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In late April, I attended the Consultation on Conscience, a social justice conference in Washington D.C., created and organized by the Religious Action Center for Reform Judaism. I wrote about it in a previous blog, but I left out one very important detail: By some stroke of luck, I was able to get into the Supreme Court to hear a portion of the arguments for the case that would decide on marriage equality in all 50 states. I write this blog post many weeks later, knowing now how the case turned out, still in awe and in a state of permanent pride both as a member of the gay community and as an American.Â So here is my story:
The final day of the conference was Tuesday, April 28, the day that the Supreme Court was scheduled to hear arguments on the historic case, Obergefell v Hodges, the case that could possibly make gay marriage legal in all 50 states. I decided to skip the final morning of the conference and head over to the Supreme Court; I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.Â I arrived at 8am and the plaza was near full already! The energy was infectious and colorful, rainbows abound.Â People were singing, chanting and praying, sending all their energy toward the looming white building in front of them.
Of course there were also those there shouting for an entirely different result.Â I found a few friends and grabbed as much rainbow paraphernaliaÂ as I could and joined in with the crowd.Â In the midst of the chaos I also joined a long line, hoping to get one of those elusive bright yellow squares of paper, given out by the Supreme Court security guards that allowed the recipient a full three minutes INSIDE the courthouse. I was absolutely sure there was no way I was going to get inâthere were too many people ahead of me, too many people on the plaza, but I waited in that line, next to a man spewing such vile hatred in the name of his God that I almost moved several times.Â But I stood my ground, blocked out the noise, focused on the rainbows as the clock ticked down.
Thirty minutes before the end of the arguments, the word came down the line that they were allowing one more group in, as there had been a protester who had gotten in to the court earlier and caused quite a commotion.Â The security guard walked down the line and one by one, handed out the yellow tickets. I put my hand out, took a deep breath, and he placed one in my palm. I was in!
We were led onto the large plaza directly in front of the court to a side entrance. After two metal detectors and stuffing my large bag into a very small locker so fast I didn’t even remember which locker number I had chosen, I waited with my group of about 10 outside the large imposing doors of the Supreme Court courtroom. I was buzzing.Â After several more instructions given by even more security guards, none of which I had even a small hope of remembering, the doors opened and I walked into the Supreme Court in the middle of the closing arguments.Â As I walked to my seat, I stared at each justice, down the line and tried to figure out as quickly as possible, what was going on in the case.
One lawyer for the plaintiff was telling the story of a career Army man who served his country for many years with honor and pride and was married to his husband in a state where it was legal. He was then transferred to a base in a state that did not recognize his marriage.Â All of a sudden, so many of the equal rights he and his husband had enjoyed were no longer available to them through no choice of their own: He was following his transfer orders.
This manâs story was one of thousands of stories of discrimination that could change if the court voted it so.Â I think I held my breath the entire time I was inside the courtroom, afraid I would miss something.Â Since I had been the last group in, as we were led out of the courtroom and back to the locker room (thankfully, I sort of remembered where I put my things!), the court let out and I watched in awe as well-known senators and congressmen and women walked by, every major director of every organization fighting for marriage equality walked by and then the plaintiffs themselves and their lawyers walked right by.
We all ended up on the large plaza, news anchors and paparazzi yelling, a whirlwind of flashes and chaos.Â I think I finally took a breath.Â When I think about it now, I still can’t believe I was able to hear a bit of the closing arguments on a case that would not only allow millions of people in this country to choose love and would right a very long standing wrong, but would also affect me personally.Â I wasn’t sure how I was going to wait until the end of June to hear how those nine justices would rule.
Fast forward to this past Friday morning: While on vacation, feverishly scanning Twitter and stuck in front of CNN, I heard the news, saw the scroll on the bottom of the screen: âSame Sex Marriage Legal in All 50 States.â I blinked…it was still there. Tears filled my eyes and I had goosebumps on my armsâwe did it, it was done, same-sex couples can legally get married in each and every single state of our Union.
