Our students will have learned this lesson when, in late January, we all plant seeds on Tu Bishevat, the birthday of the trees, which will sprout into herbs for our Passover Seder table eight weeks later.

Another thing that takes time is finding the right Passover Haggadah. Having grown up in a staunchly Reform household where we always used the Reform (CCAR) edition of the Haggadah, I had seen copies of the Maxwell House Haggadah, but I never believed anyone would actually use one for their seder. As Tamar Fox writes for Jewcy.com, “The Maxwell House Haggadah: Putting generations of Jews to sleep every year since 1922” [sic]2. Or, as Rabbi David Meyer has been heard to say, “The only good thing about the Maxwell House Haggadah is that it’s free.”

So I’ve always thought the widespread use of the Maxwell House Haggadah was kind of a joke. But then, thanks to some of my experiences in Mississippi and some of my conversations with members of this congregation, not to mention the news that President Obama attended a Seder at the White House last year conducted from same Maxwell House Haggadah—well, let’s just say I’ve been disillusioned.

So, folks, it’s time to find a Haggadah that looks nice, is fun to read, a manageable length, and is affordable for everyone around your Seder table. A Haggadah that fulfills the mitzvah of keeping even the youngest child interested—the Seder is supposed to be boisterous, and fun!

Enter the Promise Haggadah. It’s colorful. It has some Hebrew, and a lot of clearly written—sometimes even poetically written—English. It’s extremely concise. It appeals to children and to adults. Its cover can be personalized with individual or family names. It only costs $11 per copy. What’s more, its sale benefits the Temple Emanu-El Religious School.

I’m not going to tell you that this is the best haggadah that I’ve seen. I have my favorites, and I’ll tell you what they are if you ask, but they are neither inexpensive nor concise. I like the Promise Haggadah a lot, and I like that its sale will help support our kids’ education at Temple Emanu-El, but mostly I want you to take a few minutes, now, while there’s time to plan, and think about investigating and investing in Haggadot for your whole family, a Haggadah that will help make your Passover Seder the joyous celebration of redemption it was meant to be.

If your family already owns that Haggadah, I’d love to hear about it. (Just please don’t tell me it’s Maxwell House!)

1This title belongs to Tamar Fox, and Jewcy.com. Clever, no? http://www.jewcy.com/faithhacker/saying_dayenu_to_the_maxwell_house_haggadah
2Actually, as best I can tell, the Hagaddah was first published in 1933 for Passover 5694 (spring of 1934). It was the brainchild of advertising executive Joseph Jacobs, whose Jacobs Advertising Agency was retained by Maxwell House coffee beginning in 1922.

Becoming Jewish Adults

December 10, 2009

On a Shabbat morning not long ago I sat studying with a group of parents. They all had children in the seventh grade, who had recently or were about to become B’nai Mitzvah (plural of Bar and Bat Mitzvah). The topic: what role can parents play in shaping their child’s Jewish education, in guiding their Jewish journey after the celebration of Bar or Bat Mitzvah?

According to some parents the answer is, “none.” They take seriously the sentiment behind the traditional prayer uttered by the parents of the Bar or Bat Mitzvah, thanking God for relieving them of responsibility for their child’s sins. This blessing has been dropped from the Reform liturgy, but the idea behind it persists: at thirteen years (some say twelve for girls), a child is eligible to participate as a full member of the Jewish community, and is considered of age to take responsibility for his or her own conduct. The shorthand for this outlook—and I have used this language myself—is that becoming Bar or Bat Mitzvah means becoming a Jewish adult.

Most parents take a somewhat nuanced approach to the idea of their B’nai Mitzvah being Jewish adults, and to the question of their role in their child’s Jewish life going forward. Our adolescent children, after all, are far from adults—and everyone, including them, knows it. We do not allow them at this age to drive, drink, or even vote; we do not expect them to support themselves financially, or live independently. Why would we expect our children to determine their own course, unaided, for something as sophisticated and challenging as building for themselves a religious and spiritual identity?

