Shul Shopping, Part III

The Holiday Season is in full swing and along with it come plenty of opportunities to go to the synagogue.  We began with Rosh Hashanah two weeks ago, then last Saturday many of us spent a good portion of 25 hours in the synagogue and not eating.  Just four days later we commenced the celebration of Sukkot, that bizarre Jewish holiday in which Jews suddenly become carpenters and build strange huts in their yards topped with bamboo sticks, tree branches, or corn stalks.  Oh, and we also say a blessing while holding onto the trimmed branches of three different trees (date palm, willow, and myrtle) plus an Israeli citrus fruit called an etrog and shake them all around.  It's all very symbolic.  Take my word for it.  

Here are some pictures if you have no idea what I'm talking about:

A traditional sukkah
Source: The Mendel Sukkah, sukkot.com

The Lulav and Etrog
Source: Blueenayim, dreamstime.com

With all these opportunities to go to the synagogue, it can be a bit of a challenge to get in the holiday spirit if you aren't enjoying the congregation with which you're spending so much time.  I spent all of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur at Shul #3 which, although it was the best of the three I tried out, still lacked much of what I was looking for.  By the powerful concluding service of the holiest day of the year, culminating with one long blast of the shofar (ram's horn), I knew I needed to start looking for another shul to call home.  I've already written at length about my dissatisfaction in my own neighborhood so it shouldn't surprise you that I needed to look a little further.

A quick search on Google Maps for "Modern Orthodox Synagogue Brooklyn" provided a couple other options.  I'm sure there are more synagogues than appeared in the search results, but any synagogue that has an Internet presence is probably closer to what I'm looking for anyway.  To my dismay, the next closest synagogue was three miles away, which wouldn't be so bad if I weren't planning on walking to shul every Shabbat.  But I'll get to that later.

I walked to the synagogue on Thursday morning and entered to find that although I was fifteen minutes late for the service, they hadn't yet begun.  I actually took this as a good sign.  There's this thing known as "Jewish Standard Time" in which everything starts later than expected, and I'm very used to that way of doing things in a synagogue.  The building was a bit smaller than the other three I had been to, but the sanctuary was bright, open, and featured a single curtained mechitza down the center of the room.  This barrier was designed as sectioned frames on wheels so they can be moved and manipulated as necessary, and even removed entirely for an event in which they'll allow a mixed crowd.  There were no pews; instead, there were rows of chairs set up, again making for a very convertible space.  The ceiling featured a domed skylight, and the morning sun poured freely into the space.

The service featured a great deal of singing, much of which was accomplished by the untrained voices of the congregation, a small but delightfully boisterous bunch.  Unlike the other synagogues in which most people seemed to sit back and let the leaders do their job, I felt that the members of this congregation were more personally involved with the service and with one another.  I especially smiled when one paragraph was read out loud in English by an old man in the back - the same paragraph that my Dad has had the honor of reading in our synagogue for years.  We use a different translation, but the message was the same: we want you to pray with us, and we want you to understand it.  Let's face it.  It can get really easy to forget what's actually being said when you're praying in another language.

By the end of the service, there were maybe 30 people in attendance (a high estimate, perhaps), and most of us went to the sukkah for the kiddush reception.  By the way, it was a single kiddush, with a single table.  Finally!  A kiddush for the men and women together!  At the kiddush, I could tell that people were friendly, but nobody really approached me to say hello.  I was a little dismayed until I decided to leave and the rabbi stopped me at the door.

"Hello.  You're new here.  Where are you from?"
"I just moved to Borough Park."
"Oh?  And what are you doing all the way over here?"
"Well, I didn't like any of the shuls in my neighborhood, so I came here."

We spoke a bit longer, he invited me to lunch, and I politely declined because I told him I had to get back to have lunch with my fiance.  So he invited both of us for the following day.  Before leaving, I told him:

"Y'know, of all the shuls I've been to around here, you're the only rabbi who has spoken to me.  Thank you.  I really appreciate that."

He seemed stunned.

The  next day I convinced Tomm to come with me, and after services we were approached and welcomed by the president of the congregation, the Rabbi (who wished us mazel tov on our engagement and confirmed our acceptance for his lunch invitation), and the old man who read the paragraph in English.  Additionally, I was invited to lunch by the rabbi's wife who I didn't realize was the rabbi's wife, so I declined only to find that it was her food I was eating an hour later.  At kiddush, someone helped us when he realized we hadn't managed to get a bit of the wine after the blessing was made, and when kiddush seemed to be ending and we had lost track of the rabbi, the old man from before said "Oh we'll get you to that lunch!  Don't worry, I'll take care of you."

Music to my ears.

The lunch table was graced by many of the congregants and the rabbi's 20 children (okay, maybe there were only 12), and I managed to get into pleasant conversations with a few other people.  After a fabulous meal replete with salads, fish, chicken schnitzel (Tomm's favorite), potatoes, vegetables, and a scrumptious dessert, we had to take our leave early because of Tomm's work schedule.  The best part for him?  Not a single person raised an eyebrow or protested about the fact that he was working on Shabbat.  Instead, everyone treated him with the respect owed to a hardworking doctor, recognizing that there is no greater mitzvah (commandment or good deed) than to save a life, even if it means working on Shabbat.