Starting now, we live in a more just country, a place I am a little happier to be from, a place where our children won’t remember a time when loving couples who choose to marry were discriminated against, told they weren’t worthy, their love wasn’t enough, wasn’t valid, wasn’t real love.Â This decision is monumental, it is life changing and it is above all, justice.Â I had the honor of officiating at a wedding this weekend, on a little piece of paradise in the Caribbean and toward the end of the ceremony, I recited the words of Justice Kennedy’s majority opinion:
May we all seek and receive equal dignity for the decisions we make and the relationships we have in the eyes of the law, within our families and in our own hearts.
As we say in Judaism, Ken Y’hi Ratzon, May it be so!
We have many more fights to achieve true equality and lasting justice in our country but let us revel in this win and let that rainbow flag fly high with pride alongside our American flag.
We live in a world of infinite choices, from the most minute (the sheer volume of restaurants that will deliver dinner within an hour), to the most important (the multitude of ways, places and communities in which we can express our values and sense of identity). With whom do we spend our time? What kinds of communities are important for us to belong to? How and to where do we donate money? All of these choices are an expression of our values, whether we know it or not.
Often we make choices out of convenience: which pre-school is closest to our home, has the best hours alongside their educational pedagogy and general warmth? And we make choices out of comfort or lack thereof: Iâm not sure my Catholic spouse would feel comfortable joining a synagogue as a family, even though we have decided to raise our children as Jews, and weâre not sure itâs worth the hefty price tag if we donât really feel welcome âŠ AND weâre not sure about the God thing âŠ AND we have found other types of non-religious communities that share our values.
I have heard from so many of my peers of all religious backgrounds that they are no longer moved by ritual or what they remember of religious community and spiritual life but do want to express their sense of religious values in other ways. (I must mention that as a rabbi, someone who does still find great meaning in ritual, music and synagogue community, that I am saddened by this trend. There are so many amazing synagogue communities that are constantly striving to evolve and create meaning for all generations in a great number of ways!)
A Jewish friend of mine takes his family to a soup kitchen twice a month to volunteer and takes the time to explain to his children that this is how they enact their Judaism: by feeding people who are hungry, by welcoming the stranger as Abraham and Sarah did, by âpraying with their feetâ as Abraham Joshua Heschel said about his involvement in the Civil Rights Movement. I imagine there are many others who also find similar value in these kinds of social justice/social action choices and have chosen this form of prayer, of meaning making, of religious expression over organized religious practice.
There is so much power in action, in getting up and doing something, in making even one personâs life better in real time, if only for a moment.
Two weeks ago, I attended a conference in Washington, D.C., created by the Religious Action Center of Reform Judaism called, Consultation on Conscience. The goal of this conference is first to educate those who attend about the political and justice issues that our country is facing through high level speakers and conversation and secondly to provide tools to take back to individual communities to help galvanize increased involvement on these issues through a Jewish lens.
The issues ranged from Iranâs nuclear capabilities to environmental protection and marriage equality to fighting poverty. A third goal, easily achieved, was that of inspiration. I certainly left feeling not only a sense of pride to be involved and connected with people working to make our country and world a better place, but also inspired to find more ways to enact my Judaism through justice work. I was profoundly moved by Bryan Stevenson, the founder and Executive Director of the Equal Justice Initiative, a non-profit organization enacting justice by attempting to rectify the injustice in our justice system, one case, one person at a time. (Check out his TED Talk here if you are looking for a bit of inspiration. And you can see his RAC conference talk here. He begins 51 minutes in.)
I told many people after hearing his incredible stories and message that I would like to just follow him around for a while. (Iâd even hold his bags, just to see him make the world better and more just, one person at a time.)
I get it, action is powerful. But so is community. Bryan doesnât work alone, and neither do any of us. It is so important for each of us, for our families, to raise our voices for those things we believe in alongside moving our feet, and we have learned that the song sounds a bit sweeter in a choir and the dance always works a bit better with another person; the power of community.
