The Carlebach Minyan , February 10-11

My daughter Margalit took a break from law school to come up to NY for the weekend. She was a good sport, and accompanied me to two different synagogue services on Friday evening. The first one we went to was the Carlebach synagogue on the Upper West Side and the second was a minyan for Ramah, USY and Schecter graduates.

The Carlebach minyan was very spirited, using, as one would expect the nigunim (tunes) of the late Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach. He was a very charismatic rabbi who was responsible for introducing a very special spirit of song to traditional Jewish motifs. He was spoken of with reverence, and referred to by the rabbi in his remarks. As I sat in the synagogue, now led by his grandson, I could not help but think about how he had succeeded in seeing to it that the synagogue he created lived on beyond him, and that it was infused with the same kind of energy and aura he had.

From there we went to the Ramah style minyan at Park Avenue Synagogue, a very large, formal and impressive synagogue and structure on the Upper East Side. The service was held in a very bland and uninspiring room, their library. Several of the participants who attended said they were there because their mothers had asked them to come. One even said that her attending was her Chanukah gift to her mother.

For Shabbat morning, Shabbat shira, “the Sabbath of song” when the torah reading marks the passage of B’nai Israel through the Sea of Reeds, I went to the Park East Synagogue where the great Cantor Helfgott led the service. Cantor Avi Swartz and the choir sang an absolutely beautiful Yismichu, recently commissioned for the Park Avenue synagogue. I met the composer who reminded me that he had interviewed for the position of cantor at B’nai Tzedek at one time, but was doing more composing now.

In the afternoon, I went to a very small, old synagogue just a couple of blocks from where I am staying for mincha. It resembled what would be called a “shtiebel” – a small neighborhood shul. Though somewhat rundown, and in desperate need of paint and repairs, it was nevertheless very haimishe with a nice group of men who davened there. They had a seuda shlishit (snack) between mincha and maariv in the basement. It was interesting and different to pray in a place which clearly must have had better times, and based on the newspaper clippings, must have been very active about 30 – 40 years ago.

First ever UN Holocaust Commemoration

Symcha and I attended the first ever commemoration of the Holocaust at the United Nations on Friday January 27, 2006, the anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz.

In the impressive hall of the General Assembly of the United Nations we joined Holocaust survivors and others for this historic event. Yehuda Bauer, of Yad VaShem spoke in support of the United Nations, recalling what his mother told him when he was a youngster. “I may not be pretty, but I am your mother.” After his speech, the Vice President of the Assembly, a diplomat from India, thanked Dr. Bauer for what could become the new slogan of the United Nations: “we may not be pretty, but we are yours.”

This same diplomat read the names and shared a few words of people whose pictures were projected on the large screens. Culled from the archives of Yad VaShem the brief biographies reminded us of the diversity of the lives that were snuffed out by the Nazis and how human each was, how similar they were to any one of us. The act of reading the names was in and of itself, a defiance of the Nazi attempt to dehumanize and eradicate the memory of these people.

It was very poignant to hear the Ambassador of Israel, Dan Gillerman speak as he reminded everyone that had there been an Israel in 1938 or 1943, the Holocaust would not have occurred. He courageously linked the Nazi campaign to the current campaign of Iran to wipe out Israel.

The one who most moved those in attendance was Holocaust survivor, Gerta Klein who told her story, and told us about her best friend who perished on the Death March. Once the Nazis knew defeat was inevitable, and in some instances, even after having surrendered, Jews were sent on long marches, to liquidate as many of them as possible.

DuDu Fisher, Saturday Jan. 27th

I returned to the New York Synagogue, where services were conducted by Rabbi Marc Schneier, with whom I had traveled to Berlin a number of years ago, under the auspices of the National Board of Rabbis. The cantor was Dudu Fisher, a well known Israeli cantor who is especially known for his performance in Les Mis and other musicals. He did something very interesting, that not many could get away with. In addition to the traditional melodies of the Shabbat service, he introduced Broadway tunes. The kedusha, for example, began with the refrain from Phantom of the Opera, and included parts from Les Mis, as well as Sound of Music. The service concluded with a rousing rendition of Adon Olam, where he was accompanied, as he was throughout the service by an adult male choir, to the tune of “New York, New York.”

