The Magical Minhag Tour

At the beginning of November, I posted about my curiosity when it comes to divorce and minhagim (customs) -- do you keep 'em? What if you're a convert, do you go back to being able to choose? Does it matter if you have kids? Does the length of the marriage matter?

Basically, I'm trying to figure out what constitutes minhag retention in the "frum" (religious) Jewish community.

In case you were wondering perhaps why traditions are so important. Check it, Proverbs 1:8.

I spoke with a rabbi recently about this question I had, and after some quick conversation, he said that he doesn't understand why I wouldn't be able to go back to choosing my own minhagim. So I'm researching and exploring Sephardic traditions, because for some reason, a lot of them seem to make a whole lot more sense to me. That and they're absolutely fascinating. (One Sephardic tradition has it that when you say havdalah, you are to look into the wine, and if you see your face, you laugh aloud after the bracha!)

But you're probably asking yourself: Wait, why would you choose your customs? Who chooses their own customs? Isn't the point of a custom that it's something that's passed down?

Well, when you grow up in a nominally Jewish family (you know, the kind of family where you know you're Jewish but have no clue what a lulav is) and become a ba'al teshuvah or when you choose to be Jewish and convert, you don't have customs. You don't claim any traditions, and when you do, they're typically the kind of things where you know what Chanukah is and you light the menorah. There are minimal traditional differences in lighting a menorah (right to left? gain candles or lose candles?)

So, in these situations, you're blessed with the opportunity to choose your customs, your minhagim.

Well, what if you're a convert, you practice nominal Ashkenazi traditions throughout your pre-conversion existence, then the moment you convert you get engaged, and then married to someone who also has nominal traditions that no one really practices, and then you get divorced from that person. What happens?

Let's say you grow up without any Jewish customs, you become religious in your early 20s, you meet a nice Satmar fellow and get married. You take on the stringent Satmar customs, and then, just a few years into your marriage, you get divorced. Are you bound to holding to those Satmar traditions until you meet someone new? And then what if that person isn't Satmar?

What if you're married, observing Lubavitch customs, and you get married and have three children. Then, you get divorced when your kids are all under the age of 5-years-old, and marry a Spanish Portuguese Jew. Do you adopt the customs of you new husband? Because your children are under the age of b'nei mitzvah and their father plays no role in their life, do your kids take on your new husband's traditions? Or do you raise them in the Lubavitch tradition of their father?

Is your HEAD exploding now!?

Over Shabbat we were considering all of the variations and complications that come with minhagim and the wide, expansive set of traditions that can vary from community to community and even family to family within that community. The glory of minhagim is that they are not law. As Rabbi Marc Angel says in "Exploring Sephardic Customs and Traditions,"

One needs to always remember that the purpose of observing minhagim is to bring us closer to God, closer to our tradition, and closer to each other. 

Furthermore, Rabbi Angel cites Rabbi Eliezer Papo who says that "God knows what is in a person's heart" and that minhagim are not meant to be oneupmanship. If the observance of a minhag results in presumptuousness, it's a very uncool thing.

So my question to you, readers is: Have you been married and divorced? How did you choose your customs, or did you just stick with what you  knew? Did you even think about it or consult a rabbi or was it just something that you didn't think about? If you did get to choose your customs as a ba'al teshuvah or convert, how did you go about doing so? 

Pretending I'm Colombian

One of my best friends in the entire world is Cesar. He doesn't like being put in the public eye, and the fact that he even let me take a picture of the two of us during his Colorado adventures recently is a breakthrough (sorry, Cesar, I know I didn't tell you I'd be putting it here, but, you know, it's relevant).

Cesar was telling me about a tradition in Colombia for New Years that I think will be very therapeutic and cathartic considering how absolutely rotten 2011 has been for me. The tradition?

Burn Año Nuevo: An effigy on the name of the Old Year is made, which is called as Año Nuevo. It is tied up with fireworks, and at the point of the clock ringing twelve, it is burnt. Also, people write their faults, or any feared bad luck on a piece of paper and throw it in the burning effigy. According to beliefs, doing so ensures liberty from all past troubles, sins, and mistakes, as well as bad luck.

Evidently, people build full-size effigies of themselves, dress them up in clothes from the year, and burn them in order to wish away the craptastic things that happened. There's even a business for making small versions of effigies that are safe to burn on a balcony or in city spaces, so I'm probably going to go this route. I had some clothes I was going to donate that I don't wear or don't fit, so perhaps I'll make a little Chavi out of newspaper and dress her up 2011 style. 

Do you have any particularly interesting traditions for the Gregorian New Year? 