The choices we make come from many sources and many needs but they do reflect our values and how we understand our identity and place in the world. Our children remember and learn from the things they feel a part of along with the things we teach them. We are stronger and can do more together.
So my question for you is: How do you enact your values (or how do you WANT to start)?
I am a counter and a list maker. I use the calendar on my phone/computer and I have a paper calendar. I create a to-do list each week and sometimes add things I have already accomplished for the simple pleasure of being able to cross it out. I have a countdown app on my phone that provides me with the exact amount of time, down to the second, until an upcoming event. I am fascinated by the fact that time never changes and yet five more minutes until recess or your lunch break feels interminable while five more minutes with someone you love is never enough.
We all mark time in our lives in different ways: Facebook reminds us of birthdays, there are myriad apps to download and calendars in every size and color if youâd rather a physical book. If we take a step back from our ever present and much appreciated technology, we are reminded of the passage of time with every sun rise and set, with the changing of seasons, the warm fresh spring air following a difficult winter, even the beautiful and mysterious patterns of the stars in the vast inky blue on a clear night.
And so we all count, individually and collectively, slowly moving along with time, whether we like it or not.
Naturally, Judaism spends a lot of time contemplating and marking the passage of time as well, especially this time of year. On Passover we celebrate freedom, the bonds of cruel slavery broken as the Israelites follow Moses and Miriam out of Egypt and toward the Promised Land. We know the story, weâve heard it, perhaps have even seen the animated version (I highly recommend The Prince of Egypt). Passover is both the culmination of this tale of slavery and the beginning of a new era of freedom and peoplehood.
So it only seems natural that Judaism would begin a count, called the âomer,â beginning on the second day of Passover and counting the 49 days leading up to the holiday of Shavuot, which celebrates the moment on Mt. Sinai when Moses received the Torah, the story of the Jewish people and the laws, values and ethics by which to live. Each day Jews around the world say a blessing for this count as we move ever closer to the next defining moment in our collective life as a community.
Whether you vigilantly count the omer each day or you have never heard of this before, it is an interesting concept. While we often assume that the biggest moments in our lives deserve that special mark on our calendar, a card and maybe flowers, the counting of the omer suggests that remembering the journey, taking that brief moment for a simple blessing, a moment of perspective, also counts (please, pardon the pun).
These in-between moments arenât always splashy or exciting; no one is parting a sea or forming a nation every day. Just like the Israelites wandering through the desert, we complain, we bemoan our busy schedules, worry about whatâs to come, wonder if we made the right choices. And this lovely April, all of that pent up energy collected during a particularly vicious winter has been released and we are all running around, making up for lost time, attending that that spring dance recital or those little league baseball games, maybe soon a weekend visit to your favorite beach. And just as those dark, dreary, snowy winter weeks moved at a snailâs pace, these lovely spring days seem to be flying by. And how often are we simply going through the motions, waiting for that next big event, cruising on autopilot?
So perhaps this year, amidst the craziness, on those average, nothing-special days, find a single moment and simply notice it, make it count. Give yourself a rest from the worry, from the anticipation or excitement of whatâs next. It is the joy we find for ourselves in the most mundane of moments or the peace we create in a single deep breath that allow us to embrace, prepare for and celebrate the most life-changing events that we put on calendars and count down with apps. The tick of time will always be constant, but we can choose how we spend it, even if only for one brief tock. So this year Iâm going to count the omer and try my best to make it count as well.
Iâve been reading a lot these days about âthe Millennials,â the oft-described scary generation who came of age as the millennium marker came and went. I was surprised to find out in my reading that I am in fact considered to be a part of this generation, albeit one of the founding members having been born in the early â80s. So I find myself in a tenuous balance between the desire to defend my own Millennial nature and that of my peers; and trying to figure out the age-old question of what does this new generation want and need?
