A woman attending a Bar Mitzvah was told by the usher that she had been given the honor of Gelilah, a word she had never heard before. Gelilah is the honor of rolling up the Torah and dressing it, in preparation for its being returned to the ark:
Shepherded up the aisle, she arrived at the front to find someone else holding aloft the Torah scroll, then sitting down with the scroll on his knees, expecting something or other of the poor woman.
"Roll the two sides of the Torah together," someone whispered; so she did.
"Put the covering over the top," was the next piece of advice, so she did.
"Put on the breastplate," she was finally told.
"The what?'
"The breastplate. Put on the breastplate."
So she did that too, but on herself. Congregants looked up to find the woman, not the Torah, bedecked with a breastplate. (Rabbi Laurence Hoffman: Re Thinking Synagogues).
That was probably the last time that poor embarrassed woman set foot in a synagogue. And I can't really blame her. I feel the same way about driving into Boston. I can feel my heart beat faster. The roads all seem to be one way. And the signs are awful. You get the feeling that the town fathers are telling you, "Well, if you don't know your way around here, then you shouldn't be here in the first place." So, after living in New England now for almost twenty five years, I only drive in to downtown when I am forced. That's just how a lot of people feel about Shul. Sad, but true.
Synagogue regulars know to cover their heads with a kippa and put on a tallit; they feel comfortable picking a seat in their usual row, and they know which book to use, or when one is expected to stand, or sit or join everyone in song. They know what to do when the usher says, "congratulations, you have Gelilah!" And we just assume that everyone else knows what to do too, or that they should. We tend to be judgmental of the stranger who is unfamiliar with synagogue etiquette, thinking of her as an intrusion, rather than as a welcome guest.
The Jewish Educator, Dr. Ron Wolfson, thinks that our difficulty with welcoming the stranger, the outsider, the person on the periphery, is so entrenched in synagogues, that he wrote a whole book just about that: The Spirituality of Welcoming: How to Transform Your Congregation Into a Sacred Community.
Actually, Wolfson loves synagogues. He has a vision of the twenty first century synagogue as"…a Kehillah Kedoshah, a "Sacred Community," where relationships are paramount, where worship is engaging, where everyone is learning, where repair of the world is a moral imperative, where healing is offered, and where personal and institutional transformation is embraced."
I would like to think that Temple Israel aspires to such a vision too. We like to describe ourselves as warm and welcoming, as a learning community, and as a place that can support individuals on their Jewish journeys throughout life. But institutions, like people, don't always measure up to their best intentions. They need to do an occasional Heshbon Hanefesh, soul searching, too. And so this Yom Kippur, I want to touch upon three groups within the community who too often feel on the periphery, and towards whom we have a responsibility to reach out. For they, like the rest of us, also look towards the synagogue as a place where life's questions can be asked, and occasionally answered; where one's personal search for meaning is supported, and where one finds transcendence through sacred community.
The first group is Jews who don't have a strong Jewish education. The second group is intermarried Jews and their spouses. And the third group is Gay and Lesbian Jews. Keruv (the Hebrew word for outreach), to each of these groups presents its own challenges within the culture of the synagogue, and it is not my intention to prescriptively solve those challenges tonight. Each of these groups is illustrative, however, of people who are apt to feel on the margins of synagogue life. Even though they are our brothers and sisters, our friends, our children. And so if we really want to be the best Kehillah Kedosha that we aspire to be, then it behooves us to remind ourselves of the challenges that some of us and our loved ones face. Because we are all family.
Let me begin by telling you what happened here one Friday night this summer. We were having a beautiful Kabbalat Shabbat service in our courtyard, and Cantor Richmond was leading a lively, participatory davening. It was a small group, of mostly temple regulars. I could really feel the energy, as people sang and smiled, and even swayed in their seats as we davened. Among the newcomers were a Mom and her two kids, whom I was expecting; I had spoken to her on the phone and invited her to experience the relaxed and joyous atmosphere of our Shabbat service. But this family had almost no reading knowledge of Hebrew, and sitting there with us was almost like being dropped onto a strange planet. The service was clearly foreign to them. My heart went out to them. And yet, I could see that because the atmosphere was genuinely warm and relaxed, they were giving it a good try; when we reached one of the few prayers in our siddur that was accompanied by transliteration, they attempted vigorously to catch the melody and join along.
Our Spirituality Steering Committee had already recommended at the beginning of the summer that we provide a booklet of transliterations at our services, and I felt that we had missed an opportunity for this family, and for many others, by not already having done that. In the next few weeks, that project was completed, and now they are available every Shabbat as you walk in to services. A small thing perhaps, something that should have been done years ago, but one that sends an important message by acknowledging people where they are. I still believe that every one of us can and should learn to read Hebrew. Ultimately, that's the best way to feel comfortable in a service. But I also think that we need to give people appropriate entry points along the way. That might include such steps as increasing our offering of Learners Services, or preparing CD's for people to learn congregational melodies at home, or such simple steps as announcing more page numbers from the bima.
