Inspiration in the Imperial Valley

On Monday one of my congregants, Susan Massey, was quoted in the Los Angeles Times. Susan, a longtime activist, has been protesting the development of a military training facility in the Imperial Valley for several years. Her stalwart determination continues to be an inspiration to her community and to me, and it is with a deep sense of pride that I share this article with you:

http://www.latimes.com/news/local/la-me-imperial-dispute-20101213,0,1667225.story

While its David vs. Goliath overtones are clear, what matters most is that Susan is responsible for making her community aware of the potential dangers and drawbacks to the proposed development. Susan, along with her peers, does not give up. She continues to fight for what she believes in; one individual standing up for the greater good of her community. If that's not living Jewish, I don't know what is.

Kol ha Kavod to you, Susan. Thank you for your commitment to tikkun olam - to repairing the world, one small step at a time.

-Jaclyn

Torah Time!

I delivered the following D'var Torah at school today, on Parshat Miketz. The exercise is to write a three-minute "word of Torah," not a sermon. It was well-received, and I'm happy to share it with all of you here! Please feel free to comment below. Happy almost Hanukkah!

Let’s face it: Joseph had it pretty good. After a few rough years, including some intense sibling rivalry, being torn from his father’s home, and a brief stint in an Egyptian prison, he had become one of Pharaoh’s closest confidants, his second-in-command. He had acquired exquisite possessions, a lovely wife, an Egyptian name, and authority over all the land. Even with famine on the horizon, Joseph’s future was looking bright. It appeared as though he had moved on, past the trauma of his youth.

Then his children entered the world, ushering in the next generation. As we read in parshat Miketz this week, Joseph named his firstborn son Manasheh: “God has made me forget all my hardship, and my father’s home.” And his second son he named Ephraim: “God has made me fruitful in the land of my affliction.” Joseph had started over, risen to the top, and created a family. Yet the names he chose for his sons – Hebrew names – leave one curious. One might think every mention of Manasheh – derived from נָשָׁה –to forget – would ironically remind Joseph of the trauma of his past, and the home of his father. And as for Ephraim – from פָּרָה – to be fruitful – this name suggests that Egypt simply was not Joseph’s home, despite his many achievements there.

Commentators note that Joseph’s choices of names are unique, but disagree over their intended meanings. Akedat Yitzhak says that in choosing these names, “Joseph acknowledges God had allowed him to forget the hardships his brothers had inflicted on him. Everything they had done was part of a Divine Plan and thus, he bore them no ill will.”

Nahum Sarna writes, “With the birth of an heir, Joseph has now founded his own nuclear family. He has achieved physical and psychological security and feels he can forget his miserably unhappy youth, or at least not allow it to intrude upon his future.” Both commentaries suggest Joseph had forgiven his family and moved on. Yet this goes against Joseph’s very human response upon recognizing his brothers in Egypt several chapters later.

Samson Rafael Hirsch argues that Manasheh and Ephraim “are the greatest proof of loyalty to Joseph’s origins, and his determination not to be sucked into Egyptian culture.” And Abarbanel claims that “despite all the greatness and splendor Joseph enjoyed as viceroy, he still regarded Egypt as the land of his suffering, for he was still a son of Jacob and a native of the Holy Land.” Despite everything he had gained in Egypt, Joseph would always be the beloved child of Jacob, the owner of a multicolored tunic, the gifted young interpreter of dreams. He could not look ahead, toward his family’s future, without also acknowledging the truth of his past.

Hirsch goes on to comment that “nashah can have connotations other than forgetting. It can also denote being a “creditor,” conveying that ‘God has turned my trouble and my family into my creditors. That which until now seemed to me misfortune and abuse, God has turned into the instrument of my greatest happiness.” For Hirsch, the name Manasheh signifies the gift Joseph’s brothers unintentionally bestowed upon him. Even in their despicable act of jealousy, they pushed Joseph toward his personal destiny and our people’s eventual redemption.

Today, in Jewish homes across the world, parents bless their sons on Shabbat evenings: “May God make you like Ephraim and Menasheh.” It harkens back to the blessing an ailing Jacob bestows upon his grandsons – the first brothers in the biblical narrative to coexist peacefully, the first Israelite children to maintain their identities in a foreign land. With this blessing, modern-day parents look forward to the future achievements of their children. Yet Menasheh and Ephraim also remind us all to look backward, toward our own richly layered, often complicated pasts. For as these names teach us, we cannot get to where we’re headed – no matter the destination – without remembering where we’ve been.

Boker Tov.

Giving Thanks, the Jewish Way

Happy Thanksgiving to all!

Several of my sixth graders were surprised to discover this week that Thanksgiving is not a Jewish holiday. I found this a bit odd, and also a bit sweet. Odd because Thanksgiving is such an American entity, celebrated by people of all religious denominations and beliefs. And sweet because, at least for some of my kids, any holiday that promotes gratitude, family, and communal gathering seemingly has its roots in Judaism.