Speaking of working on Shabbat:  Many of us - regardless of our faith background - are familiar with the precept to "do no work" on the Sabbath.  It is, after all, the reason many Christian establishments are closed on Sundays.  Throughout the Jewish community this commandment is observed to varying degrees depending on the individual's  level of religiosity (wow, that's actually a word?).  However on the Orthodox side of the spectrum there is a very little room for debate; the 39 categories of labor that define "work" are clearly delineated and avoided on Shabbat.  They go beyond the commonly understood definition of "performing a service in exchange for money" and extend into such activities as building, baking, and lighting a fire.  These categories provide the framework for the myriad of rules that observant Jews follow in order to create and experience a holy, joyous holiday every single week.

While I do my best to observe the Sabbath, I do so in a way that is comfortable for me, a way is constantly in flux.  I haven't reached the point where I strictly follow all the laws of Shabbat and I am still trying to figure out what works for me to make the day holy.  There are a few things I do my best to avoid, such as spending money, working (I refuse to work at a job for which I am paid on the Sabbath), and driving.  I have my own excuses for certain things, like using the phone in order to stay connected to my family on Shabbat and thereby make my experience more enjoyable, and while that may change with time it suits me for now.  As for driving, that is something I definitely try to avoid, especially driving to the synagogue.  But when the synagogue is three miles and a full hour each way by foot - potentially through pouring rain, snow, extreme temperatures, and other cumbersome natural phenomena - driving or riding on the bus becomes a much more appealing option.  For example, today, when I was just plain tired and didn't want to get up early enough to make the trek.  Had I resigned myself to taking the bus I could've cut the commute in half and felt much more willing to go.  But I was lazy, so I didn't attend services today.

I want to walk, I really do.  But I may have to consider what's really important in terms of my Jewish practice and experience.  If avoiding transportation means not going to shul and missing out on the positive experiences of participation in a community, then am I really making Shabbat holy?  I realize that for the more observant Jews out there, this is a non-issue.  This isn't even a discussion.  But the spirit of the law means just as much to me, if not more than, the letter of the law, and I may need to seriously consider what is important to me at this point in my life.

As for the shul, this one might not be the end of my search.  I still want to see what else Brooklyn has to offer, to make sure I find the place and the people that make me the happiest.  In the meantime, I'm just glad I've found a place that makes me smile and is willing to invite me for a meal.

Getting lost at the Da Capo

Rosh Hashanah (lit. "Head of the Year") has become one of my favorite holidays in the Jewish calendar.  It even beats out Hanukkah which, although fun, doesn't have quite the spiritual breadth and depth of Rosh Hashanah.  The Jewish New Year is celebrated as a two-day holiday which manages to encompass a wide variety of Jewish values: family, community, joy, prayer, and thanksgiving, as well as introspection, repentance, forgiveness, and humility.  And food.  Lots of food.  What kind of Jewish holiday would it be without food?

I've always enjoyed the spirit of the holiday and the symbols that are so ingrained in its celebration.  We eat apples dipped in honey to remind us that we should have a sweet new year, and we pour honey on our challah instead of dipping it in salt, for now is not a time for sadness.  The challah itself is shaped differently: Instead of being braided into a loaf, we make it into a round braid or spiral to emphasize the idea of continuity from one year to the next.  Traditionally we eat a new fruit on the holiday, and many people choose the pomegranate for this custom as it is rumored to have 613 seeds - equal to the number of commandments in the Torah.

And those are just the symbols at the dinner table!

Every year, I have celebrated Rosh Hashanah at home with my parents, my siblings, and whomever my mom invited to join us for either of the two festive meals.  Even as a college student, I always went home for the New Year.  There were some years where I debated, thinking maybe I would stay on campus instead of schlepping home, but ultimately I could never resist the comfort of spending this particular holiday with my family.  No matter where my roots were spreading, I always felt an unconscious desire, a need, to start the year at the beginning -- my beginning.

This year everything has turned topsy-turvy and my new home is some 800+ miles away, so I was faced with the opportunity to start a completely new beginning.  Yet another Da Capo moment!  But I realized about five hours too late that I wasn't prepared to "make Rosh Hashanah;" to account for the food, the timing, the traditional elements that always seemed to appear before me - like magic! - at home.  (Thanks, Mom!)  Realistically, I don't think there is any way I could have recreated any of my life's intimate experiences with this particular holiday even if I had tried.  For starters, Tomm is working a month of nights without any time off for the holidays, so big, festive meals in the evening were out of the question.  We did, however, do our best to make Wednesday night's dinner something worthy of the New Year, even if the holiday wasn't beginning until three hours later.  Pasta Primavera may not exactly be standard fare for such a meal, and unfortunately I completely forgot about the traditional pomegranate, but we blessed the grape juice, the round-ish challah, and the apples with honey, so it still counts, right?

