The Motzei Shabbos Minute

For some reason, my brain happens to work in insane creativity and pensiveness overdrive on Shabbos -- probably because I know I can't write anything down. So here are some things that crossed my mind over the past 25 hours.

• I can't seem to figure out which lights to leave on and which to turn off for Shabbos. You'd think, after nearly a year of living in this apartment and being Shomer Shabbos that I'd have it down. Alas, I always miss one. When I was married, it was my ex's job to keep tabs on the "what to do before Shabbos starts" list. The benefit of this was that if he missed something, it wasn't my fault. (hashtag "perks of being married.")

• Why do I snack so much on Shabbos? What is it about these 25 hours that make me want to do nothing but sleep and eat? I used to do a lot more reading and learning, but these days it's eat a bunch, sleep until 3 p.m. on Shabbos afternoon, get up, go to shul, nosh, pray, sleep. 

• I've realized I have very inconsistent habits when it comes to when I sit down for the brachot during Torah reading aliyot and when I stand. Sometimes I find myself standing for all of mincha, sometimes for all of maariv. I don't know that there's a hard-and-fast rule about whether you stand or sit, whether you do a full lean-over for the bracha or if your tush coming off the seat in a little nod is enough. Maybe I should ask my rav. It's interesting the mish-mosh of sitting and leaning versus standing and fully leaning that goes on. Consistency is key in so many of the things that we do. 

• Guitars are weird in shul. I don't know why. I love to sing, I love to dance. But. I don't know.

• Feeling a little weighed down from my overcooked Moroccan cholent and spending last night noshing some coconut ice cream and chips (not to mention staring down the yellow-based food options at seudat shlishit for which I did not consume) ... I've realized I've let myself go a little. I need to walk the walk if I'm talking the talk. Yes, I am a gluten-free, egg-eating vegan, but that doesn't mean that junkfood abounds for someone in my shoes. So I'm going to call this the Aliyah Diet. Step one? Throw away everything I own foodwise (and donate the stuff that isn't open). I'm going to stick to a strict shopping list that will serve the three meals a day I consume -- no more, no less. By and large, what I eat is going to be focused on my two favorite change-the-way-you-eat-and-feel books Crazy Sexy Diet and The Eat-Clean Diet ... both say "diet" but mostly are focused on eating vegan, living foods.

• Moving to Israel doesn't scare me. At all. Is that rational?

Yes, There Are Jews in Omaha

I spent a Shabbat in Omaha, Nebraska, recently and really enjoyed my time. If you ever wondered what the community there is like, read on. Was I asked to write this? No. I did it because I think it's a community worth looking at if you're considering a move out of the city life or the typical NJ/NY experience. Also: Nebraska's unemployment is the second-lowest in the nation and Warren Buffett lives there, so ... that's awesome, right? 

Do you even know where Omaha is? Most people know Omaha and only Omaha when I mention that I'm from Nebraska. We landed in Nebraska in 1996 and I left there after graduating college in 2006, but there are moments of longing for the simple, easy life that it provides. Luckily, Denver gives that same kind of chill living, almost to a second degree.

My only pre-recent experience with the Omaha Jewish community: a Shabbat visit to the Chabad there where they let me light Shabbat candles despite not being converted yet (which made me feel awesome and special and Jewish) and Passover at the big Conservative synagogue there. Both experiences I had with the University of Nebraska-Lincoln Hillel as we attempted to broaden our Jewish life in Lincoln.

So when I was planning my most-of-the-way-cross-country trip, I knew that I needed to stop somewhere for Shabbat, and my options were Chicago, Des Moines, and Omaha, and because I was trying to stay on I-80 for the trek, I opted for Omaha because, well, it's my home state and I'd read in the OU magazine once that the community there was booming with young adults and a happenin' Jewish experience. I mean, they had a kosher bagel shop that burned down and was immediately rebuilt because of its importance to the community.

So I looked up the rabbi at Beth Israel (Orthodox) -- Rabbi Gross -- and sent an email out into the abyss hoping for a Shabbat hookup. He responded quickly with a place for me to stay and meals, too! (Truth time: I actually wrote to him on Shabbat.com and email and Facebook ... I was anxious.)

I arrived just in time to my hosts' house to find out there was another Shabbat guest who currently is United States trotting (her story is fascinating), and at dinner discovered there was another stopperby on his way to Arizona. It was an impromptu Shabbaton, and we were all welcomed with the openest of arms by the rabbi and community.

The shul is very new and modern, which some like and some don't. I'm one of those traditionalists who really likes the old-school, old-world shuls with lots of character and history, but for an Orthodox shul, it had beautiful artwork and stained glass and quite the nice mechitzah, too, which, let's be honest, can make or break the experience of davening. (Wait, am I the only one who thinks this?)

I really enjoyed the rabbi's d'rash, if only because for the first time in a long time, I watched an Orthodox rabbi interact with his audience! He asked questions, took answers, and made it more of an interactive learning experience then a soapbox pulpit presentation, which I really enjoyed. Next time I'll have to study the parsha to make sure I'm prepared for the Q&A.

The community is diverse -- black hats to women without covering -- but it seems that everyone jibes well with one another, and that's the sign of a very powerful dynamic. And rumor has it that the eruv is going up soon, which will be the first time there's been one in Omaha ever!

As the community grows, so too will its infrastructure. I have no doubt in my mind that with Rabbi Gross's leadership the community will be rocking out plenty of Jewish amenities in the future that will make Omaha a more tantalizing location. But if you want out of the NY/NJ scene and want to buy a house for what you'll get a shoebox apartment in the City? Then consider Omaha. A community can only grow and become awesome if people go there.

Believe me, if I weren't in Denver right now, I might very well be in Omaha. My friends are there, the congregation is growing, the amount of children running around is enough to put a smile on your face, and there's a bagel joint. What more could you ask for?

PS: Check out the rabbi's blog here. 

The Linden Shabbaton -- Will You Be There?

Once upon a time, I went to a Shabbaton in Crown Heights, and it was probably one of the most amazing Shabbats of my life (despite being completely overwhelmed by what can only be described as a massive crowd). Once upon another time, I indirectly ended up at a Shabbaton in West Orange at my dear husband's family's shul, and that, too, was amazing. So, I suppose, you could call me a proponent of the Shabbaton experience -- it's like an awesome camp experience, for adults!

Enter, if you will, The Linden (NJ) Shabbaton on May 6-7, 2011, for young couples and families, buyers and renters. Someone once told me that if Linden were compared to a pair of jeans, it would be "relaxed fit." Now, I'm not a pants-wearing kind of gal, but I remember relaxed-fit jeans, and they were cozy and comfortable and made me feel at home in my own skin (thank heavens for jean skirts!). At Congregation Anshe Chesed in Linden, shul isn't a fashion show, and it's not a place to see if you're keeping up with the Schwartzes. Linden folks, I've been told, come together in a relaxed environment to focus on G-d and community.

Thus, during this Shabbaton, the Linden community wants to invite the curious and hopeful to take a gander at what it means to be comfortable and relaxed before your friends and community, as well as HaShem.

And if I haven't caught your attention yet, how about this: The Shabbos Park. This is a place where all of the couples -- children or no children -- get together and hang out on Shabbos afternoon. During this Shabbos afternoon powwow, the rabbi holds a class for women, while the men entertain the children (and themselves, one hopes!). All I can say is, drool. Learning for women while the men (who are really kids) get to play with the kids? This is a definite win-win.