We are a religion so deeply rooted in gratitude. Traditionally, the first prayer we utter when we wake up in the morning is Modeh Ani - a prayer which states, "Thankful am I before you, living and eternal king, for you have mercifully restored my soul to me." After laying down to sleep for several hours - the closest a healthy person comes to death - one is incredibly grateful to have their soul restored upon waking. The prayer reminds us to be thankful each and every day, from the moment our eyes open and we rise from our slumber.

In the traditional weekday Amidah, the three final benedictions focus on thanksgiving - expressions of gratitude to God. The words Modim Anachnu Lach - thankful are we to you, our God - are a recurring theme we see throughout our liturgy.

And as I learned at my home synagogue tonight, the first Thanksgiving between the Pilgrims and Native Americans in 1621 echoed themes of Sukkot, the Jewish fall harvest holiday. The original intent of the Pilgrims was to thank their Native American neighbors for helping them survive their first winter. Their communal gathering was an expression of gratitude for the bounty of the land and its abundant harvest. Similarly, the concept of Sukkot and the expressions of gratitude to God therein conveyed a tremendous sense of thanksgiving, reverence to the land, and communal responsibility.

Thanksgiving is by no means a religious holiday. It is a secular celebration meant to commemorate an American historical event. No prayers are uttered, no commandments required. And yet, as least for my family, Thanksgiving is the most ritualistic event of our year.

Every Thanksgiving morning, the four of us wake up, bake cinnamon rolls (which have in recent years become gluten-free) watch the Macy's Parade and football, head to the movies, and enjoy a delicious dinner prepared by our dear family friends the Browns. The consistency of this ritual is astounding, considering my beloved family is admittedly a little less than consistent when it comes to Jewish holidays, including Shabbat.

Perhaps it's simply easier to observe Thanksgiving when the entire community - and country - is also celebrating that same day. Perhaps it's just become an easy thing for my family to get used to - given that our respective work and school schedules allow and encourage the celebration.

Yet I believe that at its core, the ritual of Thanksgiving does represent something intrinsically Jewish: the desire to express our gratitude for the bounty in our lives, the need for communal and familial gathering, the coming together over food and drink. It is in many ways a grand prelude to Shabbat; a day of rest, renewal, and if you're very lucky, a hugely satisfying meal.

Yes, Shabbat and Thanksgiving are distinct from one another. Thanksgiving comes once a year; Shabbat is Heschel's holy "cathedral in time" for which the six days of the week serve as a warm-up. Thanksgiving is a national entity celebrated by Jews, Christians, Muslims, and atheists alike. Shabbat is an undoubtedly Jewish concept. The two are different, and come to represent different things. Yet at their core is gratitude - a human expression of thanks intrinsic to all faiths and cultures.

On this holiday weekend, we must also recognize that so many people in our communities are unable to celebrate a traditional Thanksgiving. People who cannot afford a full holiday meal, who are homeless, living on food stamps, disconnected from society, from family and friends, or who cannot physically gain access to a festive celebration.

On the front page of the LA Times this morning was a listing of various charitable organizations working to provide Los Angelenos with free Thanksgiving meals today. Hundreds of people volunteered their time and energy to provide those less fortunate not only with food, but with the warmth and spirit of the season. It never ceases to amaze me how many people dedicate a portion or all of their Thanksgiving holiday to those they may not even know. And it never ceases to move me how willing so many are to give back. That, to me, is the sincerest expression of gratitude there is.

So on this Thanksgiving weekend, I hope you are surrounded by those you love. I pray you are able to recognize that for which you are thankful - in life, in love, in your jobs and your studies, in your homes and communities.

Finally, I encourage us all - no matter our personal struggles, our troubles, our fears and our doubts - to wake up each morning with expressions of gratitude on our lips.

Modeh Ani L'chem, Grateful am I to all of you.

Jaclyn

Takin' it to the Web

Here's another interesting find! Thanks Uncle Peter for sending me the link. Across the board, more and more synagogues and Jewish orgs are taking to the web to teach, preach, and access not only teens, but their entire families. Below is an article on this recent growth of Bar and Bat Mitzvah e-learning.

It especially got me thinking about my own congregants 4 hours away. How would our time together change if more of our activities existed online? What if we did personal counseling or even text study via Skype or iChat? Would more people participate or take interest if that were the case?

This blog is actually a perfect example of the attempt for integration and bridge-building. Since I can't physically be there, I thought this blog was an excellent tool to unite our two worlds. But is something removed, or missing, because of that? Do we miss out by not having panim-al-panim (face to face) interactions?

Let me know your thoughts!

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/11/21/fashion/21Mitzvah.html?ref=fashion

-Jaclyn

Reform = Kosher?

The release of a new book about Reform Jews and Kashrut has the community all abuzz, and the following article was particularly apropos to this blog. While I don't agree that the entire Movement should be or is going Kosher, (as evidenced by the article's title) I do commend leaders for embracing more traditional practices. Reform Judaism is, after all, based on the premise of Informed Choice. If a Reform Jew educates him or herself on dietary laws and therefore decides to follow the laws of Kashrut, kol ha kavod to them!