Still, many parents, wanting to approach their teenaged children respectfully, with consistency and integrity, find themselves struggling with the question one parent voiced to me on this Shabbat morning:

How can we tell our children one moment that they’re Jewish adults and the next moment that, Jewishly speaking, they still have to do what we say? And if Bar and Bat Mitzvah does not mean becoming a Jewish adult, then what does it mean?

One could teach a whole course on this question, and I’m grateful to the parent who asked it for prompting my thinking about it. Briefly, however, I will say that we probably should stop telling our kids that becoming B’nai Mitzvah means they have become Jewish adults. Why? Because we live in a very different world than our ancient and medieval forebears did.

It has been said of American Jews that we are all Jews by choice. There have been times and places not distant from where we stand today when this was not the case, and being born a Jew (all the more so converting to Judaism) meant a certain kind of life, within a clearly defined community. In our post-modern, post-denominational world where diversity is valued and freedom too-often assumed, many of the adult Jews I know have not fully answered for ourselves the question of what it means to be a Jewish adult.

What we do have, all of us who are B’nai Mitzvah (that is, thirteen or older), are the tools to learn how to be a Jewish adult, to wrestle with our heritage and decide for ourselves what are the obligations and privileges of our rightly and much celebrated status. Using those tools means a lifetime of Jewish living and learning. Not just for our children, but for all of us.

Judge Generously

October 8, 2009

Judge Generously (1)

A teaching from tradition:

Da ki tzarikh ladun et kol adam lekaf zekhut;

You have to judge every person generously.

Even if you have reason to think that person is completely wicked,
it’s your job to look hard and seek out some bit of goodness,
some place in that person where he is not evil.

When you find that bit of goodness
and judge the person that way,
you may really raise her up to goodness.

Treating people this way allows them to be restored (lehashivu),
to come to teshuvah. (2)

So taught Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav,
great-grandson of the Baal Shem Tov,
the founder of modern Hasidism.

A Hasidic master himself,
born in 1772 in Medzhybizh, Poland,
Rabbi Nachman lived a brief, brilliant, and spiritually dramatic life.

Like his great-grandfather, he served God with joy, and
was capable of attaining great heights of devekut—
a meditative state of dedication to the Eternal.
He also suffered from dark depressions, and was
“a person more burdened than most with a sense of sin and guilt.” (3)

You have to judge every person generously….
Treating people this way allows them to be restored [le-hashivu],
to come to teshuva.

Tonight begins Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year.
The first of
aseret yamei teshuva,
the ten days of teshuva.

Often we translate “teshuva” as “repentance”:
these are the Ten Days of Repentance.
But what is teshuva, really?

The word “teshuva” comes from the Hebrew root shuv,
which means “turning,” an idea contained also within the concept of repentance:
turning away from error or sin,
turning through contrition and remorse,
finally turning to a better path, an improved version of ourselves.

And yet, something about the very idea of turning
itself resists definition or containment;
every time you think you’ve arrived,
a new turn presents itself.

In our Torah portion last Shabbat, Nitzavim,
the parashah we always read
on the Shabbat immediately preceding Rosh Hashanah,
we find in a passage of ten verses eight repetitions
of the root shuv.

The people stand on the shores of the Jordan River,
preparing to enter the Promised Land,
listening to Moses’ final exhortations.

They hear him speak
of a turning of their hearts,
a moral and spiritual turn toward core values, toward God;
of a physical return to the land,
a restoration of this wandering people
to the home God promised their ancestors;
of an emotional restoration,
a return to wholeness.

Moses assures the people:
Adonai will “delight in your well-being,
just as God delighted in the well-being of your ancestors . . .
once you return (tashuv) to Adonai your God
with all your heart and soul.” (4)

Always returning to something always already there:
a restoration of all things lost.