It is a difficult task, to pin point the soul of a generation. The advertising agencies of the world seem to be doing a better job at it than anyone else, but thatâs nothing new. There are studies both within and especially outside of the Jewish world aimed at understanding what makes us different from previous generations, what makes us tick, how do we spend our money, what are our goals, etc.
The Millenial conversation seems to center around integration of technology, somewhat questionable values and very high expectations concerning money, both wanting to make a lot and adversely, not wanting to pay a lot. This seems like a fantastic generation with which to identify!
I must confess, sometimes I find myself acting like a millennial; I textâŠa lot, I rely heavily on the Internet and am somewhat of a savant at locating anything on the great Google. I watch TV shows on my computer and I donât have a landline.Â I am more inclined to attend an event if itâs free and I love having lots of choices for everything I could possibly want.Â I have big goals for myself professionally and I expect and demand that my gender, sexuality, politics or ideology will help not hurt me as I go through life.
On the other hand, I have the heart of an historian. I have been accused many a time of knowing more than anyone else my age does about a variety of topics from pop culture of an age long gone to lyrics of obscure songs recorded decades before my birth. I have a reverence for the past as it informs the future that many think is missing from my generation. I even took a How Millennial Are You quiz (online, of course) and as I suspected, scored 50 percent: six of one, half dozen of the other.
But thatâs just who I am. Like a good millennial, I straddle a variety of identities and I am comfortable in them all. But statistics and studies cannot tell my story completely.
The first time I confronted statistics was not as a member of a generation but rather as the child of interfaith parents. Statistically, as the child of a Catholic mother and Jewish father, there was little chance that I would end up identifying as Jewish. I love this statistic, this tiny percentage, because I was always so proud that despite the odds stacked against me, not only do I identify as Jewish but I became a rabbi: I center my life around Judaism. While I fully understand the importance of these studies and these numbers, I know first hand that they never tell everyoneâs story. My story will be different from yours even if we share a percentage.
The great cycle of generations always seems to contain a smattering of confusion and frustration coupled with a yearning for youth and the promise it brings. The Millenials are certainly not the first nor will be the last to feel the pressure from previous generations to conform just a little bit more. But rather than bemoan how left behind we all inevitably feel as a new generation takes its place, letâs keep listening to peoplesâ stories and keep telling our own.
While each of us are irrevocably tied to the time and space in which we were born and raised, it is how we live our lives and the choices that we make that define us far beyond statistics. There are always those who define the trend as well as those who buck it and it will continue to be far more important to me to ask why and listen to the answers rather than assume that I already know because I read a study or an article in The New York Times.
No matter your generational identity, I think we all want the same things at the end of the day: some happiness, love and community, and to leave the world better than we found it, despite how differently we may express it or how differently that might look.
Hopefully, with a bit of luck, we will all figure out the wants and needs of this Millenial generation just in time for the next generation to confound us once again.
In the wake of the horrific attack at the office of Charlie Hebdo in Paris and the subsequent deaths in the kosher deli, there has been much talk on television, in print and online about the xenophobic and anti-Muslim reaction that followed in France and around the world. I have fielded angry and scared questions about how to punish those responsible and how we can maintain our sense of faith when we see so much violence in the world. And unfortunately, this isnât the first time we have been exposed to such violence born of hatred and fear in our lifetime and certainly over the course of human history.
The Jewish community has known more than our fair share of this strain of human nature. Yet each time it happens, one very loud reaction seems to focus on the same call for violence and hatred pointed at the perpetrators. It seems only natural that we direct our rage and hurt and fear in the direction of those responsible. However, this rage we feel can darken and dull our sense of real justice and so many of us end up hating and persecuting those around us who in appearance or only in our minds have some tangential connection to the perpetrators. We too are often bound by fear of the other, that which we do not fully understand and the cycle of mistrust, of misinformation and blind hatred continues.