Gramercy Park Friday January 20, 2006

As I was walking home, I came across a synagogue facing Gramecy Park, so I decided to go there on Friday night. The service was held in the main sanctuary of an old, but freshly painted building.

For some reason the rabbi decided to give a biography of Yitzhak Rabin. The connection was somewhat tangential. It went something like this -- Our thoughts turn to Prime Minister Ariel Sharon, who had a stroke two weeks ago. And by the way, speaking of ailing Prime Ministers, a few months ago was the tenth anniversary of the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin. Despite the lack of a connection to anything, it was nice to hear though some of the inspiring words of the lat prime minister, especially his address on the White House lawn when the Oslo accord was signed. I tried to remember what Arafat said at the time, and if it came anywhere near the vision of peace described by Rabin. It brought back memories of a naively and perhaps foolishly hopeful time.

When the rabbi started to mention the night Rabin went to what was then called King’s Square for a rally, Ezra, who was at services with his friends leaned over and said to me, “Dad, I think the biography is going to conclude soon.”

I hosted Ezra’s friends for a nice Shabbat dinner, and upon his request taught about the parasha before we sat down to our meal.

Saturday January 21, 2006
Ezra accompanied me. We attended the New York synagogue, housed in temporary quarters while they build next door. Esther Jungreiss, the famous “rebbetezin” was advertised as the featured speaker. Her speech was ok, but I have hear talks which have inspired me more. Cantor, Nathanel Hershtik, the son of the chief cantor of the Great Synagogue of Jerusalem led services. He is young, only 27 years old, and looks just like his father. For some reason, although his voice was good, parts of the service seemed a bit dragged out. He sang the Ein Keloheinu which I love, from the Great Synagogue and which I heard sung many years ago by a child. I asked him about it afterwards, and he told me he was the one who used to sing it, and whom I heard when he was a little boy.
I especially liked the phrase in the synagogue above the ark in Hebrew and English, “It is not in the Heavens.” It is a famous statement from the torah, but more importantly is the punch line of a famous argument amongst rabbis in the Talmud that interpretation of the law is not in heaven.
Especially nice was our walk back. It took over an hour, but the time went quickly as my son and I spoke the whole way back. Then we had some cholent, a great Sabbath treat!

The Sephardic Experience Weekend of February 3-5 2006

The Sephardic Experience and “BJ”
Weekend of February 3 – 5, 2006

This could be considered my “Sephardic Weekend.” I went to services on Saturday morning at the historic Spanish Portugese Synagogue, the oldest synagogue in the United States. It is steeped in tradition, and evokes the feeling of the proud Sephardic community that was the first to settle in the United States in 1654 as well as echoes of the colonial period.

There were so many interesting traditions it is hard to know where to begin. For one, many of the men wore hats, and everyone who had an aliyah wore a hat, even the little children who came up to undress the torah. The gabbayim, as well as the presiding lay leader wear top hats and tails, with a vest. It is most impressive and gives a majestic aura to the service. The torah is lifted and “Zot HaTorah: This is the Torah given by God to Moses…” is chanted prior to the reading of the torah rather than afterwards, as is the custom in Ashkenazic synagogues. The procession to take the torah out of the ark and to return it is very formal, with the cantor, rabbis, gabbayim and synagogue president methodically proceeding from the center bima across a vast open space toward the ark, as they take one step at a time, and drag the other leg in a very deliberate measured motion. (Mikveh Israel of Philadelphia, also founded in the colonial period by refugees whose origins go back to the escape from the Spanish Inquisition proceed in the same manner.) When they get to the ark, the yad is formally taken out and presented to the torah reader by the gabbay. There also is a lot of bowing. As a means of showing respect, and reflecting the formality of the tradition, those coming up for an aliyah bow towards the rabbi as well as the torah reader before and after the aliyah, and it is reciprocated. I found the experience to be a fascinating one, and they told me I should come back for the Friday night service, which is also supposed to be lovely.

On Saturday and Sunday evening I went to see two different films at the Sephardic Film Festival. The one on Saturday night was called “Secret Passage” and tells the story of two sisters who escape the Inquisition in Spain and arrive in Vienna, as a temporary post, as they seek to make their way to Istanbul where the long arm of the Inquisition will not be able to reach them, and where they will be able to live freely as Jews and not just in secret. I find this period of history to be extremely compelling and interesting, and am constantly drawn to it. I marvel at how people sought to preserve their identity as Jews in the face of such cruelty and oppression. How could they maintain their faith and not give it up, knowing that if it was discovered that while outwardly living as Catholics, they secretly practiced Judaism? What lessons are there that we can learn from their extraordinary sacrifice?