“Everything returns,” writes Rabbi Lawrence Kushner;
“Comes back to that which it was.
This is not futility.
It is fulfillment.” (5)

Elohai neshamah shenatata bi
tehora hi:
My God, the soul you have implanted within me is pure. (6)

This, then, is teshuvah:
A return to what you were,
to what you already are;
a return to what you are supposed to become.

*****

Da ki tzarikh ladun et kol adam lekaf zekhut;
You have to judge every person generously. (7)

But where does Rabbi Nachman get this idea,
that, tzarikh, we “must judge everyone generously?
Why must we?

The teaching does not originate with Rav Nachman;
he is quoting Pirkei Avot,
“Chapters of the Fathers,”
a tractate of the Mishnah that
collects the ethical teachings of the Tanna’im,
great rabbinic teachers who lived in the land of Israel
beginning in the late first century C.E.
and continuing to the end of the second.

Aseh lekha rav ukenei lekha chaver
vehevei dan et kol ha-adam lekhaf zkhut.
“Get yourself a teacher, find someone to study with,”
reads the first, more familiar part of this teaching;
“and judge everyone generously.”

The Mishnah is the oldest,
most authoritative collection of
Jewish law and wisdom in our tradition,
and it is telling us that judging generously
is the right thing to do.

That may be reason enough for some,
but here’s one more good reason,
in the words of Rav Nachman again:

Treating people this way allows them to be restored,
to come to teshuvah.

Not only must we judge every person generously
because our sages the Tanna’im
have told us it is a mitzvah, the right thing to do;
we must do it because it brings on another mitzvah:
it brings people to teshuvah.

*****
Da ki tzarikh ladun et kol adam lekaf zekhut;
You have to judge every person generously.

So what does it mean to judge generously?

What, especially, does it mean to judge generously
when dealing with one whom we have reason to think
is “completely wicked,” rasha gamur?

Does judging generously mean we have to
forgive everything,
ignore the record of evil,
let the rasha off the hook for his wickedness?

This is not justice, we protest.
Must generous judgment be poor judgment?

“No, no,” I imagine Rav Nachman responding
to us, his students.

Not at all.

For judging generously still is judging,
and we are all responsible for our transgressions
against God and humanity.

Rather, judging generously means
seeking out every side of a matter,
every aspect of a human being.
It means, as Rabbi Nachman urges us,
seeking out ayzeh me’at tov, “some bit of goodness,
someplace in that person where he is not evil.”

Treating people in this way allows them to be restored,
to come to teshuvah.

Rav Nachman continues:

This is why the psalmist says:
[‘Od me’at] “just a little bit more
and there will be no wicked one;
you will look at his place and he will not be there” (Ps. 37:10).

By seeking out that bit of goodness
you allowed her to change,
you helped teshuvah to take its course.

Some of you might think “well, isn’t that nice?”
“Always see the best in people. So what?”
In fact, one of my best friends, a rabbinic colleague,
said exactly this
when I told him that I had taken this teaching of Rav Nachman
as the theme for my Rosh Hashanah sermon.

But I’d like to turn this text for you in a different direction
and propose that Rabbi Nachman’s message here,
“judge generously,”
is radical.

Teshuva is a returning, we’ve said,
to what you were,
to what you already are;
to what you should be.

But how do we do it?
Rabbi Nina Beth Cardin explains:
“[t]he process of teshuvah begins
when we acknowledge that we were wrong,
that we did wrong.
It continues when we seek forgiveness from the one we wronged . . .
and when we strive with honest intention
not to repeat the wrongful act.”

It is a fairly standard three-step process
that is taught and discussed
from kindergarten Sunday school classrooms
to the halls of rabbinic seminaries:
1. Recognize that you have done wrong;
2. Seek forgiveness from those you have wronged (including yourself, and God);
3. Do your best not to do it again.

But this is not what Rabbi Nachman is describing;
not at all!