I understand the worry and even the hopelessness that we all felt when we received the first breaking news email about the attack in Paris and turned on the news to watch the events unfoldâanother instance of the worst of humanity. I imagine so many of us spent time asking why and then how. I cannot understand the intense anti-Muslim rhetoric, the assumption that all who believe different than we are responsible and should be exiled or worse.
We have come so far in the world, have so much more than our parents and grandparents; the ability to reach across the globe and communicate, the ability to access information at speeds unheard of a mere 10 or 20 years ago, the deep celebration and appreciation of diversity and struggle for complete equality in so many places that seemed impossible in generations past. Nevertheless, we are still plagued with the most basic of human reactions, revenge and hatred of what we do not know.
The work that we do at InterfaithFamily is about celebrating and embracing diversity, about opening our communities and ourselves to the possibility that there is more to gain than fear from âthe other.â I try to live my life by this message because I want to live in a world where true and lasting peace in the broadest and the narrowest lens exists between family members and between nations. It saddens me when all of the remarkable strides we humans have made are diminished by violence and by the reactions to violence.
So let us remember and honor those who were killed in the choices we make every day, how we treat the strangers we encounter and what we teach our children about those with whom we disagree or just donât understand. A Muslim man, Lassana Bathily was working at the Paris kosher grocery that day and saved several people by hiding them in the storeâs walk-in freezer. Tell this story and find hope every day in all the individuals who make a difference, who act with bravery in the face of fear and who teach us that although we may at times witness the very worst of humanity, we can also, every day, see the spark of the best.
Our diversity is our strength and our future and I hope we will not allow our anger to weaken our commitment to it. Let us seek peace and pursue it, even in the face of those set to destroy it, even amid our justified fear and concern as we have done time and time again. Let our compassion and hope guide our reactions as we search for the light in humanity to dispel the darkness.
When I was very small, my family used to light our Hanukkah menorah alongside our decorated Christmas tree. Christmas was never a religious holiday for us but we decorated and listened to Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby and my mother filled stockings with our names on them with precious goodies.Â I was one of those obnoxious kids who bragged about getting Christmas presents AND Hanukkah presents! But when our family decided to join a synagogue we decided to formally end Christmas in our home. For my younger sister and I, this meant no more tree, no more decorations around our house, no more snowy Snoopy musical figurine spinning slowly, singing carols and certainly no more bragging rights. But we were young and we adaptedâŠfor the most part. But a few traditions were harder to let go of than others.
My sister happened to be very attached to the shiny twinkly lights of Christmas and one year, she badgered my parents as the holiday season began about hanging Christmas lights. But they had made a choice for our family and stuck with it: We were Jewish, so no Christmas. But could there be a compromise? As it turns out, there was, in the form of a string of Hanukkah lights.
My sister happily draped these lights all over her room and even came up with the cleverest of names. They were her âIsrael-lights.â Interfaith pun extraordinaire.
My mom always loved to seek out all the fun little trinkets to stuff into our stockings and so she continued to do so, every year, without fail. When each of us were first born, she had gone to a craft fair and bought us beautiful hand knit stockings and had sewn our names on them herself. One year we were in Switzerland on vacation over Christmas. My sister and I were convinced that the stockings must have stayed home, but lo and behold, Christmas morning, they magically appeared, full of Swiss treats. I also assumed that once I began studying to be a rabbi, perhaps my stocking days would be over, but I should have known to never underestimate my mom. My first year of rabbinical school I was living in Jerusalem and my parents came to visit me at the end of the first semester in December and what was packed in my momâs suitcase? You guessed it! My stocking, filled with treats from home. Iâm pretty sure I am the only rabbi out there who gets a Christmas stocking every year (though if thatâs not the case, by all means let me know in the comments!).
I could argue that this particular family tradition says more about my incredible mother than anything else, but itâs also just a practical reminder that families and traditions are ever evolving and adapting.
