It's the 7th of Adar: Reflections on Chevra Kadisha

The 7th of Adar is considered to be the date of Moshe's death, and it is a day for Jewish burial societies, known as the chevra kadisha, to reflect on and celebrate the important work they do in lovingly preparing bodies for burial. Jewschool.com posted a week-long series of essays by contemporary Jews about chevra kadisha.  My essay is pasted below and can also be found here.  To find the other essays, search "chevra kadisha" on the Jewschool.com website.  

I am a member of the Reconstructionist Chevra Kadisha of Philadelphia.  If you would like to learn about this Chevra, contact Rabbi Linda Holtzman at rabbilinda18@gmail.com.

Taharah for My Aunt

I have been blessed to participate in chevrei kadisha in three different Jewish communities, and through the process of performing taharot, the ritual purification and preparation of a body for burial, I have learned about kindness and gentleness and experienced the deep calm that accompanies being present to the truth of our mortality. 

I’d like to share about a particularly special experience I had two years ago with tahara.   This was the experience of my first time performing a tahara for a family member.  When I heard that my Aunt Dina died, I drove to Upstate New York where she had lived to help prepare for her funeral.  Family members had not been present with Aunt Dina during her final days, and I noticed the desire within me to participate in her tahara.  In our hevra kadisha in Philadelphia, family occasionally ask to participate, so I knew that this was a possibility.  I contacted the organizer of the local hevra, who told me that I was welcome to participate and gave me directions for how to enter the funeral home.  She then added, “I just need to ask you one thing.  Are you shomer mitzvot (one who keeps the commandments)?”  I had never been asked that question and it took me a moment to sort out how to respond.  The organizer was an Orthodox woman who was serving as a gatekeeper for communal ritual, and my response would affect my ability to participate.  I answered, “yes”, knowing that she might not share my definition of shomer mitzvot– I’m a female rabbi married to a woman who turns on lights on Shabbat; yet, on the other hand, serving the Divine Beloved through Jewish practice is core to how my life is structured.  Thus, I felt that I was answering with integrity by saying “yes”.  This was one of those “better not to give too many details” moments.  

The three women who were members of the local hevra were warmly welcoming and grateful for my presence. They found out that I read Hebrew and assigned me the role of reading the ritual texts as the tahara progressed.  Aunt Dina had behaved in cruel and manipulative ways towards close family members (not towards me), and it was profoundly healing for me to witness the love and gentleness with which these women washed my aunt’s body.  One of the challenges in supporting Aunt Dina when she was alive, particularly for my father who was her little brother, is that she would turn against him when he tried to help her.  In this moment, the giving and receiving was pure.  

When performing a tahara, I have often noticed how the person’s face relaxes and she becomes more accepting of her death as we prepare her body.  This was true with Aunt Dina.  These women taught me that even a person who has been cruel deserves love and honor.  We are all equal in death.  

Following the washing and pouring of water, we dressed her and wrapped her in the white linen sheet and left her on the table for the funeral home staff to transfer her to her casket.  I realized that I had forgotten the jewelry that we had taken off of her in the room, so I went back.  I am grateful for that moment– the opportunity to lean down and give her a kiss.   

Here is a poem I wrote following Aunt Dina’s death.

My father tells me about his sister

I did not know

she kept their Mama on a respirator 

five weeks

ignored Mama’s let me die

years later 

she scolded you failed to return for Mama’s funeral

I did not know 

she stole 

a portion 

of his inheritance

while shouting you want to steal my money

She is dead.  He is sad.

I wash and prepare her for burial

wrap her in white

lean down and kiss her, then kiss her again

My invitation to Kansas City: On Responding to Violence and Injustice

I traveled to Kansas City (my first time!) to speak on a panel entitled "Common Good: Interfaith Action in Response to Violence and Injustice." The panel was sponsored by American Public Square in Kansas City, an organization that brings together non-like-minded people for civil conversation on the important issues of our day.  They even have a civility bell that can be rung by audience members if the tone of the conversation veers from civility, as part of their mission is seeking to improve the tone and quality of public discourse.  The bell was thankfully not needed tonight; however, I'm excited that they gifted each of us with a civility bell to bring home and add to our toolbox.  

I am grateful for this invitation to further articulate my beliefs about how we will get ourselves out of the mess we are in and to learn from my colleagues, a UCC pastor from Nebraska whose PhD is in Hebrew Bible, and a young Imam originally from Philadelphia who now serves a community in Kansas City.   Our conversations focused on both the inner work and outer work needed to respond to violence and injustice.  