Please read and feel free to comment!

http://www.jta.org/news/article/2010/11/11/2741708/first-reform-book-on-dietary-practice-tackles-kashrut

-Jaclyn

Have a Little Fear

The following is a D'var Torah I gave this past Shabbat at my student pulpit in El Centro. I hope you enjoy it, or that it at least gets you to think. Please feel free to comment or ask questions below. Todah Rabah! (Thank you!)

"Have a Little Fear"

Parshat Vayetzei

November 12, 2010

A few weeks ago, as the city of Los Angeles prepared for Halloween, I noticed that the word “fear” was popping up everywhere. “Fear, Fright and Fun Festival!” said one billboard. “Have no Fear – Fall is here!” said another. “Fear what lives in your kitchen sponges,” a commercial warned me. And who can forget the ubiquitous advertisements for political candidates and propositions in the weeks leading up to the election: dozens of tidy little packages of fear.

Seemingly out of nowhere, fear was in the spotlight. And as the weather got colder and the days shorter, fear really was creeping in everywhere – including my relationship with my kitchen sponges.

The truth is, many of us have different reactions to the word fear. For some, the element of fear is… well, scary. For others, fear is a challenge one can easily overcome. Some people are crippled by their fears; others are emboldened by them. And whatever one’s relationship is to fear itself, the way fear manifests in our daily lives can often be the determining factor in how successful we consider ourselves to be.

There are so many meanings for the word “fear.” It can mean something completely different to me as it does to you. The universal fears – fear of failure, losing someone close to us, getting sick, losing our jobs – those fears are ones with which many of us are familiar. But other fears – fear that our lives won’t turn out the way we want them to, fear of not living up to our potential, fear of losing our resilience – those struggles are just as prevalent, and just as tough.

We try so hard to eliminate our fears, face our fears, and stop living in fear. We listen to teachers, self-help gurus and student rabbis who encourage us to face our fears so as not to be afraid of them any longer. We enlist the help of friends and relatives and verses of Torah to help us get past the elements of life which scare us. We try to get rid of that which frightens us; to overcome and extinguish our lives of fear.

So often, we look at fear as a bad thing. Yet tonight, I would like to argue that fear – a healthy dose of it – can actually be good.

About a decade ago, I went through the rite of passage known as Driver’s Education. Just a few weeks after turning fifteen, I enrolled in classes and spent the entirety of spring break collecting the hours I needed for my learner’s permit. I was so excited – I literally could not wait to drive. Watching movies about horrific accidents and driver’s safety couldn’t faze me – I was determined. I was ready. It was time.

I got my permit, I did my hours, and then a week before my sixteenth birthday, something magical happened: I was rear-ended at a yield sign about two miles from my parents’ house.

At the time, I didn’t think it was so magical. Actually, it was awful. Though the accident was clearly not my fault, and my mother – who had been sitting in the passenger seat – reassured me the car would be fixed, I was hysterical. I was so thrown, so freaked out that I decided then and there I no longer wanted my license.

Up until that point I considered myself a perfect driver. But the reality that even perfect drivers get in accidents filled me with such fear about driving; I never wanted to get behind the wheel again.

That little fender-bender provided my parents an opportunity. Later that evening they sat me down for an honest conversation. In that talk, they chose not to reassure me or convince me to become more confident about my driving. Instead, they chose to harness my own fear and use it to their advantage. They taught me to take my fear and never let it go – to carry that element with me every single time I buckled my seat belt.

They instilled in me a healthy dose of fear – and it has stuck with me ever since, carrying me through ten mostly successful years of navigating California’s roads.

Having a little bit of fear can sometimes help us be better at whatever it is we choose to do.

For the past several weeks, our Torah has chronicled the adventures of our patriarchs. No strangers to the element of fear, Abraham, particularly Isaac, and now Jacob have each wrestled with their respective fears and personal demons throughout the book of Genesis.

In last week’s Torah portion, Tol’dot, Jacob receives the blessing of his father Isaac, wrestling it from the hands of his twin brother Esau. For Jacob, fear is prevalent throughout this parsha: fear of not receiving the blessing of his ailing father, fear of letting down his mother Rebecca, fear of being anything less than the patriarch he is destined to become. Yet his deception – and the anger he evokes in Esau – causes Jacob to fear his brother and flee Beer-Sheva. We begin this week’s parsha witnesses to Jacob’s journey.

Vayetzei opens with Jacob’s dream: that a ladder was set onto the ground, its top reaching toward the sky. And on that ladder were malachei elohim – angels of God. As Jacob dreams, God appears to him, saying: “I am the Lord, the God of your fathers. The ground on which you are lying I will assign to you and your offspring. Remember, I am with you: I will protect you wherever you go and will bring you back to this land.”

Jacob wakes, shaken, and exclaims: “ma norah ha makom hazeh – how awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God.”

One would think that, after having this kind of theophany Jacob would be filled with excitement, radiance, joy. Yet the biblical text uses a very specific word to describe Jacob’s emotional state as he proclaims these words – yirah.