My family made it work because my very smart parents stuck to their guns but also allowed for our family to make these sort of meaningful compromises. I donât really remember that much about our transition from a house with a Christmas tree to a house without, but I do remember vividly the Israel-lights and I am still very excited each year to get my stocking. There is no one right way to celebrate holidays or life eventsâjust find a way that feels authentic to the choices you have made in your familyâs life. I remember the holiday seasons of my childhood with joy and fondness rather than strife because I was taught that we could always find a way to celebrate who we were and who we had become.
Iâve been seeing a lot of trends on Facebook over the past few months surrounding gratitude and if Iâm honest, they mostly make me roll my eyes. Iâm all for gratitude but these posts more often than not seem contrived and part of a fad rather than a real look at gratitude. That being said, itâs a much better fad than the latest reality show or diet. Especially during the month of November, when we are asked to think about gratitude and of course have a holiday approaching devoted to this notion. But are we just paying lip service to this yearly concept or do we actually feel a real sense of thanksgiving as we sit around our Thanksgiving tables?
There is something so special about genuinely expressing gratitude. It seems to lighten my soul and give me a much-needed sense of perspective amidst the chaos of daily life. When I really see all that I have, all that I am privileged to do, I am less stressed, I smile more, I treat those around me better. But sometimes that chaos is overwhelming and I donât remember to take the time to see all that I have.
Much like the lone Mitzvah Day which takes place once a year in many synagogues, this single day of Thanksgiving does give us the opportunity to put a spotlight on our gratitude, but what about the next day (*shudder* Black Friday) or the next month? (For the record, a fantastic antidote to Black Friday is Giving Tuesday, and InterfaithFamily would love to see your gratitude on Dec. 2.) And once we have gone around the table and said what we are thankful for, do we do anything more with it or is the ritual of stating it enough?
Here at InterfaithFamily, we have dedicated the month of November to our InterfaithFamily Shabbat and have themed it, â30 Days of Abundant Appreciation.â Our goal was to have communities all over the country, in whatever way they choose, express appreciation and gratitude for the interfaith families in their midst (see which organizations are participating in Boston here). As you might imagine, this takes many forms depending on the community and its makeup.Â But no matter the form, the message is incredibly important. For how often do we really take the time to appreciate those in our communities who might feel on the periphery? How often do we simply acknowledge the diverse composition of our communities and celebrate it?
But hereâs the big question, yet again: How do we keep it going? How do we continue to be appreciative and take those moments out of our day to feel a sense of personal gratitude for all that we have? How do we do it in a ways that feel authentic and not hokey? And in our communities, how do we do the same thing, whether for the interfaith families among us or just simply for belonging to a warm and open community?
I would love to hear your thoughts on gratitude. How can we be reminded in our own lives and in our many communities? Letâs come up with some ideas together!
The other day I saw a rabbi I know post a YouTube link to one of my favorite versions of the prayer, Hashkiveinu. Hashkiveinu is one word in English but means, âGrant that we may lie downâ in Hebrew. In Hebrew, prefixes and suffixes are attached to the word.Â It is a petitionary prayer to be able to lie down in peace at night and to return to renewed life the following day.
The link on Facebook to the video caught my eye for two reasons: As I said, I love this musical rendition of this prayer. Also, this rabbi serves the congregation where I grew up,Â Temple Shalom of Newton, MA.
What does it mean to grow up at a synagogue? For me, I had heard stories from my dad about how his parents were among the earliest members. My dad had his Bar Mitzvah at this synagogue. I was named as an infant there. The senior rabbi at the time, Murray I. Rothman, of blessed memory, got my family through a horrendous time when my mother was struck by a car crossing the street in front of our house. My little brother was 1, my middle brother was 3 and I was a kindergartner. My mother could not get up the stairs of our house for almost a year. She was bedridden on a couch in our den. My father somehow managed the three of us. Neighbors and family came to the rescue. And Rabbi Rothman came to that den every Friday afternoon with a challah and a Torah commentary and studied a little Torah with my mom. This kept her going spiritually and emotionally.