According to my sources, Linden is a beautiful, safe, and very affordable community. The location is great, and the community is devoted to simplicity and spiritual growth -- all according to a "relaxed fit" atmosphere.

For more information on The Linden Shabbaton, just shoot an email to the shul. I just might be there. Will you? It never hurts to check out a new community -- you never know when you might fall in love and find that perfect fit for which you've been searching.

And, for what it's worth, Anshe Chesed's Rabbi Hess is on Twitter and he has a blog! Talk about a tech-savvy community.

Passion, Fire, and Self-Respect: Part II

I posted a few days ago about my frustration and dare I say disgust with a weekend spent in a certain community -- from the way people talked their way at full volume through the davening to the jungle-like attack on the kiddush table after services. And a lot of you agreed that it's a problem. To be honest, the latter is of less importance in the long run, and people's manners are something I can't exactly change. It can be attributed to how we're raised, what our parents tell us is right and wrong, our own perception of decency and self-respect, and having respect for those around us. People, I'm sad to say, lack a general filter for right and wrong when it comes to manners nowadays, and I find this pervasive among the Orthodox Jewish community. I'm not saying people live in filth and are out-and-out rude -- there are exceptions to every rule and assumption -- but overall, I'm frequently blown away. Now, maybe I'm partial but I can think of two communities (including for the most part my own) where this isn't such a problem.

But the talking during davening? This exists everywhere. Everywhere except maybe a few select shuls where if you talk, you're really, seriously chastised with an unverbal, eye-piercing excommunication from the sacred space.

Interestingly (one of those "wow" moments), the readings for the weekend in my "Praying With Fire: A 5-Minute Lesson-A-Day" addressed the very issue that I was experiencing. Maybe it aroused more anger in me, maybe it brought the situation fully into perspective. I joked about taking the book with me, and shouting to the people what exactly our sages have said on this very issue of talking during davening. But I didn't. Instead? I'm going to share it with you here, and maybe I can alter how some of us (we're all imperfect; even me!) carry ourselves in shul, while davening.

"The harm done by disturbing others (by talking during prayer) is so substantial that the Shulchan Aruch rules that to avoid disturbing others, a person saying Shemoneh Esrei should not raise his voice in prayer (Siman 101, Se'if 2). ... If this is the halacha regarding voices raised in tefillah, one can surmise that there would be no tolerance for disturbances created by voices raised in casual conversation."

The text goes on to discuss various rabbis who cited the cause for certain  massacres being because the community didn't respect the shul, they spoke during davening, bringing harm upon the community. I think this is a little harsh (at one point it is suggested that the reason the Sephardi community was saved from the Holocaust is because of their strict rules NOT to speak during davening), but interesting to ponder at any rate.

The Zohar identifies a person who speaks about worldly matters in synagogue as a "kofer b'ikar," -- a heretic (Parashas Terumah 131a), and the Roke'ach adds that one who speaks during prayer is guilty of "masig g'vul" or stealing the sanctity of the synagogue (Hilchos Teshuvah, Siman 26). One text goes so far as to say that he who speaks in shul is "chillul Hashem" -- desecrating the name of HaShem.

And this text was made for me: "The impact of talking during prayer is sometimes perceived more keenly by newcomers to Judaism (that's me!), who have not become desensitized to it. They cannot reconcile the great divide between what prayer truly is and how it is sometimes treated." Now, I see the divide, I'm just really annoyed. The author goes on to discuss that if this is the impression to a new comer or ba'al teshuvah, imagine how the children feel. If they see it, they can't discern what is normal and what is not, and thus talking during services is the "norm" -- it perpetuates the myth that this is in fact okay.


In essence, by talking during davening, you're negating the mitzvah of davening by committing the sin of nullifying the prayers! It's a horrible cycle. Why don't people see that? On Shabbat, for example, a person is 13 blessings short of the required 100. Throughout Shabbat, we fulfill the commandment by eating various foods and delicacies, but if we fall short, we compensate by listening to the blessings said over reading of the Torah and the Haftarah and responding Amen. But if we're talking during all this, we probably fall short, and where's that leave us?

Let us talk to G-d quietly, in devotion that is personal. After all, "there is too much ugly noise in our world today." Why bring more?

Passion, Fire, and Self-Respect.

First it happened in the House with Joe Wilson. Then Kanye west spewed his guts without thinking on the VMAs. Whatever happened to self-respect? Restraint? The human filter of decency? Here we go ...

"So you're completely out of Selichot books?" he asked the clerk.

"Yup. But, you know, my shul is right down the road. I've got more than enough Selichot seforim there, and, you know, our's is a little bit, well, shorter. Because, you know, we're closer to G-d," the clerk said with a snicker, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

I think he was joking, but maybe only half joking. And this was how our weekend in New Jersey for Shabbat and Selichot ended. Sans selichot seforim and with a clerk making jokes left and right about being "closer" and nearer to G-d.

I don’t want to say I didn’t have a good time in West Orange, but I feel like there were a lot of things playing against me. We arrived at Tuvia’s mom’s place about 10 minutes before the absolute latest candle lighting time (that was using the 18 minute leeway). I’d wanted to shower, but there was no time. Tuvia ran off to shul, and I, being frustrated, exhausted, and all-around grumpy, stayed home, lamenting my hair (sad, I know). Add to this that the weather was miserable, and, well, this kvetcher is set.

In the morning, I arose to the most hideous display of Chavi-hair ever. Tuvia suggested I throw on a hat “Want to be married today?” he asked. I thought about it for about a half-second and decided that no, that would not be a good idea. I didn’t want to confuse all the little old ladies and family friends. I did my hair the best I could, got dressed in a new skirt, and plodded off to shul. Tuvia’s grandmother set me down in a back-ish seat of the shul to daven, because I actually wanted to focus on my davening, and didn’t want to intermix with the chatty folks. And I was good to go until right before the Torah service when these women came and sat all around me. I suddenly realized that there are some things that I will never – I repeat never – be able to adjust to in the Orthodox shul.

I understand that there’s this unspoken thing that says that it’s okay to schmooze in shul during davening. That the older women are permitted because they’ve seen it all, and I get that. But most of the time they whisper. They have the respect – the self-respect – to whisper. But the women who go to shul, sit in the sanctuary, and do nothing but talk? I don’t get it. If you’re going to shul to socialize, not to daven a SINGLE WORD, then why are you sitting in the sanctuary? There’s a whole shul of space where you can air your dirty laundry without disturbing the beauty of the Torah or the importance of Kaddish or the Shemonei Esrei. And even when the guy in front of the bimah would stop the reader, in order to garner the attention of the crowd, to get everyone to shut up and listen, these women just kept talking. At full strength, full volume, as if they were in the crowd at a Yankees game. I was baffled. Truly baffled. I could have moved, but would it have solved the problem? No, it wouldn’t have. The men were talking. The women were talking.

Whatever happened to sacred space? Respect for the book? Self-respect? Shame?

