lounge”). It is unconventional and jarring, to be sure, but could be used as great background music while you prepare for your Seder or simply clean your house. I even found a recording of Dayenu as a Reggae/Rap selection. Musical tastes are truly individual. If you want to explore what your own taste is in Passover music, I urge you to attend the forthcoming workshop I will be leading on new melodies for your Seder, on Wednesday, April 9.
The Seder is a ritual that demands of us a new interpretation in every generation. It is the true embodiment of one of the main principals of Conservative Judaism – Tradition and Change. Just as we are commanded to see ourselves as if we, too participated in the Exodus from Egypt, we are responsible for breathing new meaning into the Seder itself. What makes reciting the Four Questions relevant when we already know the answer? Teaching our children is one way we make it personal; opening the Seder to new areas of discussion is another (for example, we are no longer nomads, so how do we make sense of the line, “My father was a wandering Aramean?”); finally, we sing new melodies and new songs that are our own and add them to the chain of tradition we give to our children. There is a recording of the Sheba choir--young Ethiopian Israelis--singing the old gospel, “Sometimes I feel like a Motherless Child” as a Passover hymn. They have a different understanding of the Exodus, based on their own journey from Ethiopia to Israel, many without their parents. This rendition is haunting and mesmerizing in its beauty, for the words come alive through their voices and their sincerity.
Each year, I try to bring new melodies and Passover toys to our table to enliven everyone’s participation and enjoyment of the evening. When we break the middle matzah and prepare to hide part of it, we sing “The Afikoman Mambo,” by Rabbi Joe Black. When we begin the answer to the Four Questions, that we were slaves in Egypt, my son Avi leads us in “Oh, Listen, King Pharaoh. No, No, No, I will not let them go!” This song is reenacted by figurines that resemble Charleton Heston as Moses and Yul Brenner as Pharaoh from the epic film, “The Ten Commandments.” What will your children take from your Seder and make part of their chain of tradition when they have children of their own?
My family and I wish you a Zissen Pesach, a sweet and musical holiday.
What is the significance of Israel turning the ripe old age of 60? Much has been made of this particular birthday – this year on May 8— in celebrations happening around the world and right here in New York. Sixty is a nice round number, and gives us all an occasion to give thanks that the State of Israel exists. A number of concerts, festivals, Israel fairs and happenings are scheduled literally all over the Jewish community this month, and even this entire year, honoring Israel at 60. Our Israel Happening is right here at the HJC on Sunday, May 4 from 10:00 a.m. to noon. I am curious how each of you thinks of Israel at this particular juncture in time, and how the number 60 resonates in your mind, given your own personal experiences in Israel and your connection to it, living in New York.
As usual, I think about most things via the music! Israel is no exception. I recently attended a Yom Iyun, a day of study, at the Jewish Theological Seminary, for alumni and students of the Cantorial School. The final session of the day was devoted to Israel at 60, a musical perspective. Three cantors each took a twenty year period and roughly outlined the music produced in Israel during these eras. Cantor David Tilman, from Beth Sholom in Philadelphia did Israel at its beginning: 1948 – 1968, encompassing both the War of Independence and the Six Day War. These years were filled with both the pain and the pride in establishing a Jewish state. The songs reflected the loss of young life in so many battles (“Bab el Wad”), the conquest of the Golan and the Sinai (“Malchut ha-Chermon” and “Mul Har Sinai”), the joy in bringing the land back to life (“Hora Mamtera”) and the hope for a united Jerusalem (“Yerushalayim”).
The next 20 years, from 1968 to 1988, were discussed by Cantor Jeffrey Shiovitz, from Congregation Sons of Israel in Briarcliff Manor, NY. After the Six Day War and certainly following the Yom Kippur War in 1973, the themes in many songs reflected the yearning for true and lasting peace, like “Lu Y’hi” (let it be) by Naomi Shemer, and “Shir L’Shalom” (the politically controversial hymn ultimately connected with the assassination of Rabin in 1995). Of note during these years of great musical production was the beginning of many song festivals, like the Chassidic (the start of the career for Shlomo Carlebach), and ultimately the Eurovision contest (remember the classic, “Halleluyah” – 1979). Many great artists gained tremendous popularity during the 70’s and 80’s – Ofra Chaza, Arik Einstein, and the group Kaveret, otherwise known as “Poogy” (Yoni Richter, an original member just entertained us here at the HJC this past fall).