How many of you have heard the word yirah before? Its root – reish aleph hey – is the same one as “to see,” ro’eh. It encompasses the emotions of awe, reverence, terror, and dread. Yirah is an emotional state of being most commonly experienced in the presence of God. Yet its primary definition is fear – and it is the fear Jacob experiences which causes him to proclaim his wonder and name the place Beth-El – the house of God.

In this holy encounter between Jacob and God, it is his yirah – his fear – which propels him forward. Forward to the house of Laban, where he meets his love Rachel and marries both her and Leah. Forward towards his eventual chance meeting with an angel and subsequent reconciliation with Esau. Forward to become the progenitor of twelve sons, the twelve tribes of Israel.

In this Torah portion we see clearly how a healthy dose of fear – yirah – can actually be a good thing.

Rabbi Ari Margolis presented his senior thesis on yirah in the biblical text. As he lays out the different levels of yirah found in the 16^th century book Orchot Tzaddikim, he states: “Yirah is related to fearing God but focuses on the individual. At the highest level, yirah is when one’s whole being is filled with an awareness and appreciation for God’s greatness.”

Rachel Farbiarz, a writer and Torah commentator for American Jewish World Service’s Dvar Tzedek, writes the following: “Too often, fear can translate into a reflexive focus inward, a preoccupation with our own needs to the exclusion of others. Fear is like that. It fixes one in place; limit’s one’s world and constricts one’s scope of vision. But, we need not be beholden to fear. And from our patriarch, we know that fear – even in moments of vulnerability – can be transformed into a kind of power.”

Fear has a tendency to lock us in and prevent us from living our lives to the fullest. Yet fear also has the ability to transform us – to open us up to possibility and promise.

Every day I witness the power of yirah. I witness yirah in myself as I wrestle with biblical texts that challenge and enlighten me. I witness yirah in others when I see them engaged in the electoral process – when their fear and respect for their government propels them to vote. I witness yirah when I counsel my engaged friends on what it means to have a Jewish wedding; to fear and revere the institution of marriage.

We witness yirah every day: when we lie down and when we rise up: in our homes, in our communities, on the news, and in our world. When we see the tenacity of those fighting for democracy under the harshest conditions possible on the other side of the planet. When we read about our brethren struggling for religious tolerance and pluralism: for the right to worship and revere God their way.

We witness yirah when the earth moves beneath us; when the ground shakes and trembles and leaves our homes shattered – or destroyed.

Yet these moments of yirah – fear and awe – these moments have the power to make us stronger. They have the potential to strengthen our resilience, test our resolve. And rather than eliminate or avoid fear together, I argue it is how we utilize our fear which ultimately determines how we move forward; how we progress to achieve whatever it is we set out to achieve.

I implore each of us tonight to consider and weigh our fears; those things that enter our lives, threaten our happiness, uproot our security, and plague us with doubt. Which of those fears can we transform into good? How can reconstructing our own approach to fear help us, help others, or help our community? How can we harness the power of yirah for good?

Jacob wakes from his dream to rename the site of his vision Beth El – the House of God. Historically speaking, Beth El sat on the border between Judah and Israel. It was the gateway between two states; a junction between two separate entities.

I pray that when we stand at our own gateway – our personal Beth El – we seize the yirah we feel; the fear, awe, and reverence. Let us learn to embrace the fear, forever pushing forward toward our unlimited potential.

Shabbat Shalom. And drive safe.

A Dip in the Mikvah

The Rabbinical Assembly Mikvah at AJU

This past Monday I experienced one of the most profound Jewish experiences of my young Jewish life. It took place in the basement of the American Jewish University, within the waters of the Rabbinical Assembly mikvah.

Some of you may know the word "mikvah" from the same place I learned it: Sex and the City, Season 6, episode 4, "Pick a Little, Talk a Little." In it, Charlotte finalizes her conversion to Judaism by dunking herself in an exquisite, well-lit mikvah. With light klezmer-esque music playing in the background and a giant Jewish star suspended above her, the scene is the climactic finish to her accelerated introduction to Judaism.

The mikvah's origins dealt with concepts of purity and impurity. It was used as a ritual purification bath following a woman's menstrual cycle (her period of niddah, or separation) as well as for men following unplanned ejaculations, or the wasting of seed. While today that might seem crude or offensive, back then it was considered necessary. The emissions of the body were frightening to ancient minds. Looking at blood and semen as representations of evil, there needed to exist a ritual act in which people could become pure again.

Today, there are only three times when one is obligated (or commanded) to visit the mikvah: when one converts, for brides before their wedding, or for the practice of niddah. Yet in all movements, the mikvah has become a place in which one's conversion to Judaism becomes real and tangible. Through the process of immersion - t'vilah - one is renewed by the power of natural, flowing waters. A person's old life is not washed away, it is simply begun again in themayim hayyim - living waters.

In recent decades, the mikvah has also become a source of renewal. Particularly for more progressive Jews, the mikvah is a place where one can "renew" themselves following a traumatic event, or prepare themselves for a new chapter, like a wedding or job promotion. The healing power of the mikvah has taken on an identity all its own, as evidenced by the recent Mayyim Hayyim conference in Boston attended by several of my classmates.