Things only got worse. I mean, women at my shul jabber away, and I found a different location and sort of made it clear that no one can sit next to me when I’m davening. And it works. After the service, I go to the social hall, and we all do our thing. We talk. We schmooze. But the Kiddush was, well, something out of a horror film. It was What Not to Do at Kiddush 101. Now, it was a big Kiddush. They were honoring a pillar of the community, an amazing man who just hit 85 and is still going strong like a young buck. The man deserved the festivities, but the people – the congregation – didn’t show this man any respect. There was nothing but gluttony, selfishness, rudeness, and an utter lack of self-respect. It reminded me of that scene in “Mean Girls” where the main character imagines the cafeteria and everyone’s slinging food and acting like jungle creatures. Or maybe like a soup kitchen from the Depression Era. Kiddush can be outlandish at my shul (people pushing and shoving and acting like they’ve never seen kugle before), but at this Kiddush? Because of the pure magnitude of people and food, it was like a massacre – of food, of respect, of everything that I cannot adjust to Jewishly.

I’m a Midwestern girl. I may have a backwoods Ozarkian family, but my parents taught me patience, they taught me manners, and they taught me not to eat out of things with my hands, not to double-dip, to use a napkin, to pick up after myself, to not cut in line, to have respect for your elders, and just generally how to act like a decent human being – not an animal.
But there, in this shul, I had people shoving me out of the way for a meatball, I watched a 10-year-old girl double-dipping chicken in a sauce dish about a half-dozen times, a kid trying to reach five people ahead of him for a plate even though he was, well, five people deep. I watched adults dropping food on the floor, and leaving it there, probably assuming the help would pick it up. I watched people setting their dirty and disgusting plates down on tables with fresh food when there was a trashcan about a foot away. I had to step back from the crowd. And watch. I was disgusted. Is the Jewish way to be self-fulling? The idea that Jews – especially the Orthodox type – are messy, impatient, cheap, and pushy?

I’ll never be like that. And you can sure as hell bet my children won’t be that way. No sir. Not this girl.

I can’t explain the disgust I felt during that experience. After a while, I just wanted to go home. I didn’t even go back for mincha or maariv or the special talks they had with their scholar in residence. I wanted to not be there at that place, with those people, who lacked a sense of self-respect and common decency. I wanted to run away, find an Orthodox synagogue where the people are calm, patient, kind, respectful, and want to be there more than anything to daven, to share a sacred space with G-d, and then get their social fill afterward in a calm and respectful manner.

Does such a place not exist? Is this going to be my Jewish pipe dream?

We ended up going back for Selichot around 11:45 on Saturday night. There was a speaker and then davening at 12:54 in the morning. There weren’t nearly as many people there, but the crowd was calmer, more relaxed, more attuned to what was going on. Or maybe everyone was just exhausted. The chazzan’s voice was mournful, soul-piercing. My eyes welled up when he cried out the words, speaking to G-d with the most beautifully sad voice. And then it was a rush of quiet davening, and then it was over. Where was this during Shabbat? This passion, this fervency, this communication with G-d?

Sometimes I feel at a loss. Like I’m walking a lonely and quiet path, where my way doesn’t meet up with the majority way. I want to daven in organized chaos – the sound of voices mumbling together, but mumbling with a purpose, devotion and a passion. Not voices discussing other people or random things irrelevant to the prayers at hand. I get that davening isn’t for everyone, and I get that not everyone wants to go to shul to daven, and that shouldn’t deter people from just going, I guess. But how is someone like me supposed to reconcile all of this?

Overall, this weekend left me confused and frustrated. I feel very much like no one understands how I function as a Jew – religious, passionate, thoughtful, serious, hopeful. Sometimes the cheese does stand alone. To be Orthodox, must I alter my personality into something that it isn’t? Something loud and pushy and unconcerned with prayers and people?

Where is the fire? What happened to the fire in our souls?

Tugging My Strings

Well before I left for Israel, and well after I got back, I was feeling a void religiously and spiritually. It happens. We all know that it comes in stages. For months we'll feel connected, tied to G-d and the community and our spiritual strings are happily tugged day and night. And then, out of nowhere, one day we realize that the strings are covered in dust and cobwebs and their limpness leaves us feeling empty. Of course the "we" and "us" is really me. The other night I told Tuvia this. I mentioned that I was feeling kind of empty. I realized that I hadn't written about anything religious in some time on the blog (though, I guess to some it might seem like I have). It seemed like everything I had written was pop culture or politics or just general "blah blah blah." It's been a long, long time since I've written a d'var Torah and probably even longer since I sat down and read through the parshah. I used to be on the ball, head-first, my strings were active.

So I was looking forward to shul on Friday. Tuvia and I drove over to the Orthodox shul, arriving a little bit after minchah had started. I remembered to take my transliterated siddur with me, since I'm not so comfortable with the regular Artscroll just yet. Add to this that the shul's siddurim are in much-loved shape, I figure better I batter my own copy rather than their's.  I found my place quickly in the women's section, opened up my siddur, jumped to where we were, and began to daven. The men's section was loaded with men in varied kippahs, some in black hats, some with payess, some with beards, some meandering about. The women's section was empty except for me until another woman showed up next to me. But I was so in the zone the entire service that I missed things going on on the other side, missed any missteps or air bubbles in the service. I read the words with strict devotion, I threaded my tongue around the syllables, hoping to find that passion, to feel the tug of those strings, and it happened. Slowly, but surely.

After the service, we headed over to our Shabbos dinner hosts' house, where we were joined by another couple and a family of five. Overall, there were 13 of us at that Shabbos dinner table, noshing salad and challah and kugel and pie. Conversation flowed from Israel to the local Jewish day schools, from school to Nebraska and Wisconsin. The hospitality was good and Midwestern, which is what I'm used to. The host reminded me so much of the Kosher Academic, which is probably why the entire experience was so comforting and at-ease. I didn't feel like I had to act a certain way or say certain things. It was exactly what I needed to continue the evening. The strings continued to be pulled, I was alive again. With the blessings and the kippah-headed men and the challah and the bensching ... I missed all of these things.

I think I just miss the full Shabbos experience: services, conversation, the meal, the wine and the blessings, the feeling of the evening and the day, the real rest and focus. Luckily, the people at the shul are so kind, so welcoming that we've been invited back for Shabbos dinner and the full-day Shabbos experience.

This week, I'll be here on campus for my first Shabbat at Chabad in weeks. Nay, probably in a month and a half. I'm excited to hook back up with the campus Jewish crew, but I am also disappointed that I won't be making challah and lighting the candles and enjoying Shabbat with Tuvia, but all good things come in time.

Until then, I'm shining my strings and hoping they continue to lead me on and on and on ...

Jewish Gingering.

Just when you thought Gingerbread Houses were only for those of the Christmasy persuasion, Chavi came up with the newest new-age Jewish holiday activity: the construction of the GingerShul!

I was checking out the local Wal-Mart when I saw the Gingerbread House kit, and thought ... that would make a really stellar gingerbread synagogue. So the kit was purchased and this weekend, while enjoying some rest and relaxation in the Poconos, the gingerbread shul was built and I think it came out quite smashingly.

For more photos, find me on Facebook and you can see the entire process ... it was quite a time! And no, I don't plan on eating it ... for many reasons. But hey, it looks cool sitting by the fire!

News and Information: Your Not-so-Daily Dose.

A couple interesting things to write about/share. Some news, some not, but all educationally fascinating.

+ I think I'll leave any and all comments on the new GLBT siddur that is in the works to the write-up FrumSatire did over on his blog . I'll be honest: I'm incredibly liberal, but some of the new prayers in the siddur make ME uncomfortable. Just check out the blog. Prayers for unexpected intimacy? You'll catch my drift.