The other film was a documentary, “The Forgotten Refugees” about the plight of the Jews in Arab lands. The movie makes the point that there when we speak about the refugees of the Middle East, there are two sets of refugees, not one. One population was left to squalor among abject poverty, despite unlimited resources provided by oil wealth, while the other was taken in by the tiny state of Israel. The movie tells the fascinating history and of the contributions of Jews in Arab lands, conveying the complexity of the relationship – which sometimes was positive, and yet at others was filled with fear and terror that rage could be unleashed at any moment.

Friday evening I attended services at B’nai Jeshurun, the synagogue on the Upper West Side that pioneered the concept that others have attempted with varying degrees of success to replicate. The service has a great deal of participatory singing, most of it the melodies of Shlomo Carlebach, accompanied by musical instrumentation. During Lecha Dodi, people danced around the synagogue. Much of the music is beautiful. Some of the people who attend seem as if they just stepped out of a time machine from the 1960’s. A few of the worshippers appear to be in a trance as they dance and sway to the melody of the music of the congregation. They are part of the community, yet as they are caught up in their own motions, they are clearly in their own world. While not wishing to be judgmental at all, as I look upon them, I cannot help but wonder while this is clearly a spiritual experience for them, how Jewish of an experience it is, and how it fits into the greater continuum of Jewish history and peoplehood.

Introduction to Shabbat Chronicles

Congregational rabbis rarely have the opportunity to experience worship services other than their own. But while on a sabbatical from my congregation, I had the opportunity to attend Shabbat services at a number of synagogues.

I feel compelled to attend synagogue on Shabbat for a number of reasons. First and foremost is the sense of hovah, of command, or obligation. Prayer is a mitzvah commanded and demanded by God.

But the truth of the matter is, I am drawn to Shabbat services by more than the sense of obligation to fulfill a mitzvah.

Quite simply, it is the anchor of my week, and without it, I feel lost. It is difficult to describe this sensation, other than to say that the familiar pattern of well-known prayers offers a sense of regularity and consistency which gives form to what transpires during the days that precede and follow the Sabbath.

Setting aside this time permits the possibility of contemplative prayer as well as being connected to our tradition and to our people. Truth be told, this reason, the sense of being connected, is probably the most compelling of all.

I am drawn by the knowledge that when I sit in a synagogue service, I am not alone. I am uttering the words of the past and become inextricably linked to both my Jewish heritage as well as to my ancestors, to the people who formulated, as well as to the ones who inherited and uttered the words throughout the millennia. I am conscious that people who recited these words throughout the ages may have been very different. Some proclaimed the words, some wrote them, and some probably mumbled them. They lived in very different lands, and had very different experiences. Yet despite being spread across the globe, and despite variations in local custom and execution, nevertheless, the regular Shabbat prayer service is something which they shared in common, and which united Jews. A Jew from Khazkakistan could travel to the Ukraine and be at home. A Jew from Morocco could find himself in a synagogue in Lebanon or Syria, and be familiar with the rites and rituals of the service.

Which brings me to my next point – Attending Shabbat services on a regular basis, especially when in a community not my own offered the chance to encounter and meet my fellow Jews. It provided the chance to observe the nature of different Jewish communities, and to see the differences and the similarities among them. Some services were more participatory than others. Some congregations were more inviting than others.

The ones I found most enjoyable were the ones where the level of congregational participation was highest, where people were familiar with the prayers and melodies, and where the liturgy was clearly familiar to them, as they felt comfortable and at ease with the service.
The other element that was significant was how I was received. I usually went out of my way to meet people. I enjoy kibitzing with congregants and learning about their lives and their community. It is amazing how similar Jews can be, and how much communities resemble one another.

But in all too many synagogues, it is possible to eat a piece of herring at a kiddush and feel invisible, as no one attempts to engage a stranger in conversation. I did not allow that to happen, because of my interest in others and desire to get to know them, and so I would go out of my way to be sure I was not invisible. As a result, at least one day a week, even if traveling, and far away from home, wherever I was, I always felt at home when in shul, my home away from home.