I decided to go to the mikvah this past Monday for several reasons. First, the mikvah has always fascinated me. Though some of my dear friends consider it an antiquated practice which promotes the theory that women - those who menstruate - are impure (an assertion I disagree with whole-heartedly) I always saw it as a beautiful ritual. How lovely to be able to immerse oneself in water, renewing soul and spirit. My astrological sign - Aquarius - and my penchant for being in, falling in, or drinking copious amounts of water also attract me to the idea of a ritual bath.

This new desire to spend my year living Jewish was also a big motivating factor. My desire to experience different elements of Judaism that were previously unfamiliar or downright foreign led me without question towards the mikvah. That most of my peers have never been, or even considered going, validated my need to push my own boundaries and expose myself to that which lies outside my comfort zone.

The reason I chose to go on November 1st was significant. It was exactly one year prior when I made the most difficult decision of my young adult life. I ended a relationship with someone I loved deeply, but knew in my heart was no longer working. The pain and agony leading up to that day, and the sadness, guilt, and relief it brought on, has followed me in different volumes throughout the past year. It has also been an extraordinary year of growth, filled with new experiences, new relationships, and a new me. I honestly would not change any of it, nor have I ever doubted my decision.

After six and a half years of being partnered, I wanted to mark one full year of independence. To me, there was no better way than through the healing waters of the mikvah.

I arrived after school with my mother, for I wanted her to be my eid - my witness. I removed my clothes, jewelry, nail polish, and contacts. I showered and washed my hair. I was instructed to do all this so that the waters could reach every part of my body.

Then, a wonderful assistant led me into the mikvah, naked as the day I was born. I ascended the seven steps - one for every day of the week - and felt the waters closing tightly in around me. It was the most unreal feeling; it literally felt claustrophobic. But the feeling was meant to imitate that of the womb, or of the loving arms of Judaism welcoming me, had I been a convert.

In the mikvah, I was led through a series of meditations on letting go of the past. The readings prompted many unexpected tears. I immersed myself three times, read three separate prayers, and was soon left alone in the mikvah. There, with just myself and my thoughts, I prayed harder and more fervently than I can ever remember doing. Tears fell down my face as I communicated with God. I had never felt so alive, so present, so connected to something greater than myself. At that moment, I felt overwhelming gratitude and love.

I ascended the steps feeling different. I went back onto dry land feeling as though I had left something behind. I felt a little lighter, and a little less weighed down by the burden of the past year. In the days that have followed my experience, those feelings have only continued.

The mikvah was my opportunity to experience a ritual healing I could not do before. While in many ways I have moved on physically and emotionally from last fall, there was a certain period of mourning I needed to get through. As with any death in the Jewish tradition, (nearly) a full year needed to pass.

Being in the mikvah and having the opportunity to physically do that - as well as pray, whole-heartedly, to God - was just extraordinary. How had I never done this before? What an amazing thing to do - to physically leave behind a part of your past from which you wish to move on. What an amazing concept - using water as a means for renewing your spirit.

I am so grateful to have visited the mikvah and believe so much in its concept. I believe it can provide anyone with an opportunity for release; to let go, and to mark the passage of time from one phase to another. Through the healing power of water - a staple element of every major religion - each of us has the power to be renewed.

So, dear readers, I implore you to ask yourselves: how or when might I use the mikvah? Or if not the mikvah, what other element or ritual experience can provide me with a certain degree of closure? Each of us is a collection of life experiences; each of us has a series of memories from which we may wish to move on. How do we do that, in order to be the best versions of ourselves we can be? How do we become more open, more alive, more connected? For me, the answer this past week was the mikvah. What might the answer be for you?

With gratitude,

Jaclyn

Keepin' it Kosher

This past week my brother turned twenty-one. In my family we do birthdays. They're a big deal. Sometimes the celebrations last for days. On this particular milestone, I celebrated twice in three days the birth of my little brother. Once in Santa Barbara at a delicious Thai restaurant, and once at the sacred temple of Japanese show-cuisine, Benihana.

We have celebrated my brother's birthday at Benihana forever. It's one of our few family traditions - like Thanksgiving at the Brown's or endless rounds of Scene It on Xbox. Benihana on Andrew's birthday is one of the few constants in my family's yearly plans.

Every year, we gather 'round the communal table, usually with a few of Andrew's friends and two random unlucky people who have to put up with our noise. We order the same thing and watch it cooked before our eyes. It's fun, and exciting, and man, that place is a gold mine.

Prior to the main course, everyone gets served a hot shrimp appetizer. It's a perfect little moment of deliciousness - the right amount, the right flavor, the right taste to get you going before the big show of Hibachi chicken or teriyaki steak.

This year, for the first time ever, I did not even let that succulent shrimp touch my plate. I simply motioned for Baldo, our chef, to pass it along one to the left. He did it without question, and my brother was happy to receive two extra helpings of bottom-rung sea creatures. (Mom doesn't eat fish) But there I sat, watching him eat that shrimp, with more than a few questions remaining on my own figurative plate.