+ I have failed miserably at preparing anything coherent to share about the upcoming new year -- Rosh Hashanah -- leading us into 5769. Luckily, other people are way ahead of me on this. Who, you ask? Well, Ilana-Davita posted up some information last week that you can find here , and she also linked to Leora's blog , which also has some outstanding information about various food symbols for the new year, not to mention a beautiful piece of art. Then there is Jew Wishes who has one heckuva comprehensive list of websites for the High Holy Days, not to mention a suggested list of books to pick up. But I promise to have something. I need to have something. I am starting off 5769 as a graduate student, with a boyfriend, in a new state, far away from just about everything I was and knew at this point last year. I have sort of become a new person. I'm miles away from my hashkafah of a year ago, not to mention miles physically and emotionally away from who I was. It will be an interesting start, I think.

+ Over the weekend Evan and I were debating the details of kashrut and why chicken is considered meat and fish isn't. To be honest, I'd never thought about the whole issue of why fish is parve, but he got me thinking. I've been doing the vegetarian thing (okay, I faltered on Sunday ONCE and had some buffalo chicken wing/ball things while watching the Patriots game), mostly because I'm torn about the whole kashurt and interpretation of the meat/milk law as being ALL dairy and ALL meat (except fish, you know, since it's parve). Being a vegetarian is my effort to move in that direction, though there are a boatload of other reasons why, and I'll post more on that after I collect my thoughts and do some reading (hat tip to A Simple Jew for some thoughtful links).  So back to the point: Fish is parve, which means it's neither dairy nor meat, so it can be eaten with anything and this makes Jews stoked because it opens up the options for protein with a dairy meal. Thus, after some exhaustive searching on my Blackberry, I came across the website for Beth Tzedec (a Toronto congregation) with an interesting and thoughtful discussion of the issue. The question posed was: "The Torah tells us not to seethe the kid in its mother's milk. A chicken does not have mother's milk. Why isn't chicken parve like fish?" And the answer by Rav Roy Tanenbaum:

The answer to your question illustrates how laypeople help to determine the scope of Jewish law. The Talmudic sages were of course aware of the fact that chickens do not have mothers' milk. But before establishing the category of chicken, they wanted to know how the average person in the street uses language. So they [asked] ... the following questions: "If you sent a servant to the market to buy meat and he came back with fish, what would your reaction be? Alternatively, if he came back with chicken, what would your reaction be?"

The scholars learned that most people of the time included chicken in their normal understandaing of the word "meat" whereas they did not include fish. This is still true today as illustrated in the fact that when we wish to exclude chicken we have to use the term "red meat."

So to avoid confusion among the masses of people, the sages incorporated chicken under the halakha of meat.

So what can I say? It comes back to making things easier and less confusing, but at least I now have an explanation.

+ I'm adding several books to my Amazon Wish List (feel free to shower me with gifts at any time), though mostly as a reminder to read them at some point, not necessarily to procur, considering my reading list is quite heavy as is. The first is a new book by Brandeis Professor Jonathan Sarna (yes, you guessed it, his father is Nahum Sarna, whose books I have been reading for class) about the American Jewish experience, but more importantly about renewing the Jewish experience both ritually and religiously. The book is "A Time to Every Purpose: Letters to a Young Jew ," and you'll note that the title is taken from Qohelet! I'm also throwing on David Sears' "The Vision of Eden: Animal Welfare and Vegetarianism in Jewish Law and Mysticism ." And lastly, thanks to Jew Wishes , I'm throwing on Elie Wiesel's "Legends of Our Time ."

A Birthright.

I'm standing just off the curb near the bus stop, watching taxicabs and cars zip by, waiting for a free space in the traffic to make it across Broadway. Really, I'm at ease -- my skirt flapping wildly in the wind; gale force winds have painted the day. I wanted very much to just stand there, eyes closed, early summer wind brushing over and around me, making my kosher-for-shul skirt dance. And then there's a clearing, and I run, sandles clicking against the ground, and I'm thinking: when did skirts become oppressive. And then I'm thinking: I should blog about this and shul tonight and about how it's hard to fight the urge to blog after something beautiful whips around your mind making it difficult to think -- you must get the words out in some form, else they'll continue to stir up and around making it uneasy to concentrate, to breathe.

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I showed up 15 minutes late to shul. I followed a young couple in and as they were picking through the headcoverings I opened the sanctuary door to find it empty. I tucked myself into their space and asked if they knew what time services were. I then found out that sometimes they have services in the basement, in the room where on my first visit to the Orthodox shul they'd had a Shabbat dinner and where I'd scooted myself into an already-full table of Jews. I plodded down the steps and there, in the big room, were crowded dozens of congregants separated women from men by a lace curtain divider. I (reluctantly) grabbed my transliterated (brown) siddur and grabbed a seat. The men's side was pretty hoppin', and the woman I'd run into mentioned that when they have services downstairs, there's dancing and lively(er) singing. Now, I'd skipped a service at the Conservative shul because I was hoping to avoid acoustic guitars and the like, so it was funny that the Orthodox shul had a similar thing going down; but rest assured, there were no drums or guitars or anything aside from the voices -- the beautiful voices -- of the congregants.

I quickly found my place in the siddur, but realized for the first time at the Orthodox shul that I really loathe the transliterated version. The thing is, the transliteration does that whole "s" versus "t" bit from the Ashkenazi/Sephardi pronunciations and it just throws me. I know the prayers, but when you're staring at a transliterated page you have a tendency to read what you're given and it's just frustrating. If only everything weren't so ... fast. Yes, if things were slower I could probably keep up in the Hebrew. But at the same time, the pace is what enthralls and excites me. There is so much, so very much, and all of it is beautiful. I found myself marveling tonight at how quickly I was moving along in some of the prayers you find in all shuls for the ma'ariv. I wouldn't change the service at all. It's me who needs to change. The Hebrew needs to be like a second skin, a glove. I should be able to open the siddur and know precisely where we are in the service, know the words and the melodies. And in due time, well, I'll be there.

And there was dancing. On the men's side, anyhow. The women sort of smiled and looked on over the divider as the rabbi and several other (also rabbis) danced in a circle. I wish I could convey the beauty that emanates from this congregation when they're singing and davening. It's like our entire past, all of our ancestors, are in the room voices belting loudly in many different melodies making the most serene sound. I can close my eyes and it's as if the entire room has become Israel -- the people, the entire congregation. And that, of course, is what Shabbat is meant to be. I've never experienced that before, that washed over feeling of generations past and present alive in the voices of those singing and davening.

But then there is the guilt. I left services, opting to skip out on a (most likely delicious) Shabbat dinner to go home. The day left me weary -- the heat was suffocating and the wind left me feeling worn. I need sleep, it's true, and I have many a plan for the weekend (not partying hard, folks, but going to a green market and chalk art festival and book fair). The entire week drifted by seemingly without any sleep, and despite the joy and absolute happiness I feel when joining a Shabbat table, I knew I needed to come home. I trekked down the street and, seeing two buses coming, stopped at the corner and waited. As I stood there, people leaving the Orthodox shul walked by, and a feeling of dread overcame me. I began to think, What will they think of me? Am I being judged? Should I just start walking so they think perhaps I was just taking an idle break?
No one said anything to me. They probably didn't even notice me. I'm sure there are plenty of people who take the bus -- not everyone lives in the eruv or within walking distance, right? I was over-thinking it. But having already started thinking about blogging about services, I'd also turned on my Blackberry, which I subsequently (and shamefully) shoved in my bag. The bus came, I hopped on, pulled out Potok, and read the entire way home.