What does it mean to grow up at a synagogue? I knew the halls of that place. I knew the smells, the classrooms, the chapel, the sanctuary, the bathrooms, the youth lounge, the social hallâI knew the building. My confirmation class photograph is on the wall there. In fact, I sat in the Rabbiâs study on more than one occasion philosophizing about God and Judaism (true, I was into this stuff, even as a kid). I felt at home there. I slept there in a sleeping bag on the floor as a teenager at a âshul-in.â I remember the Temple Shalom sukkah in detail even though the last time I helped decorate one was at least 20 years ago. I can still feel the pride I felt praying with my family in the sanctuary on the High Holidays, wearing my new dress. I can see my brothers as I write this, quietly folding the flyers and tickets into origami to keep occupied during the services.
Some say bricks and mortar donât matter. Buildings are passĂ©. Weâve got coffee houses now. Millennials donât want to walk into synagogues. Too many barriers. A building fund is too onerous for members to carry. Whatâs important are the people. The community. This is also true. But, I loved that building and it went through changes and renovations and has a life of its own. I think one reason I felt so connected to the building was that I could walk there from my house. That is how we got to and from Hebrew School. It is rare today for kids to walk places by themselves (at least not as young as we used to). I loved that independence, and going to a place I felt was totally safe and mine.
What does it mean to grow up at a synagogue? It means you know the people. We knew the people who worked in the office, the maintenance crew, the teachers, the educators and the rabbis. These were the people who lived in the temple as far as I was concerned. They were the familiar faces who knew us by name. They were welcoming and warm. They kept the temple going. And, my friends were there. We came together from multiple public schools. We grew up there together. We came to one anotherâs Bar and Bat Mitzvah services. We had our parties in the synagogue social hall. My parents knew the other parents and the kids.
I learned to read Hebrew there. I may not have known how to translate each word into English but I learned to read the Hebrew prayers in Hebrew fluently by about fifth grade. I kept the old blue Gates of Prayer Bookâthe Reform Movementâs prayer bookâon my nightstand growing up, which I received from Temple Shalom. A nameplate was placed in it for me at my Bat Mitzvah. I read the prayers to myself at night and they were a source of comfort.
My parents have now moved to Philadelphia to be near my little brotherâs family. We have no ties to this building anymore. We donât know many people who still go there. Yet, all these years later, when I see a Facebook post from Temple Shalom, it catches my eye. It makes me smile to see the new life that is there now. It is a part of me.
I marry lots of people who âgrew up at an area congregationâ but they left after their Bar or Bat Mitzvah. Maybe they have great and deep memories of being there. Maybe they barely remember their time there.
The only way one feels a sense of growing up in a synagogue is if you are there a lot and get really involved. I am thankful this was the case for me and my family growing up. Itâs never too late to go back. Itâs never too late to try a new congregation. Interfaith families are welcome at congregations, often with wide open arms.
I spent a recent autumn Sunday at the Topsfield Fair, in Topsfield, MA. I was expecting a day of food and rides and perhaps a huge pumpkin or two. I didnât expect to gain a bit of perspective on diversity. As it happens, I got both.
The road to my grandparentâs house seemed never-ending, over many rivers and through several woods we drove. But, when we got off Interstate 95 onto Route 1, I knew we were close. No matter what time of year, this smaller two-lane road was beautiful. In the spring, the trees were just starting to bud and the colors in the fall were spectacular. Every time we drove to my grandparentâs house for a visit, I would feel the excitement in my stomach while driving along Route 1. And every time we made this four-hour journey, we would pass the Topsfield Fair grounds as we edged closer to Ipswich. And every time we passed the Topsfield Fair grounds, it seemed that the fair would be coming up soon or had just ended. I missed it every time.
So when I moved to Boston earlier this year and the trek to visit my family was a mere 30 minutes rather than four hours, I passed the fairgrounds many times and decided that finally, after decades of being deprived of the experience, I was going to the Topsfield Fair.