Da ki tzarikh ladun et kol adam lekaf zekhut;
You have to judge every person generously.
Treating people this way allows them to be restored,
to come to teshuvah.

Before the rasha, the wicked one,
feels the smallest twinge of remorse;
perhaps before she even recognizes that she has done wrong,
let alone seeks forgiveness—

By seeking out that bit of goodness
you allowed her to change,
you helped teshuvah to take its course.

We raise that me’at tov, that bit of goodness, to the light.
We show the rasha
something about himself
that he had lost sight of.
We remind him: betzelem elohim bara oto(8)
in the image of God, God created humanity;
and thus the divine reflection resides
in every human being,
somewhere, however deeply buried.

By looking for the little bit of good
in every person,
Rabbi Nachman teaches,
we allow that person to come to teshuva,
even the one who seems completely wicked,
the one to whom it has not yet occurred to feel regret.

The German poet Goethe said:
If we take people as they are, we make them worse.
If we treat them as if they were what they ought to be,
we help them to become
what they are capable of becoming. (9)

Such power each one of us wields,
every moment, and so often
unawares:
over others,
over our whole world,
to “hel[p] teshuvah take its course.”

Every one of you has an example you can share.
The teacher who helped a child blossom,
emerge from his shell,
by finding his me’at tov,
the one so many others called troublemaker:
It turns out this kid, who doesn’t think school applies to him,
is meticulous about keeping his pencils sharpened and in order,
so the teacher makes him the classroom pencil monitor.
His duties: giving out pencils, collecting pencils, sharpening pencils,
sorting out the pencils that have outlived their usefulness.
He’s good at it. All the students, now,
always have sharpened pencils
with working erasers.
He feels good. He catches himself
paying attention to the teacher’s lessons now and then.
And this student, in the course of half a year, goes from
troublemaker to top of the class…

I have a friend who was unhappy
because the city never plowed his street after a snowstorm.
All the other streets, but not his.
He called public works
and asked to speak to the director,
the guy who’s already had hundreds of people
call to complain to him this winter,
the guy who today is also answering the phone,
because his secretary’s kid is home sick.
My friend asks, cordially enough, if he can
send someone over to plow his street.
It’s a city street, after all, and the snow
stopped falling 36 hours ago,
the third big storm in two weeks.
“We’ve been working twenty-hour days over here!”
the exhausted director snaps.
“We’ve got to get the schools cleared out first:
the driveways. the sidewalks . . .”

My friend, feeling not heard,
begins to speak with an edge to his voice, and soon
both men are shouting.

My friend’s wife
(sorry—not to stereotype, but it’s a true story)
takes the phone from her beloved and
begins thanking Mr. Public Works for the great job he’s doing
clearing all the other streets in the city
(except for hers
and maybe a few other short little cul-de-sacs),
because truly, the streets that have been cleared
look like the storm never happened:
“so thorough! and efficient!
we know how hard you’re working…
long hours, short money,
we really appreciate it . . . .
And oh, about our street?”

“Can’t promise anything,” says
Mr. Public Works, considerably softened. “Maybe in another twelve hours.
We’ll do the best we can.”
Call ended, not five minutes later
the snow plow shows up.

[And this is the part I imagine:]
Back at the city offices, Mr. Public Works is smiling,
radioing his crews about the nice compliment they’ve received,
realizing how tense everyone has been
these last two weeks
since he’s been barking orders like a drill sergeant.
And the next day,
after an evening when he and his wife for once didn’t argue
when he got home late,
but enjoyed a glass of wine together
while looking out on the clear winter night,
he brought doughnuts to the office for all the drivers,
and made a point to ask his secretary
how her kid was feeling this morning.

It’s not as dramatic as a jailhouse redemption,
or a Holocaust story. Those happen
too. We’ve all heard such stories,
of amazing transformations,
a spectacular blossoming of the me’at tov,
that little bit of goodness
someone saw in the former villain.