And now, we're back to where we began.

I'm trying to figure out how to reconcile a lot of things. From what I hear, this (modern) Orthodox shul isn't like other Orthodox shuls. The rabbi is one of a kind. The people? Also unique. The atmosphere? You won't find it anywhere else. I'm beginning to worry: Is this going to turn into another situation like with my "starter shul" back in Nebraska? Will it come to be that no shul on the planet will be able to compare with this shul? On the same note, is this synagogue "acceptable" in its Orthodoxy or is it talked about by the folks up in West Rogers Park and Skokie? Scratch that. Now that I think about it, every year I guess there's a mass migration of new families from this Orthodox shul up to the Orthodox neighborhoods in the near suburbs. They even have little reunions I guess. So yes, it's kosher.

Why am I asking all these questions? Who cares?

While standing in services, not paying attention to the prayer, my eyes floated through the lace curtain to all the young bachelors. I began to wonder (so much thinking going on) whether -- if I really wanted to land me a nice Orthodox boy -- this whole conversion debacle would make someone apprehensive about me, even if I had chosen to convert Orthodox. Would it keep someone from loving me? From accepting me? And how would I handle that. Is it even worth it? Afterall, I've been known to be in love with goyim (past and present).

Oy. My head hurts from all the thinking, but this is what shul does to me. I go, I experience something beautiful, I leave, I begin to think. Sometimes I wonder if my approach to Judaism is too academic, too serious, too fretful. And then I step back and look at those words and think of the sages and great thinkers and realize no, this is precisely what I'm meant to do. It's who I am.

It's my birthright.

I promise to post something with more content. And meaning. And depth. Really.

Oy. I've been so busy the past few days. My time at work seems to fly, mostly because I'm busy working on stuff for the professors while intermixing it with loads of genealogy research. After the second cousin started sending me stuff, I started working again on the tree over on Ancestry.com. I don't pay for an account, so I have to be super creative with my sleuthing, and for the most part it works quite well. I'm sending off for five marriage certificates and one death certificate for relatives who lived and died here in Illinois. I think it's interesting that I've ended up in Illinois (yes, I'm moving) and that I'd like to end up back here in the future. The roots of my family were firmly planted here for several generations, and in Missouri and Tennessee, too. I have to figure out how to get creative with looking at the old country, though, because I'm hitting a point where the relatives I need to fill in the gaps come from Germany (my family is uber German, it appears). It amazes me, though, how well-kept records are. Census data, death and marriage records, business dealings -- all in the U.S. these things are tallied closely. Overseas in the Old Country you find most records in the form of business ownership and christening, which can be a blessing I suppose. Especially since my family, being uber German, was also uber Catholic from many angles.

In unrelated news, I've fallen back in line with my Torah study. I didn't manage to get anything put up last week (d'var Torah, that is) because of the trip. Hopefully this week pans out better and I can get some thoughts up. On the other hand, tonight I'm out and tomorrow night is the Lag B'Omer Bonfire of which I'm totally stoked to attend since it's just down the street. Any other Chicagoans should come and join in, by golly. In case you're curious,

It’s tradition on the yahrzeit of Rabbi Shimon Bar Yohai, reputed author of Zohar, to have a bonfire and celebration! In Israel, Mt. Meron is completely alight with bonfires and music.

Now, for those wanting more info, here's what I can tell you: Lag B'Omer is essentially a way of saying the Thirty-Third Day of the Omer. The Omer is the count between Pesach and Shavuot (the day Torah was given), and on Lag B'Omer all the restrictions are sort of put on hold and music and singing and dancing are all permitted and encouraged.

Friday I'm going to head back to the Orthodox shul. They're probably going to wonder why I come every other week and don't make it on Saturday mornings, eh? This Saturday morning I'd go, but I have a friend coming into town and we're going to spend the day plodding around town and then heading to the Rilo Kiley show with her sister Saturday night (this friend, Melanie, and I have been to oodles of Rilo Kiley shows together, so it's all happy and nostalgic).

Luckily, no work Monday, which means I get a complete day of absolutely nothing. It'll be nice, considering next weekend I'm setting off again, this time to San Francisco to visit a very awesome someone. It'll be a quick trip, but I've never been. Perhaps I'll get bitten by the SanFran bug, eh?

And finally: Last night, unable to sleep, I penned (well, wrote) an introduction to a book-type-memoir-thing. It involves content based on this blog post, not to mention content from this other blog post. I'm not sure what the chronology will be, but I have so much to say. I'm not sure where I'll go with it, but it will cover a lot of stuff -- past, present, future. Anyhow, perhaps I'll post it up in the Google Docs for all to read. But for now, let's just say that depending upon how tonight goes, it'll probably shape how I feel about it all anyway.

I'll keep you posted.

A little news bit from Israel.

Someone on an Orthodox listserv I'm a part of brought this story to our attention this morning. You can read about this little destroyed synagogue here or here. Essentially, this synagogue -- built by children and called Chazon David has been ruled an "illegal synagogue" by the courts.

The video is about 3 minutes and 30 seconds long, and is definitely worth a quick watch. These kids are serious about what they're doing. The video was made by Akiva of the Mystical Paths Blog.

Can you sense the struggle in my words?

It was suggested that my e-free Shabbats would be easier if I planned out in advance what my plans were. I thought, "Geepers, that's a great idea," and here I am at 1:30 p.m. on a Friday with no clue what the Sabbath will hold for me. I thought, I should make Friday nights my dinner/movie night, since I've removed myself from regular shul attendance (an ordeal and issue all its own that I might touch on in a second). But what about Saturday? The days are getting longer. I can't spend all day napping, and I sure as hell can't spend all day at the tea shop reading. My attention span is that of a toddler. The weather has been outstanding, but it's supposed to drop a major 15-20 degrees over the weekend, so a stroll along the lake isn't completely out of the question, but doesn't sound as appetizing as it would have yesterday or today (where we've topped out in the upper 50s).

What do people DO on Shabbos?

I mean, people who A) Aren't Married or B) Don't Have kids or C) Spend all day at Shul or D) Sleep all Day. There's a lot of hours in a Shabbat day, folks.

I was reading this week's Torah portion last night, and mind you, we've hopped on into Leviticus, that great book of do's and don'ts that bring us into living a life of priests, a holy nation. There was a little spiel on how the book opens in the singular and slowly moves into the plural, and the author draws on this to come to the conclusion that attendance at shul is much like this -- one enters the sanctuary as an individual, but through prayer in community, one transcends to become a part of the larger Jewish community. I read this and felt this momentary rush of utter guilt.

You see (here's where I touch on my absence at shul), I'm just struggling with this idea of the shul as a social circus. The rabbis as bureaucrats. The entire thing as a production. I want organized chaos, not organized organization. I think I'm still struggling with missing my small shul back home, where it was comfortable, close-knit, where the people wanted so very much to be there, where it felt genuine. And ever since I read that book on Conservative Judaism, well, it reminded me of all the things I've always loathed about organized religion, why for so long I was devoutly religious, but in the sense that I believed, and I prayed, and I felt connected, but I didn't need a space or people. But then I think back to how lonely it was.