After he left for work I went to shul for Maariv, the evening service.  I don't believe I have ever before attended the evening service before Rosh Hashanah.  Usually I was at home helping my mom prepare for guests.  I'm glad I went, though, because the small choir that supported the chazzan lent a great deal to my experience.  (For an orthodox synagogue to have anything resembling a choir is virtually unheard of to my knowledge.)  Yet despite the music - so grand and beautiful to behold and in stark contrast to my typical shul experience - it could not make up for what was lacking.  I didn't dwell on it, but in the back of my mind a thought, not fully-formed and more closely resembling a feeling, nagged at me.

The next two days I spent a great deal of time at the synagogue.  The services were about three hours longer than I would've anticipated, and the choir only sang for part of it.  But I was there, I recited the prayers, I heard the sounds of the shofar, and I sang along where I could.  Did I commune with G-d?  Not so sure.  Even less uncertain is the answer to the vexing question: Did I commune with the community?

Since moving here I've been feeling like I'm missing something in regards to the Jewish community.  I feel like more of an outsider than I really should be, and I can't help but contrast my largely uninspiring experiences here with the overwhelmingly positive experiences I grew up with.  With that in mind, I'd like to share an experience Tomm and I had on Friday night:

We had just arrived to the synagogue for the afternoon and evening prayers, quick services that would mark the end of Rosh Hashanah and the beginning of Shabbat.  It didn't seem the services had commenced so we dawdled outside the doors of the sanctuary for a minute.  An older gentleman with a long, straggly beard appeared and made some comment about the talk that was going on before the services.  Perhaps they were going longer than expected?  I asked him if they'd started the afternoon service yet and he said no, then - detecting either our accent or our uniquely Midwestern sense of kindness and civility - he asked us where we were from.  We told him about our respective hometowns and the city where we met.  "Oh! That's Twerskiville!" he announced, referencing the large Hasidic community on the West side of the city.  I attended shul there a couple times and I'm familiar with the rabbi, though I certainly wouldn't identify myself with him.  At any rate, this man had at least some idea of where I was from.

"Y'know," he said, "for people from out of town, meaning of course anywhere outside New York or Lakewood [NJ], it's different.  Jewish communities are more open, more welcoming out of town.  But in town, it's like there are too many people.  People don't notice you as much, it's not as much of a community.  When a place gets so big, it's easy for people to get--" and he reached over to point to a notice on the bulletin board.  LOST.

"But come, let's daven (pray)."  And with that he led us into the sanctuary.

Lost.  Precisely.  As this man spoke I looked at him and wondered how he had managed to so perfectly encapsulate my experiences up to this point.  He was an absolute stranger, but it was as if I was meant to cross his path so that he could give credence to the very feeling I had been trying to ignore.

The fact is, my presence in the synagogues around here has been largely ignored.  The mumbled "shana tova" (Happy New Year) or "gut shabbos" (a wish for a good Sabbath) exchanged with others are mere pleasantries said as quietly and unenthusiastically as we can.  I am not a part of this community and I am no closer to them than the black-hatted and bearded Hassids who breeze past me on the sidewalk with bristling indifference.

At both the congregations I've called home throughout my life, I went to shul to feel connected -- connected to others and by extension to G-d.  I went to shul to be counted, acknowledged, appreciated.  I went to feel part of something larger, holier than myself.  Singing out loud and saying the words that are so many hundreds of years old with my families - real or surrogate - surrounding me and singing with me was what made it a holy experience.

In music, especially when playing through a piece with an ensemble for the first time, reaching the words da capo at the end of the piece can be disabling.  Faced with the sudden change in direction, we may have to quickly turn a page or five only to reveal that the music's tempo, time signature, key signature, dynamics, and style have completely changed since the beginning.  Eventually we manage to get back on track, maybe even skipping a few measures of music between the da capo and the opening bars just to get our bearings.  But inevitably we catch our breath, return our focus to the music we make, and move forward.

This year, the da capo is certainly throwing me for a loop.  I seem to have lost the melody, and I'm looking at the conductor thinking Where the hell are you? but it's not too late to make something beautiful.  I just have to take a breath, pause for a moment, and find where I belong in the music.

L'Shana Tova u'metukah.  May you have a happy and sweet New Year.

A Stranger in a Strange Land

Growing up in a small town in Wisconsin which boasted a century-old Jewish community, Shabbat morning services were kind of a big deal.  My relationship with the community was built upon Torah readings, poorly but passionately sung Hebrew melodies, and the smell of herring at kiddush.  The weekly d'var torah (sermon) was our communal learning, and together we thrived in our small but dedicated congregation.  I never thought it odd that my sister and I were the only two kids in shul every week, and my sense of normal was very much shaped by the members who were at least two generations older.  As far as I knew, it was normal to go to shul every week and pray for a minyan (the required quorum of 10 to proceed with the service), normal to make changes to the service in order to suit the needs of our membership (like counting women for the minyan), normal to feel obligated to attend because my absence would be felt by every other congregant.  Spurred by my parents, my education, and my community, I was dedicated to my shul and loved it wholeheartedly.