Since Rosh Hashanah I have "kept kosher." Aside from one slip at a tapas restaurant last weekend (in my defense, I was starving and thought I was going to eat my friend Emily's left arm) I have managed to maintain it well. My definition of Kosher is: no mixing milk and meat, no pork or shellfish, and certainly no bacon. That's where I'm starting, and so far it's been easier than I expected.

Why am I doing it? For me, it goes beyond this blog. It's more than the allegiance I pledged to my Year of Living Jewish. It's above acting as a symbolic exemplar in whatever community in which I happen to find myself.

I'm doing this because, after one month, I do feel some small elevated sense of self with relation to my diet. I feel a little bit different on a spiritual and emotional level. There's something powerful in saying to those I break bread with, "no, I'm not going to eat that, because my religion stands for something." There's also something a little elitist in setting oneself apart in that way, even when the vast majority of my close friends are Jewish.

Many - my brother in particular - have laughed at me when they've heard about this new foray into kashrut. People who have known me for years know that I find certain Jewish traditions and rituals absurd, and that I'm quite vocal about it. I think others also got a kick out of hearing a future rabbi talk about her love for bacon. Which, quite frankly, I'm kind of regretting now. Not because I'm embarrassed, but because I do think a rabbi should be more guarded with her words. But that's a whole other blog entry...

The truth of it all is, I do feel different. I do feel just a little bit more connected to the laws I'm studying every day at school. I do feel a little bit more like I'm talking the talk and walking the walk. And it feels much more positive than negative. I feel that I'm gaining something much more often than I feel like I'm missing out. I'm going further into the deep end, instead of staying in the shallows where it's comfortable, easy, and safe.

By the way, you want the real truth? The shrimp at Benihana really isn't that great.

And bacon, while delicious, is just one of many, many incredible, succulent, artery-clogging culinary possibilities.

Keeping myself distanced from certain foods, maintaining a level of sanctity within my own body, and continuing to think about its spiritual/emotional/religious/physical impact on me will, I hope, encourage you to think about where you maintain kosher and non-kosher boundaries in your own life. Maybe not with food, but with other indulgences, joys, pleasures, and needs.

Where do we set the boundaries? What's "in" and what's "out?" And how does it make us feel, as people - religious and secular - and as functioning members of groups and cultures? I would love to hear your thoughts.

Check back next week when I blog about my first-ever trip to the mikveh.

Be well, stay well, eat well.

Jaclyn

Let's get spiritual...

This past weekend I attended the second annual HUC-JIR Spirituality Retreat, attended by rabbinical, education, and communal service students. Held on the beautiful grounds of Camp Hess Kramer in Malibu, the retreat was an opportunity for each participant to explore who they are as a spiritual human being. We got to talking about faith, ritual, prayer, and the Big One - God. There were seminars on spirituality and social justice, yoga and meditation workshops, hiking, and beach time. The culmination was a discussion on merging our academic and spiritual lives - a much more challenging feat for us than one might think.

We ate deliciously, prayed frequently, and ... well, I loved it.

It was really a wonderful weekend. Wonderful because it was rejuvenating, inspiring, and boundary-pushing. We discussed many topics that often go unexplored on campus. The most significant of which was the conversation on God.

Perhaps it's because we're always rushing from class to class, or maybe it's because we're involved in so many things we don't have "time" to talk the God talk. In a rabbinical program, that might shock some. But the truth is, when your head is stuck so firmly in between Talmud and Theology, you often forget that God is right there staring you in the face.

A part of me is hesitant to blog philosophical about something so personal, yet the goal of this endeavor encourages me to do otherwise. I also feel that the more open we are about our relationship with God - or to the Divine; something greater than ourselves - the more we can embrace spiritual and personal growth in our lives.

In Judaism, God is the cornerstone. God is the central presence, the Divine being, the Creator of all. God makes God's first appearance on the very first page of Torah. In the beginning, Elohim (one of God's many names) created the heavens and the Earth. From the start, some form of divinity exists, present to create the universe and its first inhabitants. There is no debate, no challenge, no question as to God's existence.

God is as central of a character in the book of Genesis as the patriarchs - Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. As a character, God is portrayed in a mixture of human/divine light. God is gracious, compassionate, and rather giving; yet God also gets angry, frustrated, and rather unreasonable in certain situations. (The flood and the near-sacrifice of Isaac come to mind)

Yet, God continues to give, sustain, and form the Jewish people as a whole entity. Throughout Torah, God is the sustaining, powerful force which guides the Israelites to their Promised Land. God works through Moses, the second most central character in the entire Torah. And when Deuteronomy closes with the mortal's death, God continues to exist, moving beyond the pages of Torah and into the Prophets, Writings, and way beyond - Mishnah, Midrash, Gemara, and more. God is the constant, whether we realize it or not.

Why give you all this background? Because it makes for a compelling case as to why Judaism is so closely linked with God. If Torah is the acknowledged sacred text, guiding document, and touchstone of our people, then God, being the center of these stories, is the center of that universe. I respect that there are many who "don't believe in God." But I also recognize that if you are a Jew, and if you believe in Torah, then in some way, God is very much present in your religious understanding. Call yourself whatever you want. If you're Jewish, God is a large part of your Jewishness.