It's a very confusing, very heartbreaking thing I'm feeling. I'm so strong in my Jewishness, so settled into the ground I stand on, and yet, for some reason, something is just not completely right. So I'm exploring, evaluating, doting on me, to see what it is. To see what will make it better.

I keep telling myself that once I go off to school and have Hillel, it will be much like what I am used to, a small community over Shabbat dinners and services, holiday meals and festivities, something close, something personal.

Indeed, it's frustrating.

So it's now 1:42, and I'm still stuck on my plans. I should have told the Kosher Academic I was going to invade her place tonight, but I know her husband isn't well and I don't want to catch anything with my trips coming up. So maybe I'll just pick a movie, grab a nosh, and then read. I'll force myself out of bed, try to find some way to fill the space, reflective and full of prayer.

I'll get the hang of this Shabbos thing at some point.

Calling Chaviva, Calling ... Chaviva!

Okay, a few things.

For starters, I went out last night for the first time in a long time (save the dinner with coworkers recently, which was nice, but last night was definitely a different beast) to a bar, with a bunch of people (we're talking 20-30) who I did not know. Yes, complete strangers. I headed off to Goose Island to meet up with a bunch of people who I had "met" through an online community of people who like to review things and spout off about them, too. I spent about 4 or 5 hours out and met some absolutely amazing people from just about every corner of this little big city I call home. People in their 20s, people in their 50s. Seriously, probably the most happy night I've had in a long time, one where I felt alive, social, and like who I used to be, a long time ago, when I was more hopeful and positive about where I was going. There were also a handful of Jews there, so it was nice to meet some of the fellow tribesmen/woman. But the coolest thing about the night? Well, on this online community, I'm known as "Chaviva E." simply because that's how the site rolls. I originally signed on as "Amanda E.", but there was this obnoxious, hated gal on there who also was an Amanda. So I opted to change my name. As such, everyone last night called me by my Hebrew name, my name that I truly connect with, and it was like coming home. Being in a social situation where people know me by my "Jewish name" is truly exceptional. The funny thing, though, is that everyone called me "Cha-viva" ... as in, Cha cha, cha cha cha. Salsa dancing style. I hated correcting people, but it felt natural, and it sort of became a joke after a while. There were some very interesting pronunciations, though, as well. But the Jews got it right the first time, and it felt good. Overall, there were some amazing conversations, friendships made, kindly flirtations, and genuine joviality.

Secondly, I caved. I bought a Blackberry Pearl. I know, I know. What do I need with it? Well, the thing is, my job sort of calls for it (not necessarily, but, it's hard to explain). And I'm addicted to the Internet, so why not? I'll give it a go for a few weeks and if it doesn't do me well, then I'll pack it back down to a normal phone and normal service. My number is still the same, but I'm now on T-Mobile. A-freaking-men.

So that's that. I hope everyone had a thoughtful Shabbat. Despite my efforts to make it to shul last night, stepping in a gigantic pile of mud/snow/slush caused me to head straight home. Thus, I am starting 2008 by attending my first Shabbat of the year at the Conservative synagogue. It's a big step, but, I have a really good feeling about it. We'll see where that takes me, but I've heard some good things about the congregation there.

Laila tov, friends, and may you and yours be well as we near 2008.

The synagogue that just wasn't.

I decided that -- because I'm up for adventure -- I'd hit up one of the other Reform synagogues in the area. I like my shul well enough (it sure ain't home, though), but I like to know what else is out there. So I grabbed some dinner and went to the synagogue, which is conveniently downtown near a convenient El stop. The shul shall remain nameless, simply because ... well ... my rant will give it away anyway, but I don't want to call it out. I'm sure they're doing something right, but beyond the clean, fancy building and the spacious seats, I'm not sure what that "right" is.

There was a tot Shabbat going down, so there were lots of families there. In the main sanctuary I noticed that there were quite a few people my age, mixed in with a lot of your classic, old-school shul folks. I sat down and a friendly fellow walked up and shook my hand, said Shabbat Shalom and walked on. He went a few rows up to two other girls my age and started up a conversation with them. I felt sort of shafted, but let it go. As the sanctuary filled with families and more young people, I felt relieved. Then that friendly guy showed up on the bima! Not only that, but he wasn't even sporting a kippah. Now, I'm not one to judge, and the great thing about this fancy thing we call Judaism is its freedom and bounty of rituals and traditions. But the rabbi without a yarmulke?

Then I noticed that the organ was tuning up to go. Now, I have an aversion to organs in shul, simply because, well, it's an organ. It screams of Protestant services. I sat back, and let it go. Then, then came something that almost set me over the edge ... there was no cantor. The shul doesn't have a cantor! It's HUGE, and it doesn't have a cantor, let alone a song leader. No, it has a choir, of four people, who sing in operatic fashion to tunes I've never heard nor could ever pick up, even if I devoted myself to it 24/7 for the next six months. The harmonies were wild, ridiculous, and to top it off, it disallowed the congregation from participating ... no one was singing.

The real kicker came when we got into the traditional, Hebrew aspects of just about every congregation on the planet. These portions were sung by the choir, and the congregation just sat there. Watching. Listening. No participation? When the bar mitzvah got up to read the V'ahavta ... he didn't chant it with the melodic nature that everyone on the planet does ... he just read the transliteration. Everyone was all glowing with pride, and I was like "Are you serious? That's it? You've got to be kidding me!" I listen to kids go through the kiddush every week and their squeaky, off tune voices are music to my ears! This kid didn't even have to try! Mi chamocha, V'sham'ru, both sung by the choir. We just sat there, and I couldn't even understand the words as they sang them. Then came the T'filah. We rose, and recited ... the words ... just said them. No tune, no passion, no nothing. Just said them. Then the choir sang the Avot V'Imahot while we just stood there. Once again, I couldn't even understand them. Where was my service!?

Then there was the fact that the service was ... well ... out of order. I mean, I know the flow of the service, but there was something convoluted and strange about this service. Things seemed out of place, or things were missing, one or the other. The congregation uses their own "edition" of the URJ siddur. Originally I thought "that's cool" but then after going through the service (and nearly walking out after about 5 minutes), I realized "not cool." The word mitzvot is completely missing. The word salvation appears more times than the word the! It is worded strangely and in truth felt more like the Christian services I went to in the days of yore ... it made me exceedingly uncomfortable.

Then there was the sermon. The guy ... well, I was sort of taken aback at his "analysis" of the Torah portion, which seemed more like him quoting some sages than offering insight. Not only that, but he completely neglected the idea that Abraham becoming old wasn't to be taken literally, but that was coupled with becoming the first to gain wisdom, thus growing old. Sigh. And what else? He sounded like a preacher. He had that slow, evangelical drawl thing going on. Not an accent, but that slow, calculated speech that's almost demeaning.

Afterward I stuck around because they were doing the oneg with the kiddush and motzi. This is one thing that I dislike about my present shul, because there they do the kiddush during services and the challah is completely non-existent. So I was excited, and hopefully. One of the younger guys came up and introduced himself to me and asked if I came around much and stuff. I told him I was a member of a different shul, but this one had piqued my interest. He then proceeded to say "isn't the rabbi great? He's probably the best rabbi I've ever heard! And he's our age, he's only 29!" It then made sense. This guy is fresh meat. Then again, the rabbi that converted me was literally fresh out of rabbinical school and he had a vibrancy and Jewish gusto that lacks comparison!