Pebbles on the Grave

When I converted to Judaism, something I learned very early on during a marathon of Jewish and Holocaust movies (not to mention the show Dead Like Me) was the tradition of placing stones on the graves or headstones of the deceased. Where I come from (Christian Middle America), flowers are the item of choice for visiting deceased loved ones. It was a ritual that we partook in every Memorial Day when we'd drive to Kansas City and visit the graves of my grandmother, grandfather, and other relatives buried there. We purchased the plastic, tacky memorial flowers and wreaths, and at some point, days or weeks later, someone would be forced to come through and remove the harmful-to-nature plastic concoctions. 

In 2008, on a genealogy roadtrip, I found the grave of my great grandfather and great grandmother.
Not knowing why, and knowing that they weren't Jewish, I placed stones on their graves.

I never asked anyone why Jews don't do flowers at funerals or gravesites; it was something Jews do. It's part of the choreography of death, following the timeline of shiva (the week-long period of mourning) and matzevah (unveiling of the tombstone). Why didn't I inquire? I might have Googled it, or I might have read about it in a book, but it became part of my personal choreography of being Jewish. Sometimes, we just don't think about the things we do. But perhaps we should.

So, when visiting the grave of a Jew, the custom is to place a small stone on the grave using the left hand. According to Wikipedia, "this shows that someone visited the gravesite, and is also a way of participating in the mitzvah of burial." Likewise, Rabbi Simmons of Aish.com says, "we place stones on top of a gravestone whenever we visit to indicate our participation in the mitzvah of erecting a tombstone, even if only in a more symbolic way." According to Talmud Bavli, Masechet Mo'ed Katan, in Biblical times graves were marked with mounds of stones (an example being when Rachel died), so by placing or replacing the stones, one plays a role in perpetuating the existence of the site and the memory of that person buried there.

But the reality is that stones had been used forever for burial. In ancient times, bodies were covered with large boulders or stones to keep animals from picking away the flesh and desecrating the body. It likely didn't play any kind of religious or supernatural role, but more of a practical role. Perhaps our meaningful act of placing a stone on the grave of a Jew threads back to this practical set of origins. But when did that transition in understanding -- of practical to mitzvah-making -- happen? Who can be sure.

Today, to place a stone on a gravestone says, to me, that I was there, I remembered, and I cared. Ultimately, it's more about the visitor than the buried, I think. What do you think?

As an aside, matzevah actually means monument, and although there is no halachic obligation to hold an unveiling ceremony, in the 19th century it became a popular ritual. Some unveil the tombstone a year after the burial, some a week after the burial. (I've seen the former more than the latter.) In Israel, as it turns out, the stone is unveiled after shloshim, or the first 30 days of mourning.

This blog post came out of my beginning to read "Jerusalem, Jerusalem" by the author of "Constantine's Sword" in combination with finding out that a dear family friend, Zitta Weiss, passed away on August 17. Zitta was a survivor of the Holocaust and an amazing and memorable soul. My first shiva call ever was at the home of Zitta when her brother died. And now? I suppose I'm coming back to where my Jewish bereavement experience began. Back to Zitta's home, but to mourn the woman herself. She was born on May 5, 1929. Baruch Dayan ha'Emet. 

Top Secret Rules?

After eating a meal with bread (or any meal really) there are a series of prayers that we say, a type of Grace After Meals, that Jews call bensching. You go to b'nai mitzvah, you go to weddings, you go to any kind of simcha and you walk away with a little book full of prayers and blessings and the Birkat Ha'Mazon.


Every Shabbos, or even when I'm out with friends, I've noticed something: I take lightyears longer than every other Jew on the planet to bensch. Now, I read my Hebrew really quick, but I read it all. I've noticed people flipping pages faster than Forrest Gump running cross-country.

Am I missing something? Am I not privy to the top secret rule that there really are parts you don't need to read? Am I wasting my time going through the entire series of prayers? What am I missing? Is there a set of rules on what is "required" and what isn't?

Help!

(Note: I also wonder this about prayers in synagogue, too, as sometimes I find myself ahead of people in the Shemonai Esrei and then suddenly they're done and I'm like "wah!?")

(Second Note: I've always wondered where the word bensch comes from, and I always assumed it was Yiddish. Turns out it is Yiddish, but it derives from Latin, not German or Hebrew. How bizarre! It means to bless or make a bracha, but generally it's used when referring to saying the Birkat HaMazon, or blessing after meals.)

Cosmic Connection? Happenstance? Or HaShem?