And then there are the little things that happen every day….

We help others to teshuvah,
to return, to fulfillment of
the best that they can be,
by judging generously.
Each one of us possesses this
wondrous gift.

But there’s yet one more reason to
judge every person generously.
Rabbi Nachman continues:

So now, my clever friend,
now that you know how to treat the wicked
and find some bit of good in them—
now go do it for yourself as well!

You can change your whole life this way
and bring yourself to teshuvah.

We return to ourselves our very life,
Rav Nachman writes.
What else?
Is it truly living
when we have become a distortion of ourselves,
twisted to fit into the false consciousness
built of all our careless transgressions?

Find that nikud tov, that dot of goodness
in yourself,
and you can change your whole life this way.
Harsh judgment distorts us just as much
as the transgressions.
By judging generously,
we give ourselves the strength to
make a change,
to return to the holiness of our origin,
our tzelem elohim, the image of God reflected in each and every one of us.

This is the most important part:
if we can judge everyone generously,
we can do it for ourselves.
And, doing it for ourselves,
we are so much better prepared to do it for others.
And now, in judging everyone generously,
we return ourselves, the whole world, to who we really are,
what we are supposed to be.

We can bring ourselves to teshuvah.

Rabbi Nachman concludes:

[Singing niggun.]

1. I am grateful and indebted to Rabbi Art Green, who brought me this text; to Rabbi Laurie Phillips, who taught it to me; and to Rabbi John Linder, who provided me with Goethe, lots of encouragement, and the perfect ending. And, of course, to Rav Nachman.
2. Nachman of Bratslav, Likutei Maharan. Translation, Art Green in Ehyeh.
3. Art Green, Ehyeh.
4. Dt. 30:9-10.
5. Lawrence Kushner, Honey from the Rock, “Circles of Return.”
6. Birkot Ha-shachar, morning liturgy.
7. Pirkei Avot 1:6.
8. Genesis 1.
9. Quoted by Viktor Frankl in The Doctor and the Soul: From Psychotherapy to Logotherapy.

High Holy Torah

September 23, 2009

The High Holy Days are aptly named. The opportunities for spiritual preparation in the preceding weeks—through special Haftarah readings and late-night Selichot services; the long hours spent at prayer in a full sanctuary; the imposing music; the rabbis’ white robes meant to suggest purity and even other-worldliness (okay, maybe that doesn’t do it for you, but it sure gives me a little lift, or at least raises the stakes); and especially the fasting—all are designed to evoke in us a spiritual high, a connection to something larger than ourselves, something that inspires us to our best versions of ourselves. Many of us, during this period, make commitments—New Year’s resolutions, if you will—to maintain that connection, to continue to walk in a path of spiritual light and enlightenment.

But then, so often, after the release of the break-fast and the return to our ordinary round of activities, not to mention all the errands and business that has built up while we were away and busy with holy-day activities, despite our best intentions, we forget. We drift back into old habits. Other priorities assert themselves. We lose our Jewish, not to mention spiritual, head of steam.

Now I will not pretend to know for everyone in our community what lights this one’s spiritual fire, what makes that one excited about being Jewish. There are many gates by which to enter the palace. But since I started down a didactic path in my message last month by exhorting all our families and especially our young people to try attending congregational worship services on a more regular basis, I’ll continue this month with another suggestion.

Not only do I invite you to attend services more regularly (whatever that means to you—if you are in the habit of visiting two days every fall, you might try a springtime visit; if you already come three times a year, maybe you’re ready for a bimonthly prayer fix), please consider this: if you’ve ever read from the Torah before, why not try doing it again?

This month, on Simchat Torah, our festival of Torah, we will salute our beloved teacher of Torah, Leona Glazer.  Some of the students she helped raise to Jewish adulthood will read for us that night from Torah.  We will all stand together, supporting the unfurled scroll on our outstretched fingertips.  We will consecrate our youngest students into the study of Torah.  Whether Torah for you means ancient tribal history or cultural identity or a Tree of Life or a path of righteousness or something else, the evening is bound to extend your holy-day buzz.  So please come.
 