The Topsfield Fair has been in existence since 1818 and was and remains today an experience in Americana. I saw a gigantic pumpkin and award-winning vegetables, huge and wacky looking chickens, pig races and a petting zoo. I played carnival games that looked like they were from a bygone era and watched someone deep fry butter. I marveled at beautiful quilts and some lovely local photography and was amazed at the sheer volume and variety of food, everywhere. I was especially delighted by the Bânai Brith food tent offering everything from matzah ball soup and homemade noodle kugel to potato pancakes and hot dogs! I sipped on perfect apple cider and just walked around finally enjoying my Topsfield Fair experience.
Beyond all of the fair offerings, I was taken by the diversity of fair goers. Every type of person went to the fair, every ethnic groups and socio-economic levels, young and old, those with disabilities, first timers and seasoned veterans, locals and transplants and everything in between. Not only was the fair a true slice of home grown Americana but the people who populated the fair seemed to be a true representation of America in all of her diverse glory.
Welcome to America. This is who we are. This lovely quaint fair reminiscent of that bygone era is the melting pot, a place for fun and family but more important, a representation of how we all somehow fit together.
Whether interfaith or intercultural, whether you scarfed down that kosher hot dog or tried some chocolate covered bacon in the booth next door, the things that bring us together far outweigh those that make us different and it turns out, everyone loves a fair. What an unexpected pleasure to encounter this reality that we all live amongst but rarely get to truly admire. Our diversity is what makes us strong, what makes us interesting, what makes us, us.
It seems these days that we are faced with more and more choices, whether in our personal or professional lives, whether at home or in public, whether small and inconsequential or life-changing. When choosing to raise a family, we now face more options and possibilities than any generation before us, from the most basic concerns of health and welfare to the more complex concerning character and values. Wading through a multitude of options is no easy task for any parent or grandparent or guardian. Add the even more complex decision-making process that interfaith couples and families face and the task of parenting and raising children seems even more daunting.
Have you ever asked yourself these questions?
How do I infuse Judaism into the lives of my children when I struggle with how it fits into my own life?
How do I teach my child Jewish values, when Iâm not sure what they are?
How do I ensure that my co-parent who isnât Jewish, feels comfortable and included?
How do I even begin to talk about God with my child?
How can I help my children become good people and help make the world a better place?
If youâve asked yourself or your partner any of these or similar questions, you are certainly not alone and you have already begun to delve into the complexities of being a modern parent.
In the Greater Boston area, we are lucky to have an organization and an amazing group of experts who have come together to help all types of couples and parents to answer these questions and figure out their parenting choices through a Jewish lens. Hebrew College, an independent seminary, and the Combined Jewish Philanthropies of Greater Boston (CJP), has created an incredible 10-week course called, Parenting Through a Jewish Lens. This class will help participants explore core values that can strengthen your family, learn with expert instructors who understand your concerns as a parent and enjoy rich conversations with other parents on topics that matter.
Partners from different faith and cultural backgrounds will explore Jewish wisdom that can profoundly enrich yourselves and the loving families you have created. What a great opportunity to create a parenting community and have a space to learn and voice your own fears, joys and questions!
This year, InterfaithFamily and Reform Jewish Outreach Boston has joined up with Hebrew College to create a Parenting Through a Jewish Lens class that is geared specifically toward interfaith families. While so many parenting concerns and questions transcend religious affiliation, we wanted to help create a safe space for interfaith couples to share their own stories, learn from one another and our wonderful teacher and facilitator, Rabbi Julie Zupan.
Parenting Through a Jewish Lens
Where:Â Hebrew College, Newton
When: Starting November 6, 2014, meets Thursdays, 7:30 â 9 p.m.
Cost (scholarships are available!): Individual: $145, Couple: $240
For more information or to sign up, click HERE!
If you have any other questions or just want to chat about something on your mind, please donât hesitate to be in touch with me, Rabbi Jillian Cameron, Director of InterfaithFamily/Boston: firstname.lastname@example.org 617-581-6857. I look forward to hearing from you!