So let me offer my first Al het this evening on behalf of us all: Al Het Shechatanu lefanecha:
For the sin that we have committed before you, by ignoring the needs of those who do not have the tools to feel comfortable here;
And for the sin that we have committed before you by being judgmental, rather than welcoming those who come seeking sacred community.
The second group I want to discuss are our intermarried families. Temple Israel encourages intermarried families to join with us. I believe that it is part of the synagogue's mission to reach out to and support any family that wants to have a Jewish identity. We even have a Keruv committee, which has articulated a message of welcoming that has been adopted by our Board. Yet, as a Conservative congregation, our message is a mixed one. We urge you to feel at home with us, even though a Conservative Rabbi would not officiate at your marriage. We want you to be a member here, even though the non-Jewish partner can not serve on our Board, or participate in certain rituals. It is a tightrope we don't always know how to walk.
A true story: Some months ago, I was speaking with the mother of the Bar Mitzvah boy, who was scheduling a time to take pictures in the Sanctuary. "Now," she was assuring me, "my husband (not Jewish) will get off the bima when we open up the Torah for a picture of our son reading, because he knows he's not allowed to stand there when the scroll is open."
I stared at her, my mouth agape. Now, when I speak to intermarried families who are planning a Bar Mitzvah, I explain that you have to be a Jew to have an aliyah, because the words of the blessing thank God for having chosen us from among all other nations by having given us the Torah. It would be disingenuous, to say the least, for someone to say the blessing who does not believe that faith statement. "But," I said to this Mom, "I never said that a non Jew was forbidden to approach the Torah. Is that what you thought?" She nodded. I looked at her quietly and asked, "Does your husband really feel that uncomfortable here?" And, with the most serious look I had ever seen her give, she said, quietly, "Yes."
It was an epiphany for me. And I felt that I was to blame. Let me explain. When I came to Temple Israel fifteen years ago, there was no role at all for a non-Jewish spouse on the bima during a life-cycle event. A non-Jewish Mom or Dad was expected to sit quietly, invisibly, in the front row, while the rest of the family engaged in a significant ritual. The message was, "you are welcome to educate your Jewish children here, but this is not a place for you to celebrate personally."
I was surprised by this, and thought it was all wrong. Certainly any milestone event in the life of a child, is a milestone for both parents, even if one of them is not Jewish. The non Jewish parent is equal in his love for his child, and most likely has worked as hard to bring this celebration about. This parent has made a commitment over the years to raise Jewish children, and in my experience has been an active partner in everything from carpooling to Bar Mitzvah lessons, to guiding the writing of a Bar Mitzvah speech. He or she deserved to celebrate together with spouse, child and community.
Therefore, I instituted a practice, which is what we continued to do until very recently: First, the Jewish parent would have an aliyah. Then, after the child finished chanting the haftarah, both parents would be called to the bima to say an English prayer, and to recite the Shehecheyanu together with their child. We would then toss candy at the child and sing siman tov u'mazal tov, before both parents sat down. It is similar to what we do at every other Bar Mitzvah, except that we would do it a few minutes later, after the Torah is rolled up and the Haftarah is completed.
I was proud of myself for introducing this change. And I thought it was pretty deft maneuvering- giving a role to the non Jewish parent, while side stepping the concern of our more traditional members, some of whom view the Torah service as sacred space reserved only for Jews. The non Jewish parent could now participate, but no one would confuse it with having an aliyah.
But what I did not see, until that recent conversation with that Bar Mitzvah Mom, was that I was allowing the perception to grow and persist that non-Jews are not allowed to approach, to stand in physical proximity, to the Torah. Not only is such a notion false, but it undercuts the very act of Keruv, of outreach to the intermarried family, that was intended.
After that, I revised the practice. The Jewish parent has an Aliyah. After saying the second blessing over the Torah, she is immediately joined by her spouse, so that, together, they can share the precious moment of watching their child read from the Torah. Like every other parent.
The words of the Torah blessing are properly reserved for people who are Jewish. But the inspiration of the Torah itself is available to all human beings. At the Kiddush a few months ago, a parent who had just experienced this refashioned ritual, cried, tears of gratitude, for having made her feel so welcome.
Yes, in-marriage must remain a sacred norm for us, one that we must continue to stress vigorously with our children. Intermarriage is problematical and challenging from the perspective of Jewish identity and continuity. But life is problematical and challenging. And our attitude should be one of sincere respect and openness to any Jew and his family who wants to meet those challenges, and further his Jewish journey.
And while I'm thinking of it, let me acknowledge, let me say thank you, to all of the non-Jewish partners who are here today. Thank you for supporting the Jewishness of your family. Thank you for educating your children here. We value the Jewish choices that you continue to make. You are part of our family, and I hope that you will continue a spiritual journey in this place that will bear fruit in your lives.
So let me add today another Al Chet: Al Chet Shechatnu lefanecha, for the sin we have committed before you, of reaching out with one hand, but pushing away with the other; For saying, "you are welcome here, as long as you literally and figuratively, keep your distance." For talking the talk, but not always walking the walk.