Outside of the synagogue or my home, normal was being the only Jew around.  Unlike some young Jews in similar situations, I wore my religion like a badge of honor.  I gladly answered my classmates' and teachers' questions about my practices, dutifully did the extra work to make up for missed days of school around the High Holy Days, and enjoyed the respect that accompanied my uniqueness.  In a city overwhelmingly full of Catholics and Protestants, I loved being different.  To me, that was normal.

In college I enjoyed a slightly larger Jewish community, but even then I was still different.  I was nearly the only observant Jew in the music school, and the only consistent college-aged congregant at the shul a block away from campus.  Again I was surrounded by non-Jews in school and an older community at the synagogue (albeit younger on average than at home), and I knew I was right where I belonged.  It didn't bother me that I didn't have a close-knit group of Jewish friends with whom to share a Shabbos dinner or go out on Saturday nights.  In fact, I was markedly more comfortable in non-Jewish circles and preferred the feeling of adding to the diversity of a given group.

When I first moved to campus I was excited to participate in the Hillel (an organization for Jewish students on college campuses).  Surrounding myself once a week with other members of the Tribe was comforting.  Inside jokes passed freely among us, the kinds of jokes that our non-Jewish friends could never really understand.  We played Apples to Apples: Jewish Edition and laughed openly as we juxtaposed gefilte fish, Albert Einstein, and Jewish mothers and debated which one fit better with the adjective "misunderstood."  Yet while I was comfortable there, it was a decidedly atypical part of my sense of Jewish community.

There was, however, one unifying feature of all my Jewish interactions in Wisconsin: we knew we were all part of a much smaller community within the general public and as such, we made a point to include one another.  For what it was worth, many of us stuck together despite the unspoken feuds between various sects or followers of particular traditions.  Together we were part of the larger, global Jewish Community, and many of us honored that, at least among the Jews I knew.

In this neighborhood in Brooklyn, things are different...vastly different.  In fact, in New York City in general it seems easy to take our religion and practices for granted.  I'm still getting used to seeing Jews regularly in the subway, on the street, and in Ikea.  As I get used to this new reality, I also have to come to terms with the fact that being Jewish doesn't automatically grant you access into the Jewish community.  Apparently, when being Jewish is not unique and your existence doesn't threaten and isn't threatened by anyone else in the general public, there is no strong need to stick together just because you had a Bar or Bat Mitzvah in middle school.

Even in my search for a modern Orthodox synagogue in the neighborhood - where modern Orthodoxy has been pushed aside by the much larger and more conspicuous Charedi (ultra Orthodox) population - it's easy for my presence to be overlooked or ignored.  I'm just another Jew; nothing special about that, right?  Besides, the synagogue isn't the only place around here where you spend time with your Jewish neighbors, so even the importance of participation in the service is diminished.

I have to keep reminding myself that what I am witnessing and experiencing is more-than-likely specific to my neighborhood.  In fact, I spoke with a man (modern Orthodox) who works in the neighborhood but lives in a different one altogether, and he described this area as being uniquely unfriendly at times.  People have their own lives, their own personal bubbles, and according to him it's not unusual for them to be standoffish even to those they see daily as they run their errands and go about their lives.  Additionally, I may find that in synagogues with younger membership I will be more immediately accepted.  Who knows?  My experience is exceptionally limited for the time being and I can't let my current opinions define my entire outlook.

The hard part is that in order to find those synagogues where I will feel more comfortable, I might have to travel into the the neighboring areas or even into Manhattan.  This brings up a whole slew of issues to take into consideration, a discussion which I will reserve for another blog post altogether.  In the meantime, I'll use the upcoming Jewish New Year and the Days of Awe to think more deeply about what my Judaism means to me in my new environment, and perhaps to redefine my concept of "normal."

Around the Shabbos [buffet] Table

I've mentioned before that I don't have any close friends or family who live here in New York, but Tomm does have a few and this week one of those friends invited us over for Shabbat dinner at his place on the Upper West Side.  It would be a bit of a schlep for us, and Tomm warned me that this friend of his (a former roommate from college) could sometimes take a little getting used to, but I was excited to do something outside the apartment and, what's more, with people my age.  That and it meant I would get a week off from cooking Shabbos dinner.  Don't get me wrong, I really enjoy cooking and I especially love preparing such an important meal, but sometimes it's nice to let someone else do it.  Of course, I couldn't go empty-handed so I baked a lemon olive oil Bundt cake for dessert, which turned out to be quite a crowd pleaser!

The journey would have taken about an hour by train had we planned it perfectly, but in reality it was closer to an hour and a half.  We didn't mind, and our host was utterly nonplussed at our tardiness, especially since we weren't nearly the last ones there.  All in all, there were around a dozen of us, all somehow friends with the host but many of us strangers to one another.  I felt good knowing that I wasn't the only one meeting new people, and what's more, I was in the company of very like-minded 20-somethings among whom the conversation flowed effortlessly and endlessly.