I am a firm believer in God. I have been a fan for many, many years. And my understanding of God has been enhanced - not necessarily altered - by my experiences in rabbinical school. I have always seen God as the glue that binds us together. I believe that God is present in our daily lives, interactions, activities, and holy spaces and places. God is present in our conception and our birth. But once we are born, we are imbued with free will.

I do not believe God has any control over us or our actions. I have a hard time hearing people say they don't believe in God because, if there was a God, how did God allow the Holocaust to happen? Who says God was responsible for that, or had any hand in it whatsoever? How do we not know that there is also just as strong a force of evil that exists in this world? Perhaps this is my answer to the "Why do Bad Things Happen to Good People" question, and maybe it's naive - but it's helped me create and balance the connection I feel to something greater than myself.

Much of our liturgy contains imagery and descriptions for God which challenge me greatly, if I really let myself think about them. But that same liturgy also makes me feel connected, part of a community, and spiritually alive. So, with that, I merely defer to the need for balance as I continue to learn and understand.

My relationship with God began when my mother got sick. I was six years old, a first grader in Jewish day school, just becoming familiar with life and death. To hear that my mother had something wrong with her brain and that doctors needed to fix her - it felt like the world was coming to an end. I was certain that she was going to die. So, I reached out to some sort of divine presence.

I vividly remember coming out of her hospital room alone, standing in the hallway of that sterile, scary place, and being totally emotionally overwhelmed. So, I started to pray. Looking back, it was more of a conversation with God. I think I just needed to express myself, say my peace. There might have been a bargain involved, for I really wanted my mother to stay alive. In that moment, it was just me talking my six-year-old talk with God. I had a need, and I reached out.

Who's to say that the fact she survived had any impact on my faith? I wonder if I'd be in rabbinical school had that initial encounter with God resulted differently. It doesn't quite matter, for this is what is. This is what's been created. There's been plenty of illness and death in my life throughout the past two decades and I'm still here. My faith is still strong. And it has remained largely unchanged throughout everything.

Sometimes it's quite difficult to articulate our academic study of the Divine, or more appropriately, theology. Sadya Ga'on and Judah ha Levi are just two of the medieval period thinkers I've been introduced to this semester, and both of them are so incredibly heady that I have a hard time wrapping my brain around their theology. This weekend I started to learn Martin Buber's I-It and I-Thou relationship concepts, (to be explored in a later blog entry) and those made a little bit more sense.

But at this particular moment in time, I'm merging my emotional connection to God with the necessary study I must do as a future rabbi. It's not easy to do - and maybe that's also why our conversations can only take place within the safe space of a spiritual retreat.

The truth is, all of us struggle with our understanding of how the world works; the powers that be which keep life moving forward. It's hard to articulate an emotional feeling, or lack thereof, to something as "untouchable" as God. Yet whether we consider ourselves big believers or articulate atheists, each of us must admit that there is something out there - something which enables life and death, which creates sunsets, which enables us to experience relationships with one another. Asking ourselves what it's all about is what helps us find meaning in our lives. As this weekend proved, continuing to ask ourselves these questions and continuing to have these conversations can bring us all to a more inspired, more rejuvenated, more spiritual place.

Shavua tov, may it be a good week.

Jaclyn

Here we go...

Welcome, everyone.

Or should I say, ברוכים הבאים : B'ruchim Ha'ba'im. (Blessed are those who enter)

Some of you may be wondering, what's with this new blog? She had that whole J.Fro in WeHo thing going, and it was kind of witty and all about singledom and we liked it, so why is she doing something new?

Or maybe you're thinking, wait... Jaclyn's going to be a rabbi. She's my go-to gal for all things Jewish. What is she doing spending her year "living Jewish?" What does that even mean? And what has she been "living" the twenty-six other years of her life?

Please, allow me to explain.

The idea for this blog was born in the midst of High Holiday preparation. I was alone in my WeHo apartment, consumed with a desire to provide my congregants with a meaningful and poignant Rosh Hashanah message. As I hammered out a 2,600 word sermon with a charge to live Jewish in a non-Jewish world, I found myself captivated by my own words.

I spent this past summer at URJ Camp Newman, a mecca of Reform Judaism high up in the hills above Santa Rosa. It was a transformative summer for me personally and professionally. Camp introduced me to a massive, influential contingency of my movement, to the traditions and rituals of a very specific summer society, and the power of living in an isolated, saturated Jewish environment for two whole months. It altered in many ways the way I look at my own Jewish practice and caused me to re-examine the Judaism I want to create for others. It also got me to examine my own background and how I arrived at this point in my life.

My Jewish upbringing happened within a very large Reform synagogue in Los Angeles. It was and is an amazing place that offered my family a second home and a richly Jewish experience. It fostered in me a desire to become a member of the clergy. It infused my childhood and adolescence with meaning and purpose. So, in many ways it was fantastic. But it was also quite isolated from the rest of the Jewish world, and from the Reform movement. I grew up thinking my synagogue was the only one in LA.