And then consider this: beginning this fall, I invite any congregant—and especially our teenagers—to celebrate the anniversary of a Bar or Bat Mitzvah by reading again the ancient words from the sacred scroll that you studied once so long (or not so long) ago.  Every week the Round Table Minyan gathers for a quick and cozy hour of prayer and a Torah service.  Some weeks a rabbi reads the Torah portion, other weeks a congregant.  Anyone who chooses to read from the Torah will tell you that it is elevating, a thrill, in some way a moving experience.  And some will tell you that I’m willing to help.  A lot.
 
So who will take me up on this offer of a post-Holy Day High?
dlk@emanu-el.org

A New Year of Learning

August 12, 2009

When I was a child in grade school, I asked my parents if we could attend Friday night services. I wanted to go because all my friends from Hebrew school were there. My friends from Hebrew school were there because their parents made them go.

My classmates and I had a great time. During the service, we’d squirm a little, go out to visit the restroom a little, and become elated whenever the rabbi came to a passage in Hebrew that we knew and could read along with him.

During the Torah service (it was then the custom in our congregation to read Torah every Friday night) Rabbi Fuchs would choose a few of us to help unwrap the Torah scroll, or to dress it again afterwards. I remember the thrill of handling the silver rimonim, crowns, with their delicate bells; the heavy me’il, mantle, of soft velvet. The Torah’s finery reinforced our teachers’ lessons: the words inside the Torah are special, too.

The rabbi’s sermon was a challenge for us, but it never lasted too long. Sometimes we saw our parents listening intently. Sometimes we heard our parents talking about the rabbi’s sermon later that week; a couple of those sermons my father still speaks of today, some thirty years later.

We knew the end of the service was near because there was a lot of standing and some bowing, and then there was the rush to the oneg table, to be closest to the cakes and cookies once we had said the long Kiddush over wine and short motzi for the challah. I remember being amazed by the grownups who knew the whole Kiddush by heart. By the time my friends and I became Bar and Bat Mitzvah, we had memorized it, too.

Services always began at 8:30 PM, after Shabbat dinner at home. After the service, we were up past our bedtimes, fueled by sugary treats from the oneg table, and ready to take a few delighted, screaming laps around the foyer and the oneg hall. A lot of people stayed quite late, visiting, catching up, kids playing. The teenagers, I remember, would sometimes come to services and then go out afterwards with their friends. Pretty soon, I was one of those teenagers.

We did not go every week—sometimes we were out of town. Sometimes there was a school performance on Friday night. Sometimes my parents were too tired to get us all out the door. But pretty often, there we were, sometimes a few minutes late, hurrying into services.

At Temple Emanu-El, Religious School parents occasionally express concerns to me about their child’s Hebrew skills, about how well their child knows the prayers they will be expected to recite for their Bar/Bat Mitzvah service. I’ve heard from parents of our older students who regret that their child is not more involved with the synagogue, but explain, “he goes to a different school than most of the other students. He doesn’t have friends at Temple Emanu-El.

I can’t think of a better way to address these issues than to bring our students regularly to Shabbat services, which begin at 6:00 PM or at 8:00 PM on Friday, and at 10:30 AM on Saturday. Sometimes, after a 6:00 service, when it’s still early enough for a leisurely Shabbat dinner, we share dinner at the synagogue —those are usually the services led by our students, and afterwards the littlest ones are always doing laps around the social hall, screaming with pleasure. But every week there is an opportunity to hear the familiar Hebrew, to learn some Torah, to see friends or make friends, to pray, to enjoy the oneg, to be inspired, to connect with community.

Like my friends and me, some kids drag their parents to synagogue; but most kids go to synagogue because their parents make them go. Sometimes, once they’re there, we all have fun.