I quickly got into a conversation with an exceptionally kind woman who works as a linguist.  As it turns out, one of her primary second languages is French, in which I have a minor!  Though we didn't immediately switch to speaking in a language nobody else in the room would have understood, we did swap suggestions for French films and talk about how we absolutely must get together for home-cooked French food.  Her husband meandered over to Tomm at one point and commented on our sudden friendship, to which they both agreed "Now we just sit here quietly and let them talk."  Such understanding men we have!

The group as a whole was rather interested to hear about where I came from, and humorously impressed when I jokingly slipped into a thick Wisconsin accent.  I laughed when someone spoke of "the country" as a place where "there is dew on the grass," as opposed to my definition which involves cow excrement and bales of hay.  Yet even greater than our differences were our similarities, and I lost myself in the stories we told, forgetting that I was hearing them in a studio apartment just west of Central Park.  Still, I was thrilled by the opportunity to play the role of the small-town-girl-in-the-Big-City and to feel empowered by my experiences rather than dismissed for my naivete (the latter being a sentiment which I'm sure is internally, rather than externally motivated).  

It was one of those evenings, and one of those groups, where there were at least five conversations going on independently at any given moment.  If there was a lull in your own it wasn't hard to jump into another and be welcomed immediately, so long as you had a good story to share.  The good food, good drink, and good company kept us there much later than either of us had intended, but it was all worth it and made for an excellent night's sleep.  

Though I'd never want to live on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, it's good to know there are plenty of people there with wide smiles, good stories, and a couple extra seats around the Shabbos table.  Someday soon I hope to return the favor.

A bit o' writer's block

There were a couple times this week where I wanted to write something, or even began writing, but lost the energy, motivation, or creative spark to complete it.  I also sometimes felt that what I had to say was too mundane or uninteresting to really make it worth writing.  Still, I want to write, so I'll share a few of the interesting things that happened throughout the last week:

On Sunday, Tomm and I treated ourselves to dinner at a restaurant in the neighborhood.  I say we treated ourselves, but really a friend of the family treated us with a generous gift certificate to the establishment.  When we got there I asked if we could use the gift certificate and the man looked at it quizzically, looked at me, took the slip of paper, and mumbled some comment or question about where it came from.  I suppose they don't have many patrons using or even requesting gift certificates.  When I told him it was a gift from a friend back home, he said "Oh right!  She ordered it from... where was it..." "Wisconsin," I offered.  "Ah, yes."  It's a small world.

After Tomm ordered, the man looked at us and said "You know how I can tell you're not from around here?  You said 'please' three times."  Apparently we stick out like sore thumbs with our Midwestern sensibilities, but at least it makes for a good laugh.  And as far as identifying habits are concerned, being overly polite isn't such a bad one.

The week was predominantly lazy, and I treated myself a couple times with swimming laps at the pool, finishing books, making trips to the library, and even going out once.  I've become an amateur fan of Meetups, the website dedicated to social groups and their outings, and the site led me to a Yoga group that happened to be meeting on Tuesday in Manhattan.  The group leader was hosting a free class, and though I haven't done yoga for years I've been itching to get back to it so I felt this was the perfect opportunity.  The weather was pristine for an evening of outdoor yoga on a pier by South Street Seaport, a wonderful little corner of the city.  I was swept away with the carefree, lazy-summer-day nonchalance that tinted the air that evening.  The passersby strolled to and from little boutiques and restaurants, some of which were delightfully impermanent and made you feel that you had to experience it just once before it drifted away with the summer breeze.  I suppose that's seasonal capitalism at its best, but I prefer a more poetic outlook.

The yoga group consisted of less than ten people, a cozy group suitable for the patch of grass on the roof of a restaurant on the pier.  Nearly surrounded by water, with a vast blue sky and a perfect panoramic view of Brooklyn with its sandy browns and reds, I wouldn't have needed the yoga to relax.  But once we felt the entirety of the group had arrived we began by adjusting our posture and finding our breath, and for the next hour I followed the instructor's soft voice through poses that I surprised myself by still remembering.

Afterward, feeling sufficiently relaxed and appropriately chill, I popped into a shop offering "artisanal lemonade," and ordered a "Coolcumber" lemonade with cucumber and basil.  It seemed like just the sort of yuppy drink one should have following yoga, and it was incredibly refreshing.  I smiled all the way home.

Yesterday I had a final interview for a part-time job at a public school in Manhattan, and it was conducted as a group interview.  It went well, but even more importantly for my social life I made a friend!  At least that's what facebook tells me.  But between that and yoga the day before, I feel like I've had more legitimate conversations with otherwise strangers this week than I have since I arrived.  It felt good.