I have since learned that it is not.

I went off to college and had a great experience at Hillel. Judaism became a positive space in which good things happened; in which connections were made and meaning was found. I went out into the world and joined a synagogue in San Francisco in which those same things occurred. I taught religious school, and worked as a cantorial soloist, and felt such a strong, passionate connection to what I saw as Reform Judaism. All that fused together into one very convincing series of admissions essays.

My vision of the religion when I entered rabbinical school was a somewhat unstructured, this-feels-good, I-love-being Jewish ethical and culture thing. I was captivated by the music and the prayers, the history and the traditions as I saw them. I didn't keep kosher or observe Shabbat, for these were things that just didn't matter when I was growing up. That's not how my family lived. I was completely unaware of the structural system; laws and mitzvot and modes of prayer. I had no idea that Jews prayed three times a day. I had never even seen a person pray with T'filin. In essence, I had absolutely no clue about "traditional" Judaism, or the foundation of the Reform movement. I was, simply, blissfully unaware.

It's been two and a half years since my first day of rabbi school in Jerusalem. In that time, I have learned a tremendous amount about Judaism; about Reform, too. Much of it has felt like a game of catch-up. I'm patching up holes in my practice and background, exposing myself to as much as I possibly can. I've become much more familiar with traditional Judaism and the centuries-old structure upon which my Movement was founded. But I still have a long ways to go.

As I learn, work, and expose myself to all this new-ness, I'm also figuring out who I am as a Jew while serving as a spiritual leader for others. And that experience is so rich, nuanced, and interesting.

So interesting, in fact, that I decided to write a blog about it.

As I charged my own congregants to spend their year living Jewish, I also charged myself. I decided to start actively patching up the holes in my curiosity, pushing myself even further out of my comfort zone and beginning to understand the various why's and how-to's of Judaism. I've decided to spend this year not merely taking Judaism for granted, but actively trying to understand the things I never did.

The first step in this process was confronting my diet. Now, I am someone who previously believed laws of Kashrut didn't apply to her. Rules on what and how and when to eat were meaningless to me and those around me, including the Jewish exemplars I learned from. I ate pork and shellfish with reckless abandon, more so when I lived in Jerusalem and it was like contraband. That it was so forbidden made it all the more tempting.

I now feel that, in setting one's life to the Jewish rhythm, keeping some semblance of Kosher is essential. Knowing what your faith says about how and when and what you should eat is important. So, this year, not only am I going to keep a form of kosher that goes beyond my lack of dairy, I'm going to do a better job of understanding why I should. The simplest, basic answer is: because that's the way Jews should eat. But the more complex answers are harder to figure out. They go to the root of living your life by a certain Judaic code; a structure which infiltrates your daily activities. They go to the heart of the matter; to what it means to observe the laws of Kashrut.

Beyond keeping kosher-style, I'm going to also start observing Shabbat in my way. I'm going to pray with T'filin. I'm going to visit the Mikveh, and go to more traditional synagogues, and talk to people with varied Jewish practices. I'm going to document my own experience of the holidays, and upload divrei Torah, and hopefully do much more. I'm going to explore what it all means to me personally; how it impacts me as a single woman, a Jew, and lastly as a rabbinical student. And I'm going to come back to my computer and document it all, for you and for me.

I recognize that to some - particularly, my peers - this whole experiment might seem a little ... bizarre? I mean, I'm a third-year rabbinical student. Shouldn't I know and observe the laws of Kashrut? Shouldn't I have already laid T'filin? Shouldn't I keep Shabbat now? Aren't all these things a given when you sign up for rabbinical school?

And my answer is, no. They're not a given. Everyone comes to Judaism from a different place. Everyone comes to the rabbinate from a different place. Everyone grows up in their respective communities with the leaders they gravitate toward and the practices they choose to observe. As you grow up, you create a Judaism that makes sense to you, and it's really hard to change it, even as your brain becomes inundated with new knowledge.

It's our responsibility as future Jewish leaders to recognize the missing links and do what we can to make the connections. That's how we become better at what we do. Hopefully, our own journeys can provide those we impact with ways of understanding their own selves; their own practices. That's all we can really hope for in this profession, isn't it?

The truth is, Judaism gives many of us the tools with which to live lives of meaning. It is a foundation for each of us to explore who we are in a vastly secular world. Judaism can be whatever we want it to be, and it can offer us so much. As Rabbi David Wolpe of Sinai Temple in LA recently wrote, "Judaism can both enrich your life and make you better. We are placed on earth to grow our souls and Judaism is the most ancient, proven, effective system for teaching people how to do just that."

I have no idea what this experiment will turn into. Perhaps in the end it will make me more observant, or maybe I'll run screaming towards the nearest Unitarian church. (Doubtful) Whatever happens, I will do my best to present these adventures honestly, openly, and with a smidge of humor. Hopefully, it will help my soul to grow.

So follow me on this journey. Check back often. Whatever it becomes, I hope it pushes you to understand who you are - however you identify yourself - this coming year.

L'shalom, to peace.

Jaclyn