Summer’s drawing to a close, and at Temple Emanu-El Religious School we are preparing for a new year of learning, a new year of sharing our love of Judaism. Not only in the classroom, but in the sanctuary, too. I invite you to join us, soon.

A Personal Note

June 16, 2009

You have probably heard by now that the coming school year at Temple Emanu-El will be my last. My husband has been offered a job in another state that is too good to pass up. So we’ll be leaving, but not until 2010. I’ll be with you, and working enthusiastically to make the coming year a great one, for another twelve months.

This decision did not come easily for our family, and I share this news with mixed emotions. I want to acknowledge the sadness that I feel about leaving our Temple family and the disappointment that many of you have expressed, along with such kind words and warm wishes for our future, for which I am grateful.

A year is a long time.  I look forward to our remaining months together, and I’m excited about continuing to work with you to keep our school on a path of growth and renewal. May it be a year of many blessings.

L’shalom,

Debra Kassoff

June 2009

A School Needs People

May 12, 2009

As multitudes of people walked up the broad stairway leading to the temple in Jerusalem, Rabbi ben Zoma offered the following blessing: “Blessed is the intellect that solves all mystery, and blessed is the Creator who provided all these people to serve me.”

            When his students heard the rabbi’s blessings, they did not understand how he could say something so arrogant.  After all, their teacher was known for his humility.  Finally, one man mustered the nerve to ask the rabbi to explain his words. (Bleefield and Shook, “People Need People,” Saving the World Entire.)

In this Talmudic tale, Rabbi ben Zoma goes on to describe all the difficult labors that the first human had to complete in order to taste a mouthful of bread, or to cover himself with a garment.  From planting and tending to harvesting, threshing, winnowing, grinding, sifting, mixing, kneading, from shearing and cleaning to spinning, weaving, cutting and sewing, the first human being had to do it all by himself. 

            “But as for me,” the rabbi continued, “I have only to get up each morning from a good night’s sleep, and I dress myself.  I eat bread.  All that the first man had to do for himself is done for me by many others.”

            While the story teaches us a lesson of humility and thankfulness in all aspects of our lives, it has come to my mind recently in the context of our religious school, as I consider all of the hundreds of hands, the scores of coordinated efforts, the hours and hours of work, that have gone into creating and maintaining and, ultimately, strengthening our children’s school.

            So first of all, thank you.  Thank you to the room parents, to the Religious School committee, to members of our new Parent Advisory Group.  Thank you to all of the volunteers and helpers—adults, teens, our youngest children—who have supported Mitzvah Day, Purim Carnival, Family Shabbat; who have provided snacks, or meals; who have carpooled your friends’ and neighbors’ kids; who have picked up the phone, or sent an email, or stopped by my office, to let me know when you were disappointed, and when you were delighted.  We are all greatly indebted to Naomi Dreeben, who has led the Religious School Committee with skill, vision, and great energy for the last two years—thank you, Naomi! Our job in the Religious School office would not be more difficult without each one of you; it would be impossible.  I hope all of you who have helped will join us for recognition and celebration at our Volunteer Recognition Shabbat on June 19^th (see this bulletin for more information).

            And second, as we all prepare to take a couple of months off from our busy school-year routines, please consider the gifts you bring and can share.  All of us have gifts that only we can give to the world.  What are yours?  And which can you share with Temple Emanu-El Religious School next year?  From organizing a classroom party to listening to your child read her Hebrew homework, every time you touch your child’s Temple Emanu-El experience you have the opportunity to build community, enrich learning, and further our mission.

Don’t forget to register for Religious School—soon!  And when you do, please let us know (using the volunteer form, or by any means you prefer) what you bring to our shared purpose of preparing our children to carry on our Jewish story, here on the North Shore, and beyond.

Endings Matter

April 20, 2009

Last spring we tried something new, and this year when we do it again it will have become a Temple Emanu-El tradition: the closing assembly and reception on the last day of religious school.