After the interview, I made my way back to Brooklyn to meet the sister of a family friend who lives there with her wife and (as of today) one-year-old son.  On my way there I stopped for a slice of $1 pizza - just my price!  When I ordered it the man behind the counter said "Just one?  Okay.  One million dollars."  He agreed to give it to me for just a dollar, with the promise that I'd have the million next time.  Oh, those cheeky New Yorkers.  Ever so generous!

I had a lovely afternoon with the friend's sister and her adorable son, as well as her cat and dog, and we chatted for hours about working in New York, pets (I've resolved to get a cat at some point), children, and neighborhoods around Brooklyn.  She loves being in New York and specifically in Brooklyn, and she had no lack of good things to say about various areas.  However, she admits that not every neighborhood exemplifies what she views as the most endearing aspects of the borough, and I wondered if perhaps it might be best for us to find a community a little more to our liking for next year.  But we'll see how the rest of the year turns out.

And now I have about four hours until Tomm and I leave for a Shabbat dinner hosted by a friend, which gives me plenty of time to finish up a few errands and chores.  For the first week since I got here, my only responsibility for Shabbat dinner is the cake (which I nearly destroyed getting out of the Bundt pan but I think it's salvageable), so I'm enjoying the relaxing afternoon and looking forward to Shabbat.

(P.S.  Sorry if this post seems a little disjointed.  I wrote it in between playing a game of "Hide and Go Seek" with the mouse in our apartment.  I think it's winning.)

Shul Shopping, Part II

As I mentioned last week, I had the intention of checking out the fourth and final synagogue on my list on Saturday morning.  Before I left I double-checked the list I had written, based on the recommendations of the Jewish chaplain at the hospital where Tomm works.  He told me the street and closest cross street of each synagogue, and this one he said was "Between 14th and 15th."  So, I headed in that direction.

Upon crossing 14th, I started looking for the shul.  Surrounding me were Jewish men in shtreimels (fur hats) and long, black, silk bekeshes (coats or robes) - definitely not the type of dress one would typically find in a modern orthodox synagogue.  And I did find a couple synagogues, but none of them featured the name I had written down or bore any resemblance to the kind of shul I was expecting.  Considering I didn't see a single woman near the entrances of any of these synagogues (keeping in mind that many orthodox women - especially the most strictly observant - do not attend synagogue services), I decided to forgo the quest of the Shul #4 and turn instead to Shul #3 which was right around the corner.

This time I sat in the lower women's section next to the men, separated by a wooden mechitza designed in such a way that I really had a decent view of what was going on.  I heard a bit better, though the person leading services this week was definitely not a vocally trained chazzan and I can't imagine I would have heard anything at all had I been sitting in the balcony.  The service was uneventful and afterward there was still no kiddush, so I didn't have much of an excuse or opportunity to strike up a conversation with any of the congregants.  Since I was sitting in a different area nobody seemed to recognize me, so after services I filed out along with everyone else and went silently on my way.

When I told Tomm about my experience and mentioned that they were looking for sponsors for a monthly kiddush, he offhandedly suggested we sponsor one.  Depending on what kind of kiddush they might be expecting, that's actually a rather brilliant idea.  It would certainly be a wonderful way to make ourselves known in the community and might help us meet our neighbors.  Then again, if I'm not 100% sure about dedicating myself to this shul, even for only a year, it might be a little disingenuous and I would surely be struck with unbearable Jewish guilt if I decided not to become a member.  Still, it's definitely an idea worthy of consideration and after the High Holy Days I'll give it more thought.

The Shul Shopping experience has given me a lot to think about in terms of Orthodox Judaism, where I fall along the spectrum of religious observance, and how I relate to others in the Jewish community.  It has also led me to do some cursory research into the perspectives of other religious Jewish woman as portrayed in blogs and articles on the Internet.  What I'm finding is very interesting for a lot of reasons, and my reactions to it will require their own blog post - so stay tuned!

Oh, and by the way, I looked up Shul #4 online and finally found it on the map -- a block further than I was told.  Maybe I'll try it out later, but Tomm has off next Saturday so I think I'll bring him to Shul #3 to see what he thinks.

Shul Shopping

Three weeks.  Three shuls.  One neighborhood.  Oy.

I'll admit, this is a vastly different scenario than anything I've previously experienced.  Back home, I never had so many choices.  There's a longstanding joke among Jews about the two Jewish men on an island who build three synagogues: "One for me, one for you, and the one we never go to."  But at home we only had one shul for our small but dedicated community.  In college I had a few more options, but even in my neighborhood I was limited to two: the one I went to and the one I never stepped foot in.

Before moving I wondered what I might find in terms of a shul and a community.  The fact that I was moving to the Mecca of orthodox Judaism was of no consolation, since it wasn't exactly my favorite flavor of Jewish observance.  My mom suggested I start my search with a simple search through Google Maps in order to at least make a list of my opportunities.  A smart idea, to be sure, and one which I had already done.  The results?  A map dotted in red like sprinkles on a child's ice cream.  So  many from which to choose!  Right?  Eh....

