October, 2023 Megillah
RABBI'S NOTES
I’m remembering Mickey at the High Holy Days in years past: how he’d work the room, schmooze with everyone, pick kids up, elbow-bump, arm wrestle, tell a joke, talk sports, comment on haircuts, take snapshots, and meet the new folks; he was a little like a frisky pup, a bit annoying, maybe, and a lot joyful. Remembering him calling people up to the Torah, gently teasing the ones who dropped a little bit of Spanish into their Jewish names: so-and-so ben/bat parent Y parent, rather than the Hebrew parent V’parent. Saying “Welcome to the Torah!” Laughing, carrying on, hugging.
I’m thinking about the absolute delight of walking into the shul erev Rosh Hashana last week—our first big group in the building in the last three years, just seeing this beloved person and the next. They’re HERE! The very ordinary but still slightly shocking feeling of being in the actual, material presence of so many of you. We’re still a little hesitant about touching, as we should be; there is a little gesture of opening one’s arms a bit towards another person with an inquiring look on one’s face. Often it turns into an embrace, other times a warm hello and a good to see you. Always a smile, some chat, and that ineffable sense of being In Real Life with someone you know, or kind of know, or are about to meet.
As a kid I used to ponder sometimes over how, if I am with someone, that person is no place else in the whole cosmos besides right there with me. That thought would amaze me. There may be some kind of fancy modern physics to the contrary, but basically I still think this is the most commonplace miracle: you and I are here, looking at each other, and nowhere else on the planet is this happening. I am here talking with, maybe even touching, this other human, the only one who is exactly them, RIGHT HERE.
At some point in the depths of COVID a rabbi friend told me a little story: their shul had some kind of in-person (outdoor, masked) event. In attendance was someone who only occasionally came around, looking somewhat disheveled. The rabbi greeted the person and asked how they were doing; they responded with a long litany of difficulties. The rabbi listened at length, made some suggestions, did what rabbis do when they hear a person’s struggles. I was rolling my eyes a bit as I heard this account, thinking, poor rabbi friend, having to listen to this whole long thing. But my friend, who is deeply kind, observed instead that they were so grateful to have been meeting in person rather than on Zoom, because that conversation would never have happened if there weren’t time to visit one-on-one.
I’m thinking about all that happens when we are together in a room besides what we think we came for: the chitchat, the embraces, the little chin lifts and waves as one person catches the eye of another across the room, the casual touches, hands on shoulders, hugs, little soft pets on the arm, all the interactions we see in addition to the Main Event. Who looks tired, who is tan, who has a bit of a tremor, who looks lively, who seems nervous, who comes in alone, who seems a little lost, and who looks like they know what’s going on. All this before any conversation even happens, before we ask after people’s relatives, before plans to meetare made, before trips get described, before news of health and projects gets shared. I’m thinking of all that happens along with the prayers when we pray together in a room: songs rising up to the ceiling, the dead drifting down to meet the music.
I haven’t allowed myself to think very much about what is lost on Zoom. I am completely sure that Zoom saved our Jewish community. I remember the day three years ago—a Sunday, I believe— when the whole world suddenly shut down. I panicked: this is going to be the end of our Jewish community! I had never even led an online meeting. I didn’t even have a Zoom account. Hardly anyone I knew around here did. I couldn’t imagine our crew adjusting to meeting on the screen. And it was indeed a little bumpy at first: “I can’t see anyone!” “Can you hear me?” “I hate this!” But we found our groove after awhile and held services, even a couple of B-Mitzvahs, even Purim, even High Holy Days, on Zoom. And it worked surprisingly well. One of the joys I could never have anticipated was that people who lived far away (like my parents!) could be with us anytime they wanted to. Over time we learned how to hold discussions, to meditate, to read Torah, even to relay-sing, on Zoom. We did taharah for our dead on Zoom. Life went on.
Sort of. I think it’s time to say how much more lifelike it is to be In Real Life with each other. For some people Zoom is what works… if one is especially COVID-vulnerable, if driving at night is hard, if the cost of gas is prohibitive, if one lives a distance away, if the chairs are too uncomfortable. Also, probably, if one is shy or tentative about showing up. I was so aware over Rosh Hashana of how unaware I was of people on Zoom, how I couldn’t see their little shrugs and eyebrow lifts, couldn’t tell if they looked tired, couldn’t ask after their family news or their health or their travels. It felt to me like important connection was lost.
However,… I just now closed my Zoom window after blowing the shofar and reading Psalm 27, our little five-minute morning ritual. We did the Zoom psalm/shofar all through Elul, and we all loved it so much that we decided to continue. There is something fabulous about waking up, having a coffee (this sentence could probably stop there…), and opening my computer to see beautiful, beloved faces popping up one after another. I feast on just looking. I may not be able to hug or schmooze or elbow-bump with you, but something definitely comes through, even in the little boxes. Presence is strong. Presence is strong, necessary, longed-for. We nourish each other. We thrive on each other. Whatever we can do to strengthen our presence with each other we should probably try to do.
There is so much more to life in Jewish community than just the prayers and songs and words. There is all the mystery of each one of us and of what is kindled in contact between us. I hope that if and when you can manage to come to the shul In Real Life you will do so. And if Zoom is what works, I look forward to your presence there. Your presence is joy.
PAIGE NOTES
We begin October this year on the full moon of Tishrei, in the midst of Sukkot.In California, we get to enjoy the blessing of living in a similar climate to that of Israel/Palestine, so many of the earth-based Jewish traditions deeply align with the ecosystem here. At the end of Sukkot, on Hoshanah Rabbah, we begin praying for rain. From now until Pesach in the spring, we insert into our daily Amidah the hopeful prayer משיב הרוח ומוריד הגשם mashiv haruach u’morid ha’gashem:“May the winds blow and the rains fall.” From Passover until now, from spring to autumn, we do not pray for rain as it is not rain season in Israel/Palestine, or here. Even in New York, though, Jews still refrain from saying this line all summer, though it doesn’t quite make as much sense there.
With our dry season and wet season, this tradition connects us to both our people in the Middle East and the Indigenous people of these lands we dwell on, honoring the need for, and blessing of falling waters.
It’s a funny game we seem to play, though. During the week leading up to praying for rain, we have the most outdoorsy holiday of the entire year. Traditionally, we spend the whole week in our outdoor sukkah, eating all our meals and even sleeping every night under the stars. What a flirtation with the elements! It feels to me like the superstitious notion that, “If you bring an umbrella, it won’t rain.” For our ancestors it was, “If we sleep under our roofs, it won’t rain!” Around here, our version of that might be, “If I covermy woodpile, it won’t rain.” The lesson we are to take from this seems to be that, when we try to make ourselves less vulnerable, spiritual nourishment won’t come. When we open ourselves up,when we’re ready to receive the blessed rains in their mysteriously unknown Divine time, then our thirst will be quenched and we will find all we might be seeking.
with blessings for both literal & metaphorical rains,
rabbi paige