Well, I didn't land the free trip to Israel with Nefesh b'Nefesh, but I have to say mazal tov to BadForShidduchim for landing the spot, as well as SoccerDad for almost landing the spot. (Oddly enough, I'm listed as an entrant both as Kvetching Editor and Chaviva Edwards -- combined would I have won? Who knows.) Now I just have to pray that Tuvia and I can make it to Israel for the chatuna of his cousin, Tzippi. I don't know about you guys, but I NEED to be in Israel. Eretz Yisrael is calling my name. It has an invisible string attached to my neshama and it's tugging quite intensely right now.

A quick update on the mezuzah situation: Unfortunately I still haven't found my beautiful mezuzah. I ate dinner on Wednesday by the Chabad rabbi on campus, and he graciously granted me a nifty mezuzah for my door on campus. After we left and headed back to campus to move ALL of my things from one first-floor, horribly stinky mold-filled room to a much smaller, second-floor but non-mold-filled room, Tuvia presented me with a beautiful gift -- a new mezuzah! It's a small pewter mezuzah with dark blue gemstones at each end (which, interestingly, is reminiscent of my birthstone, Sapphire), and it says: Baruch atah b'voecha v'baruch atah b'tzetecha, which means "You shall be blessed when you come, and you shall be blessed when you depart." But there's more!

Last night Tuvia and I went to the shul for mincha/ma'ariv and to have a quick sicha with our rav. Over the course of the conversation, we came to find out that this phrase on my mezuzah is actually found in THIS WEEK'S PARSHAH, Ki Tavo!

*Cue eerie music* 

Now, after the mezuzah situation, you all are going to think I'm really supersticious. But every now and again there are these little moments of "clicks" in my Judaism. I'm thinking about something and instantly/subsequently something happens to answer my question. Like that time I couldn't figure out if it was kosher to use bathroom spray (like Glade) on Shabbat, and when I returned to my book on the forbidden activities for Shabbat, the next page detailed how you can use the spray bottle. I don't want to think that every little thing happens for a reason, or that I need to attribute every little thing to some greater cosmic connection (in the larger sense -- I realize that in truth all is connected!). But when things like this just happen, I have to wonder.

And, okay, I promise this is the last thing I'll say, but I was sitting in my Midrashic Narratives course yesterday and the professor was discussing the Midrash on Abraham (Abram) destroying his father's idols. The midrash serves to explain the meaning of a specific phrase in Genesis, and the professor was detailing a few other spots in Tanakh where the same phrase appears (it's not important to know which, just go with it). I was expecting him to give us the Book, Chapter, and Verse, but he didn't. He simply said "In Exodus ..." and I'm waiting for the chapter and verse, and nothing, so I pick up my Tanakh and open it and land on Exodus 50:1. And there, right there, staring back at me, at this random page that I opened, was the exact verse he was discussing.

So, is it luck? Is it happenstance? Is it some gigantic ball of cosmic thread connecting me from one thing to the other? Is it some secret part of my brain working overtime without me knowing it, providing insight into things I can't even begin to imagine? Is it HaShem reaching down, poking my brain and making it happen?

I don't know, but it has me spiritually enlivened, and just in time to really throw myself into this month of Elul. To really think about the past year, how far I've come in the past year, and where I'm going in 5770. Do you know where you're going?

Some key words in this post: mezuzah (the little item fixed on the doorposts of Jews with a special prayer in it); chatuna (wedding); mazal tov (congratulations); neshama (soul/spirit); Midrash (an written exposition on the underlying meaning of Biblical texts); Tanakh (the five books of Moses); sicha (conversation); mincha/ma'ariv (the afternoon and evening prayers); Shabbat (the Jewish Sabbath); HaShem (the way I write G-d when I don't want to write the name!).

The Unorthodox Orthodox Jews

An interesting article that is more an interview than an article came across my inbox today in one of my many listservs that I am a part of. I give a private nod to the woman who sent it my way (and the way of many), and suggest y'all give it a gander.

America's Unorthodox Orthodox Jews: A Conversation With Professor Jeffrey Gurock

The intro:

He put on tefillin every day. He was rarely absent from shul. He ate only kosher. But during the busy season in the garment industry, this Bronx Jew who grew up in the first half of the 20th century worked on Shabbat. Can such a person be considered an Orthodox Jew?

Today many Jews would answer "no." However, this gentleman and many others like him appear in a new book, Orthodox Jews in America, which examines the many shades of American Orthodoxy over the past 350 years.

The book's author, Jeffrey Gurock, has written and edited 14 other works, is a former associate editor of American Jewish History, and currently is Libby M. Klaperman Professor of Jewish History at Yeshiva University. The Jewish Press recently interviewed him about his book.

And the major talking point?

"What makes someone Orthodox is his understanding that one is required to observe the mitzvot. Someone could be a Reform Jew and observe many of the mitzvot, but he's not Orthodox because this is a personal decision he makes not based upon a belief in a halachic tradition."