Whether fortunately or unfortunately, I'm looking for a very specific brand of Judaism which is a little hard to come by in this particular part of Brooklyn.  Ultimately, based on suggestions and a little research, I was able to make a list of four synagogues to try out.  I'd like to document some of my experiences thus far, categorized and turned into a game as only a good, slightly obsessive analysis should be:

The Space
Each synagogue I've attended in the last three weeks has been bigger and grander than the last.  The first one I went to was old.  And squeaky.  It was a little dark, a little musty, but in many ways not so far removed from what I've grown to know.  Last week the place was larger, the sanctuary brighter, and everything a little more impressive.  I was astonished then when I walked into the women's gallery at the shul this week.  The sanctuary was actually a little breathtaking.  The large domed ceiling with a Star of David in lights at its apex, the Ark with its filigree and intricately carved designs, the exceptionally tall stained glass windows lining both sides...it was impressive.  I'm not suggesting that the beauty of a space is the most important - or even a substantial - element in picking a place of worship, but it does give some insight into the community that maintains it.  In this category, Shuls #2 and #3 are in a tie: both beautiful, #3 slightly more beautiful, but the larger space made it a little harder to hear because of the echoing.  

The Mechitza
As I mentioned in a previous post, the women in Orthodox synagogues sit separately from the men.  This is a longstanding tradition going back to the times of the Temple and, according to some sources, the Bible, and is typically explained as a means to keep the men from being distracted from their prayer.  This is a tradition that my family has upheld even when we're in a synagogue that doesn't require such a separation, so I'm all for it.  There are a number of ways of maintaining this separation or partition, known as the mechitza.  At the synagogue where I was first introduced to the concept, the men and women were separated by a curtain running through the middle down the length of the room.  In other synagogues, women sit behind the men with a similar curtain separating the sections.  Still others have the women in a balcony or mezzanine seated slightly above the men either to the side or behind (not always a full floor above), usually with a curtain, opaque glass, or two-way mirrors to obscure the men's view of the women.  

The first synagogue I attended here had the women's section above and to the side of the men, with a tall wooden barrier obscuring not only the men's view of me, but mine of the service.  Last week, the women were seated in an upstairs gallery behind the men, but there was also a tall curtain affixed to extend the height of the barrier.  I could see a little and I heard better than the previous week, but only by a small margin.  I wasn't even able to see when Tomm was given an honor at one point in the service.  True to Jewish form, he has made me feel appropriately guilty.  Also true to Jewish form, I'm convinced I deserve the guilt.  Many thanks to my mother and mother-in-law for successfully passing on that little tradition.

In the shul I attended today, the women's gallery was exceptionally expansive.  The balcony was three-sided, plus there was a women's section alongside the men's separated by a wooden mechitza.  There was no additional curtain in the balcony, just the regular railing one might expect, so my view of the service was unobstructed.  Shul #3 wins this round, hands down.

The Service
In Judaism, a service is a service.  It has an order that everyone follows.  Within Orthodoxy, there is usually very little variation.  Maybe a little more song here, faster speaking there, and there are a few places for a community's individual expression, but typically you know what to expect.  The difference, to me, is all in the sense of community.  At the first synagogue I felt very little community.  The second and third, slightly more.  The last two weeks have been almost identical in terms of the service: I felt equally comfortable during certain parts, and equally lost during others (like at the start of the Torah service when I was fumbling to find exactly where we were starting and to listen to the person reading whose voice, because of the large space and the speed at which they were reading, got muddled and lost before it reached my ears).  That's something I could get used to, though.

The other part of the sense of community is in its participation.  In some congregations, they're content to just be there, doing their thing, while someone with a better (read: louder) voice takes care of business up front.  Then there are others where it's a true community effort with everyone singing, taking turns, helping out, and basically making it feel like a community.  That's what I grew up with.  It's where I come from, and it's what I rely on.  In Shul #1, the chazzan (cantor or prayer leader) was perhaps more a leader than a singer.  In Shul #3, the chazzan was skilled but solitary in his singing.  In Shul #2, the chazzan had a beautiful, powerful, resounding voice which carried the melodies skillfully throughout the space and made the golden walls seem just a little brighter.  I could hear that there were also congregants with similar talents; during a few uniquely melodious parts of the service I heard the men join with him in harmony.

Unfortunately, in every shul the women did not join in.  Whether this was because of an adherence to a custom that married women shouldn't sing in mixed company or because they simply don't consider themselves singers is beyond me.  Either way, I was not entirely encouraged to join in, but because music is such an integral part to my Jewish experience, I couldn't stop myself from singing countermelodies and harmonies under my breath when I could.

Shul #2: you win this one, in spite of the women's silence.

The People
I've written about my experiences with the people at the first shul, so you're already familiar with my not-so-great impressions of that community.  Last week the women were much friendlier and more inviting, especially at the kiddush after services.  They were warm and excitedly wished me gut shabbos while encouraging me to come again, and when I introduced them to Tomm they were thrilled about the kallah and chosson (bride and groom) in their midst.  This week, I didn't have much of an opportunity to really speak to anyone since they didn't host a kiddush afterwards (odd...), but there were a few women who wished me gut shabbos and overall they seemed pretty welcoming.  I'd have to go back and speak to them more to get a better idea.  Shul #2 would win except that a negative interaction Tomm had with a congregant makes me hesitant to give them the award for this round.  So for now, this round has no clear winner.