Oh, and I didn't even mention the most interesting part. This synagogue doesn't have Saturday Shabbat services. Instead, it has Sunday morning services a la church. I repeat: No Saturday services, but Sunday services. They rationalize this because you take your kids to Sunday school at the shul, so why not have services then!? Not only that, but it's a decades-old tradition that just happened to stick around. It seems ludicrous to me, but I guess they have plenty of members, so it must be working somehow. But I think their patronage is a certain type of Jew.

Now, I don't want to keep this going because it's already getting long, but attending this shul made me feel like I'd warped back to the early days of the Reform movement where the goal was to mimic the Protestant service. I hate the idea of "Judaism lite," because most people of the faith would say that that is what I've got going on, being a certified member of the Reform movement and all. But the Judaism that I practice is not lite. It might be lite compared to what many Jews do, but I can say it is probably leaps and bounds above what these people do. It was frustrating being there because I wanted to stand up and scream at these people. My favorite parts about the service -- the T'filah and the Amidah and the Aleinu -- they were all ripped out for the sake of a quartet of opera singers. And what for? The people who attend these services don't even attend the services. They sit there and hold their prayerbook (which opens like other American/English books, by the way) and watch as the service floats by. I don't want to say it, but there wasn't much Jewish about that service. It was generic and edging on preaching the "good word." Eternal life and salvation. My G-d ...

Needless to say, I will not be going back. And if anyone asks, I'll give them my two cents. I never wanted to become that person ... the person who says "you're not Jewish enough for me," but it happens and everyone draws those lines -- convert or not. It isn't being hateful or holier than thou, it's coming to the realization that there are these levels, these pegs on the totem pole. I'll never be Jewish enough for the Orthodox Israelis, and I'm mostly okay with that. And now I know that this synagogue, in the heart of this city I love, will never be Jewish enough for me. And it makes me uncomfortable to say that, but I'm mostly okay with that, too.

So it's back to what I've come to know ... even if there is no motzi.

May you be inscribed in the book of life.

It is said that not fasting on Yom Kippur is better than fasting without purpose. (The fast is introduced in Leviticus, as we are told to afflict our souls and practice "self denial.") It is on Yom Kippur that even most secular Jews take part in services and fasting -- but what is the meaning of such a fast for the secular Jew? On that note, what is the meaning of the fast for a practicing Jew? Is it to suffer? To wilt and wither for but a day? The haftarah (from Isaiah) for Yom Kippur reads:

They say: "Why is it that we have fasted, and You don't see our suffering?
We press down our egoes ... but You don't pay attention!"

Look! On the very day you fast you keep scrabbling for wealth;
On the very day you fast you keep oppressing all your workers.

Look! You fast in strife and contention.
You strike with a wicked fist.

You are not fasting today in such a way
As to make your voices heard on high.

Is that the kind of fast that I desire?
Is that really a day for people to "press down their egoes"?

Am I commanding you to droop your heads like bulrushe
And lie around in sackcloth and ashes?

Is that what you call a fast day,
The kind of day that the God of the Burning Bush would wish?

No!

This is the kind of fast that I desire:

Unlock the shackles put on by wicked power!
Untie the ropes of the yoke!
Let the oppressed go free,
And break off every yoke!

Share your bread with the hungry. Bring the poor, the outcasts, to your house.
When you see them naked, clothe them;
And from your own flesh and blood don't hide yourself.

Then your light will burst through like the dawn;
Then when you need healing it will spring up quickly;
Then your own righteousness will march ahead to guard you.
And a radiance from Adonai will reach out behind to guard you.
Then, when you cry out, Adonai will answer;
Then, when you call. God will say: "Here I am!"

So then, it is not suffering that this day entails. Physical starvation is merely a path to open up the mind and soul. The fast is not a black fast as on Tisha B'Av where we mourn the great tragedies of the past, but a white fast. While on many fasts we afflict the body while fasting, it is on Yom Kippur that we afflict the SOUL. It's sort of solemn, but we greet one another with gemar chatimah tovah -- tidings to be inscribed in the book of life for good. The goals are light, teshuvah, reconciliation.

I can understand perhaps why Yom Kippur is so widely practiced among secular Jews. It is said that 95 percent of Israelis fast on this day. I just have to wonder whether it's really SPENT the way it's meant to be spent. That goes for secular Jews and religious Jews, really. It seems that for many, going to synagogue on the High Holidays is this forced requirement. It's just expected. That's what makes me want to avoid shul on the High Holidays, despite the absolute importance of the days. I'd rather be surrounded by 10 people who genuinely soul search than hundreds who are there because it's just what we do. On that note, why don't more Jews really dedicate themselves to understanding the day, it's meanings and gleanings? I find myself ever more frustrated as the days go on here in Chicago at my super large synagogue. I miss my small community. More importantly, I miss knowing that people care; that it's more than just going through the motions. But I will be in synagogue tonight and tomorrow, thinking of the transgressions of all of humanity, not just myself, and hoping that even those whose hearts are not there, are not present, and I will think on them.

I had a chance this year to ask forgiveness from someone who I had hurt so very deeply more than a year ago, but that whom I hadn't been able to ask for forgiveness prior to last Yom Kippur. The pain carried on through this past year, so I felt it was sufficient to ask, and I am glad that I did. I can't express how light I felt when he said he forgave me. It's as if all the sins -- big and small -- are transformed, only through that one granting forgiveness. Now, and perhaps for the next year and beyond, I must work on forgiving myself. Is it wrong to go into the Yom Kippur fast having a continued heavy heart? Forgiving oneself is perhaps harder than asking forgiveness from those that have been wronged -- and this I have learned, and continue to combat.

Disappointment.

Shana tovah, friends and passersby. I just downed some apples and honey (oh how sweet!) and am settling in for a quiet night before services in the morning (because of that whole 2-day Rosh HaShanah thing we got goin' on).

I have some explaining to do. Or rather, some dredging. Read on, read on.

Last night after work, Ian and I went to this stellar place called Jury's that specializes in delicious burgers (and it was burger special night!). We then got some ice cream and enjoyed the evening before heading to synagogue for 7:30 services. It was a beautiful, pleasant evening and I was feeling excited (especially after Saturday's S'lichot services) for the holidays. I was so eager.

But then we got there and had to unload some things outside (no bags, PERIOD). There was SERIOUS security. We always had security in Lincoln, but it was usually one guy in front, one guy in back. Even in D.C. last year there wasn't as much security as there was outside of the temple last night. The security people who had us unload weren't -- by any means at all -- friendly. They were stiff, and I understand that security on High Holidays is meant to be serious ... but really. It was unwelcoming and sort of disheartening. We went in and it was a seating free-for-all. I was expecting there to be seating delegation, especially considering how pricey tickets were. But there were only a few dozen reserved seats. There were people running around all over the place with walkie-talkies like it was a huge production.

The ark/bima were pushed far back to make room for hundreds more seats. These seats were folding chairs and we chose to sit in the back in the actual sanctuary, which made the ark/bima seem miles away. The space filled up and there were hundreds of faces I'd never seen before, which was sort of irritating/frustrating.