The last 20 years -- covered in the session by Cantor Rafi Frieder of Temple Israel in Great Neck, NY — have been less memorable, musically speaking. Many Israeli artists are fusing musical styles from other places in the world to create entirely different sounds, like Shlomo Gronich (who works with young Ethiopian immigrants), and Idan Reichal. Even locally, in New York, you can turn on certain radio stations and hear Mattisyahu fusing traditional Jewish texts, rap and reggae all at once! For my money, I stick with the songs of the Chalutzim (the original pioneers who came at the beginning of statehood).
What messages really speak to me in the music of Israel, as we mark this big birthday of 60, is the lack of permanence, the shifting tides, the ever-changing borders of our Jewish homeland. The anthem, Yerushalayim Shel Zahav, Jerusalem of Gold, has the famous added stanza, following the reunification of Jerusalem in June, 1967, changing the words from, “. . . No one descends to the Dead Sea by way of Jericho,” to “We will return and descend to the Dead Sea by way of Jericho.” Naomi Shemer did not write an additional stanza when Jericho was given to the Palestinians in 1994, though she did write the anthem, “Al Kol Eleh,” when the town of Yamit was razed as the Sinai was returned to Egypt in 1979.
I was in Israel 20 years ago for its 40th birthday. The first Intifada had only just begun the previous winter, and all parts of the country were still accessible to everyone. Many of our day trips out of Jerusalem (especially to the Biblical sites) began in places that are, for the most part, no longer traversed by Israelis. I am sad for what my own children will not see when they venture to Israel, for it is no longer on the itinerary. I am hopeful, however, for a Jewish State that will one day achieve lasting peace with its neighbors.
Yom Huledet Sameach! Happy 60th, Israel.
I recently attended a video conference for the Ki Va Moed project that couples Long Island congregations, like the HJC, with sister communities in Jerusalem. In honor of Israel’s 60th, people on both sides of the Atlantic reminisced about these 6 decades of statehood. For lack of time, the discussion and reminiscing only made it to the 70’s, when the Israeli video monitor abruptly cut off, due to a Maccabiah game. I would have added my own thoughts about Israel during the 80’s, as I recall with vivid scenes still in my mind, the celebration of Israel at 40.
We began the celebration of Yom Ha’atzma-ut by first experiencing Yom Ha-zikaron, Israel’s Memorial Day, not as a picnic at the beach, or a department store sale, but as an historical trek through Israel’s War of Independence. We hiked the “Derech Burma” and the “Derech Ha-Jeepim” and sat on the top of the Castel, hearing stories of the battles that raged in the hills surrounding Jerusalem in 1948. At each war monument and memorial we visited, Israeli teens were assembled and ceremonies were held; these graduating seniors would soon be entering the army. In each place we visited, I kept hearing one particular song played over and over, “Shir Eretz,” by Natan Yonatan and Sasha Argov. The melody was particularly haunting and conveyed the sadness of the words:
A land that consumes its settlers
And flowing with milk and honey and blue
Sometimes she herself also steals
The poor man’s sheep
A land that sweetened his dust
And salted like tears all of her shores
That her lovers gave her all that they were able to give. . .
The true meaning of the poetry was evident when our group arrived, albeit late in the day, at Mount Herzl, at the military cemetery where so many of Israel’s fallen soldiers are buried. Covering each and every grave was flowers, thousands and thousands of flowers. The smell alone was intoxicating. The sight of so many bouquets was simply arresting. We learned that the florists in Israel donated these flowers for just this purpose, to commemorate the fallen soldiers. I had never seen anything comparable here in the United States. At the time, I had no connection to anyone who had served in the military, nor had I lost a relative in battle. What was obvious in Israel was that each family has buried someone, or perhaps many individuals, long before they should have done so. No one could go untouched by the wars and constant upheaval.
As emotionally charged as the day was, as raw as I felt by evening, I had no idea that the coming day would be the polar opposite. Israel’s 40th birthday felt like our Independence Day, Mardi Gras, and New Year’s Eve all rolled into one enormous street party. Like Yom Kippur, all of the main streets in downtown Jerusalem were closed to all forms of traffic save pedestrians. People danced in the streets, bopping each other on the heads with the plastic “patish” (toy hammer). There was a sense of glee, overwhelming joy in the celebration of the fact of Israel’s existence, as we danced a hora in Liberty Bell Park. I have never felt that pride, connection, or sense of belonging in all of my years of celebrating July 4th here in the U.S. The following morning five military jets flew over Jerusalem in formation, trailing clouds of smoke behind them.
Today, I can only imagine how powerful it must have been to help Israel celebrate turning 60 there, in the land. Some of the glory is lost here in New York – we cannot recreate the pure romance of being there in Israel. The one element that always saves me, however, is the music. Through the poetry and songs of the land, I am ever transported back to Israel; my own longing to be there is openly acknowledged through the connection to the music and musicians of the land.