In Conclusion, it's pretty plain to see that Shul #1 is simply out of the running.  It's not their fault, really; I just have high expectations.  I was fairly content at Shul #2 but Tomm wasn't quite as pleased, so it's not at the top of my list.  Shul #3 was also very nice but I'd have to go again or speak with some people there to get a better idea of the community.  I still have one more on my list which I'll attend next week, and I'll update you with the results of the contest.

Shabbos in the Hood

This week marked my first Shabbat (or Shabbos as it's known in its Yiddish pronunciation) in my new neighborhood.  Before I tell you about it, I think it's important for you to understand a little more about this particular neighborhood in Brooklyn.

I'm learning that Brooklyn, and New York in general, is an astonishingly diverse place.  As I mentioned in my first post since arriving, the variety of languages, nationalities, and traditions is astonishing.  There are, however, certain neighborhoods throughout New York that have noticeably higher concentrations of certain ethnic groups, as delineated here.

My neighborhood is a Hassidic hot spot of not just NYC, but of the world.  Hassidic (sometimes transliterated as Chassidic) refers to a branch of ultra-Orthodox Judaism which puts significant emphasis on absolutely following the letter of the law and its accompanying rabbinical commentaries.  Additionally, Hassidic Jews typically avoid many attributes of secular life and form insular, close-knit communities among themselves.  Most people recognize ultra-Orthodox Jews by their black hats, long beards, payes, and black coats, and the women by their long black skirts and dark long sleeved-shirts.  This is worn in even the most oppressive heat and humidity, but it is all a part of the centuries-old traditions that have allowed these Orthodox communities to flourish.

This part of Brooklyn is situated directly next to a large Chinese community -- [insert joke about Christmas and mahjong here] -- and has a handful of Mexican and Puerto Rican restaurants thrown in for good measure.  Still, when Tomm (a modern Orthodox Jew raised in a Jewish neighborhood) came here for his interview I distinctly remember him only saying "I'm not Jewish enough to live here."  He was only half joking.

So now imagine me, a traditional Jew raised in a small town whose Jewish population hovered somewhere around 50 people, suddenly thrown into the heart of American Hassidism with a Jewish population estimated at over 100,000.

Thus it was with some uncertainty that I began thinking about where I would go for Shabbos services on Saturday morning, since a Hassidic shul (synagogue) isn't quite my thing.  I did some research and found there were four modern Orthodox congregations nearby.  Great!  Having nothing else to go on, I decided to try out the one closest to the apartment, a measly three short blocks away.

I'll spare you the unnecessary details of the shul, but suffice it to say it was old.  Big and old.  It had probably been around for generations and was probably a pretty sizable congregation at some point, but judging from the number of empty pews during the service the community has shrunk considerably.  As is standard in Orthodox synagogues, the women had their own section separate from the men (because men are too easily distracted by our beauty), and by the end of the service I was one of only six women there.  According to Jewish law, women are not required to attend prayer services so it's typical for there to be more men than women in a synagogue, but this seemed sparse even by my standards.

I was obviously the youngest person there by a significant margin, so naturally I felt very at home.  The congregations in which I've grown up and to which I've belonged have usually been on the older side and I feel quite comfortable in a congregation primarily made up of people my parents' age and older.  But that was just about the only thing that made me feel comfortable there.  First of all, there was little to no singing among the congregants, so I felt the service was seriously lacking in ruach, spirit.  Second, nobody seemed to do any part of the service together, so I didn't sense any community.  But what struck me as odd was that nobody said hi to me or welcomed me until long after the service had ended.

Perhaps it was presumptuous, but I've grown up believing that Jews look out for one another, and that new faces should be welcomed wholeheartedly.  In fact, there was a sign in their social hall that said something about always being the first to welcome someone new.  During the short social and snack time after services known as kiddush, the women did say hi to me and one even offered me some job hunting advice, but overall I felt the reception was cold.

I told Tomm about it later and he admitted that he wasn't entirely surprised.  There are two types of small communities, he said, and they're either open or closed.  Both my community at home and the one I've been a part of for the last six years are small but very open.  They welcome newcomers with open arms and an invitation to lunch, they play Jewish Geography and search endlessly for connections to people they know, and there is never a shortage of smiles to suggest that they are sincerely happy to meet another member of the tribe.

But it seems that the shul I walked into was of the closed persuasion.  They are probably a small, aging community where new is not always good.  Perhaps the changing neighborhood has not treated them kindly.  Or maybe they've just lost too many young people to the more glamorous Jewish neighborhoods around New York.  Equally possible is that New York Jews are simply different than Midwest Jews.  Whatever the cause, I'm not convinced I'll find my new community in that shul.

At least I've got three other places on my list!