 On Sunday morning, May 17^th, our students, parents, and teachers will gather together in the sanctuary to honor many indispensible members of our community, to celebrate the year’s accomplishments, and to learn from one another.

 In recent weeks I’ve heard a number of people declare, in one context or another, that May 3^rd is the last day of school.  Now while it is true that May 3rd will be our last day of regular classroom instruction, I’d like to share with you the ways in which our siyyum, our ritual for concluding this year of study, is a substantive and indispensable part of our children’s education.

 We tell our kids a lot about the value of an endeavor by how we end it.  A movie, a life performance, a sports season, a worship service, even an ordinary day all have their concluding rituals: credits, curtain calls, banquets, songs, blessings, the feeding of pets.  To arrive at the end of a year of instruction and walk away without ceremony might suggest to our students, our children, that we value that instruction but lightly.

 By contrast, to mark the end of our school year with appropriate ceremony or ritual gives us not only a sense of the significance of the project, it also extends our learning.

 How important is it that our children learn to say “thank you”?  At our siyyum we will thank our teachers, to Leona Glazer (though not for the last time!), others who help enliven and sustain our students’ learning.

 How would you like your child to remember something from this year for the rest of their lives, or at least until opening day next fall? At our siyyum our students will reinforce their learning by presenting it to others.  Every student will be asked to share something: a song, a prayer, an artistic or edible Jewish creation, a skit, a new idea or accomplishment.  As I heard the mother of a Bat Mitzvah student say earlier this spring, you learn things better when you have to communicate them to others.

 This year our theme has been “Mitzvah,” which means obligation, commandment, or good deed.  We will take the opportunity at our siyyum, collectively and individually, to reflect on the many ways in which we have made progress toward fulfilling and more deeply understanding our Jewish obligation to make the world a better place.

 All this, and food, music and dancing too—a celebration of Jewish community, an opportunity to enjoy some time together, a sweet semicolon along the way to lifelong Jewish learning.

 Endings matter.  Don’t miss this one.

Hakhnasat orhim - Hospitality

March 20, 2009

 Hakhnasat orhim, hospitality or welcoming guests, is a central value of Jewish tradition.  Whether extending kindness to travelers—strangers in a strange land—or help to those who are in need, we recall that we were both strangers and slaves in the land of Egypt, and we treat others as we would have liked to be treated.

This is a value that we can practice at home and in our congregational home.  You may notice this month some new welcome signs and banners around the Temple Emanu-El building, another step toward making visitors feel at home.  These will be thanks to Mrs. Zabar’s fourth grade class and their families, who will learn about and act upon the mitzvah of hakhnasat orhim at their family education seminar on March 22.  Students and parents will be encouraged to think about ways in which they can practice this mitzvah regularly at home, as well.

Hospitality is an especially important feature of the Passover season.  At the Pesah Seder we retell the story of our redemption from Egypt, and we are commanded to open our door not only to Elijah the prophet, but also to any who are in need—of food, of companionship, of a place to make a Seder.

Learn about this and many other customs of Pesah (Passover) at our school-wide Passover program on Sunday, April 5^th.  Parents, plan to attend with your children at the usual scheduled time.  In addition, our pre-school-aged children and their parents are invited to join us at 9:30 with their parents for some special pre-Passover fun, and to join the rest of us for family worship at 10:45.

Don’t have kids sixth grade or younger?  Still want to brush up on Passover pointers and Seder skills?  All are welcome!  Contact me or Susan Weiner in the Temple office, and we’ll let you know how you can participate.

Meanwhile, you can start practicing hakhnasat orchim right away.  When you see someone you’ve never seen before at the synagogue, introduce yourself.  Offer a cup of wine if you’re at Kiddush, or directions to a newcomer who seems lost.  Working together, we can make this a place where no-one’s a stranger.

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