Services began and it was shocking. The organ and professional choir, not to mention the high-tech sound system (complete with a soundboard and several soundmen), made me feel like I was in CHURCH. Yes, Church. It hearkened to the Christmas services I went to when I was in high school and early on in college. It screamed of the Protestant influence that gripped Reform Judaism way back when and still lingers. What made it more unfortunate was the rabbi talking about how my synagogue has come so far from it's original Reform roots and has become more "traditional." What this means in the Reform movement is that there's more Hebrew in the liturgy -- nothing more, nothing less. And that is irritating. It was even more uncomfortable than last year when the services I went to where held in a local church ... with JESUS all over the walls and crosses plastered everywhere (seriously bad idea, I don't care how inter-faith people are and how little Christianity bothers me).

The service was about what I expected in length, but the entire thing felt like an arena church service and it hurt the very depths of my Jewish soul. People looked disinterested -- even more so than normal. People in their D&G and stilettos and pin-stripe suits and seriously important looking demeanor looked pained to be there.

Last night was the most non-intimate synagogue experience I've ever had. Period. It didn't feel like Rosh Hashanah. I tried so hard to focus. I tried so hard to make it personal and my own. I've been reading and researching and thinking the holiday over. I want it to MEAN something. And then this. This?

The entire thing just made me miss Lincoln. I was so spoiled there. I had a small, close community where even on the High Holidays when the entire sanctuary was filled, people were always engaged (or at least they looked like it). It was intimate, it didn't feel huge. Can I not find that kind of engagement anywhere else but a small town with like, a few hundred Jews? Do I need to go the suburbs?

The temple president got up toward the end and talked about the history of the synagogue. How it began with barely a minyan 140 years ago in what is now downtown Chicago. And now? More than 1,000 families. Families that come and are anonymous and are just there and don't care and show up here and there and make the people like me -- the people who want synagogue to be about more than just belonging to something and doling out cash and shipping the kids off to Hebrew school because it's just what you do -- feel completely faceless.

I'll go to services tomorrow morning, because I need to hear the shofar. Because I hope ... HOPE ... that maybe there will be fewer people, that it will feel more intimate, that it will be what I need and what I remember and what I want.

One of the reasons I was turned off so greatly from Christianity was the mass production of it. The arena feel. The gigantic churches with coffee shops and telecasting and gigantic sound systems and the impersonal nature of church. It felt faceless. And then Judaism, the Judaism I so desire, was a group of people with common passions and excitement about community and tikkun olam and learning what it means to live a holy life. Not the mass production aspect. That was never there.

It's just frustrating. It's frustrating because this is how I rang in the New Year. This is how I begin my year -- feeling frustrated and bitter at the way the place I chose as my religious home handles itself. The regular Shabbat services are great. They're small, they're sweet and intimate. Why can't it always be like that? Why does it have to be a production with organs and professional choirs and sound systems that blast?

Shanah tovah tikatev v'taihatem!

שנה טובה!

Yes, it's the new year. I have a lot to say about services last night at my local synagogue (which we joined, largely so that we could get High Holiday tickets and wouldn't have to pay 200-400 bucks a pop), and a lot to say about why it caused me not to go to services this morning.

Stay tuned. And may your new year be blessed and filled with all of the sweet things that life has to offer, and may every day that you live be holy and healthy!

The complexities of really wanting something.

First, my job quandary. Secondly, some incidents at synagogue from Friday.

I don't dislike my job, but I don't love it. It's something I use to pay the bills, pay off those credit cards, and hopefully can use to pay some tuition for graduate school next fall if I get my butt in gear and do some things and, you know, apply places. But amid this all, there was the chance-of-a-lifetime opportunity to go to Italy on my boss's behalf to speak on early childhood education and the technology of skill formation. I'm more than happy to do this, of course. It's probably the most awesome experience I'll have for a while.

But then there were the job postings at the Jewish United Fund. Office Manager for the Hillel at Northwestern. Operations Manager for the University of Chicago Hillel. Then came the big wammy from my friend Michael: a job at Jewish World Digest, a newspaper housed right here in my very own Chicago. Jewish and journalism? Isn't that what I was looking for when I first moved here? Yes, yes it was. And now, it's there under my nose, among the other stellar opportunities and I can't budge on them.

Last week at synagogue there was this nifty open house for prospective members thing, and I was one of the folks who got to tout the blue name tag that meant "I pay this place dues galore!" I ended up meeting some really stellar people and hopefully some new synagogue friends who happen to be my own age. In the process, I also caught up with the membership coordinator and some others. I happened to mention my predicament to a few people and they all lamented the situation with me, but hands-down agreed that sticking with the job for the Italy adventure is worth the hassle, the commute, and the drama. I agree, but nu? Will such jobs be around when I find that the timer has popped?

On the fun service note, I have to share a bit of the night. I found myself meeting some of the nice temple community, which was good, considering I hate going and feeling like I'm sitting in the back of the classroom in the cardboard box where "loquacious" students end up (this is an allusion to kindergarten at Stapleton Elementary in Joplin, MO where I grew up). I met a nice older couple who happened to ask where I lived. I explained that Ian and I live way the hell away from anything pertinent to either of our lives (work, school, temple, friends), but that we were hoping to move up near Wrigleyville, and I added that we were eying the building next door to the synagogue. The nice couple (whose names escape me) then informed me that my synagogue, my very own shul, owns the apartment complex! They then informed me that chances are sometime in 5 or 10 odd years that building will make way for a temple expansion once the money is there, but they quickly added that by then, "you and your boyfriend will be ready to move to the suburbs anyway!" Right. But either way, talk about STELLAR news for us! Maybe this will grant us an in? Here's to hopin' anyway :)

I also have to share about the fellow there at the special service who said he stopped in because he often walks by but had never been. His name was Lawrence and he was constantly smiling, this almost devilish grin, the kind you see on a little boy before he pushes his sister into the fountain she is so quietly leaning over by to eye the quarters 'neath. Like he had something he wasn't telling, a secret or plan or something. It made me nervous. But I was friendly. The gal who I met that night, Natalie, and I sat near him and struck up conversation. We sort of assumed that perhaps he was interested in Judaism. He was curious, yes, but then said that he thought it was the "second best religion." We didn't continue with that line of conversation. No way, no how. Natalie turned to me and we started talking about my conversion (which happened to come up in the commons hall during the wine and cheese reception). Of course this got Lawrence going and he started questioning how I got to Judaism. I couldn't give him the whole spiel of how at home I grew up being able to believe what I wanted but that in public and with friends I was more or less cornered into Christianity out of a want to belong. So he concluded, "So you went from nothing to Judaism ...?" with that grin. That "oh I know your kind" grin. I wanted to slap him. He left me mumbling and unable to finish my thoughts. Then the service started.

He made me uncomfortable, and it wasn't because I had the walls up. The moment I saw him I felt there was something unsettling about him. His Judaism as the "second best religion" question just pushed me a little over. I knew there was something uncomfortable. I'm really sure why he was really there or what he wanted out of it. He got shmoozy with some people, but that grin. It's the kind you see on pop-up clown boxes. Creepy carnival rides. The kind you have nightmares about. I'll be happy if I don't have to see him again. If I do? I'll tuck away the unease and be welcoming. After all, he hasn't done anything to garner my disrespect or fear. At least, I don't think he has.