Now, the third group I want to discuss today is Gays and Lesbians. Last week, a friend of ours who was raised Orthodox attended Rosh Hashanah services here with my family. This was her first time attending Rosh Hashanah in a Conservative synagogue. And she very much enjoyed the davening and the warmth of our community. Having been raised Orthodox, certain things, such as seeing a woman blow shofar, were a bit of a surprise to her-but a pleasant one. But as a lesbian, she noticed that there were no openly and visibly gay or lesbian couples sitting together with their children among the sea of heterosexual families.
No surprise. Our Conservative Movement discriminates against gays. The official position of our Movement, articulated in a public statement over a decade ago, urges us to welcome gay and lesbian Jews, as members of our congregations, youth groups and schools. Yet, at the same time, it says that openly gay individuals cannot be admitted to our Rabbinical School (don't ask, don't tell), and that we Rabbis are officially discouraged from officiating at gay and lesbian commitment ceremonies, and that it is at the discretion of the individual Rabbi to withhold bima honors from gays or not.
All of that may change, as many of you know, when the Committee on Jewish Law and Standards meets in December. They will vote on three Tshuvot on the issue of homosexuality. The first says that because the prohibition against homosexuality is from the Torah, we do not have the power to overturn it, and so the status quo must remain. The second says that the Biblical prohibition can be understood very narrowly, and opens the door to both gay ordination, and gay marriage. The third would overrule the Biblical prohibition totally, in the interest of compassion, and of contemporary views of sexual morality and ethics.
Regardless of all that, my friend was right. We are not a gay-friendly place. No, we do not discriminate here; there is no heterosexual litmus test for having an aliyah. Rather we are guilty of what I would call a conspiracy of silence. We are like the all white, or all Christian community that claims that they have no racial or Jewish problem, because none of "those people" live here.
Not long ago, I received a mailing from Keshet, the Boston alliance for Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual and Transgendered Jews. It was an announcement for an upcoming local event for gay teenagers. I told Carole to print it in the weekly Shabbat flier. One Temple officer questioned whether it was appropriate to print it, given the Movement's position on homosexuality. He mistakenly thought that I, the Rabbi, would object to publicizing it.
Such a flurry over a bulletin announcement! As a community, we really need to talk. What are the concrete steps that we can take to create a different kind of environment here, in which a gay or lesbian Jewish couple would want to pray with us, to name their children on our bima? A community in which openly gay Jewish teens would feel comfortable in our USY?
So let me say another Al Het: For the sin of silence. For the sin of not taking concrete steps to send a message of welcoming to Gay and Lesbian Jews.
Some people fear that by catering to the needs of Jews who have little traditional background, we risk dumbing down our services, and will lose us traditional character.
Or that by actively welcoming intermarried families, we are giving our kids an implicit message that it is not necessary to marry a Jew, and we put our people's very survival a risk.
Or that by changing Judaism's traditional stance on homosexuality, we will be cutting ourselves off from halacha, the tradition of Jewish law that has always given us moorings and definition in a changing world. These are some of the challenges that accompany Keruv, outreach, to groups on the margin.
But the most compelling challenge, is to see each person not as a group, but as an individual created in God's image. If we reduce the statistic of teen suicides by one, because we succeeded in creating an environment of safety and respect for gays, wouldn't that truly reflect our success as a Kehillah Kedoshah?
If one single family chooses to provide their children with a Jewish education because of the warm and accepting atmosphere that we create here, wouldn't that reflect our success as a Kehillah Kedoshah? I know a young man whose Dad is not Jewish, who became a regional USY officer, and is now spending a year in Israel. A young woman from our own congregation whose Dad is not Jewish is now a Bible major at the Jewish Theological Seminary. You never know. You can never pre judge.
The tension between tradition and change is not new; it is a creative tension, and one that Judaism has always shown a tremendous capacity to balance.
Finally, let me remind you of a Biblical story. When Jacob was an old man, he blessed Josef's two sons, Ephraim and Menashe. Ephraim and Menashe were different from all of Jacob's other grandchildren. They had grown up as Egyptian princes, far away from Canaan, knowing nothing about Jacob, or of Abraham and Isaac, or of the covenant that their clan had forged with God.
Yet, Jacob chose them for a special blessing. And to this day, when parents bless their children on Friday nights, they begin the blessing over their sons with the words, Yesimcha Elohim K'Efraim v'Chi'Menashe: May God make you like Ephraim and Menasheh. We bypass Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, and invoke the names of two Biblical ancestors about whom we know very little. It may seem odd. But in doing so, we follow the example of Jacob who embraces with special favor those children who had been the most removed from the family, and lovingly brings them back in to the fold. I see that Friday night prayer as a promise and a hope that no matter how far our children may stray from their roots, no matter how estranged they may become from us, we will always welcome them back with love.
On this night of teshuva, no matter who we are, or where we have gone, God welcomes each of us back. As a Kehilla Kedosha, a Holy Community, shall we aspire to do any less?