The conversation is worth watching and can be found here.  The program begins at minute 23:08. I share my reflections about being present in Charlottesville and responding to hate groups, starting around 1:04:38.  We discuss the role of our sacred texts in relating to current events at 44:12.  

I dedicate this post to the community of Parkland, FL, reeling from the trauma of the death of 14 students and 3 staff in a high school mass shooting. This is yet another wake-up call that it is time to find the courage and wisdom to stop further gun violence in this country.  It is time to seek out ways to offer mentorship and support to young people who are feeling alienated and frustrated.  It is time for guns to be taken out of the hands of those who do not know how to use them responsibly.  May we, the American people, choose life and love.  

The Mournfulness of Her Song: Hearing the Cries of the Enslaved

This is a d’var torah I wrote for Parashat VaEra 5778 for Torah from T'ruah.  The painting is by my brother, Mitch Klein.

On my recent visit to the National Museum of African American History and Culture in Washington, DC, I was moved to tears by one of the readings displayed in the darkened memorial room to those who were transported to America on slave ships from Africa. I learned that the chained slaves would sing songs of lamentation upon their departure and that the captain of one of the ships threatened a woman with flogging “because the mournfulness of her song was too painful for his feelings.” (William Corbett, 1806) In threatening a flogging for singing, this captain was essentially communicating to this woman, “You’re breaking my heart, you’re showing me your humanity, and I can’t allow you to touch my heart this way. Please stop singing, for if my heart opens, I’ll be propelled into turmoil and I may not be able to follow through with the mission for which I was hired. Leave me be.”

This slave ship captain hardened his heart. Like Pharaoh, he hardened his heart and did not let the people go. He placed his self-interest first, constricting his spirit so that he had the capacity to participate in the enslavement of other human beings. Like Pharaoh, we human beings each have the capacity to focus on protecting our self-interest, even at the expense of others, even at the expense of our own souls. We Americans are a country filled with hardened hearts and an obscured ability to see slavery in our midst.

Whereas the 13th Amendment to abolish slavery was passed by Congress in 1865, slavery continues in the United States—shapeshifted into different forms, but still slavery. One of the nefarious forms of slavery today, which is mostly hidden from public view, is mass incarceration. The United States has the highest incarceration rate in the world, with African Americans disproportionately imprisoned and working for pennies an hour. Last year, our minyan in Philadelphia brought Jondhi Harrell, director of The Center for Returning Citizens, to speak about his vision for ending mass incarceration. The room was uncharacteristically quiet and still as we listened to Harrell speak of his prison experience. Prisoners worked long hours and started out making 11 cents an hour, then 22 cents, then 33 cents...it was a big deal if someone got to the level of earning more than a dollar an hour. This was the continuation of slavery in America, funded by our tax dollars, and we had not even been aware.

In this week’s parashah, VaEra, the Divine declares a readiness to free the Children of Israel from slavery in Egypt, and the slow and painful process of redemption begins. Why, after 400 years of slavery, was God finally ready now? The answer is found in Exodus 6:5 (a reprise of Exodus 2:23-25). God says, “I have now heard (shamati) the groaning of the Israelites whom Egypt is enslaving and I have remembered my covenant.” In other words, God’s heart is softened by hearing the laments of the enslaved.

We, too, can soften our hearts by stepping outside of our comfort zones and listening for the stories and laments of people affected by incarceration. It’s important to remember, when listening to those who are suffering, that the greatest gift we bring them is our loving presence. We do not need to know how to fix the problem; rather, by truly hearing and seeing another person, we bring more love and connection into the world, and then together, when the way is clear, we can work towards redemption.

A few years ago, an African American woman in my neighborhood heard about my work on incarceration and reached out to discuss the barriers to staying connected with family members who are incarcerated. It was heartbreaking to learn about how difficult and expensive it is for a parent to continue in their parenting role when a teen or young adult child is incarcerated. Young people from Philadelphia are often placed in prisons hours away. It was only towards the end of our time together that she was ready to quietly share that her son is in prison, and that not many people know because of her concern for his reputation when he gets out. She and her immediate family were suffering the financial drain, fear, stress, and long-term loss of her son alone. I realized at that moment that an important piece of our work in addressing mass incarceration is finding ways to support family members, recognizing that they may not readily make themselves known.

I dream of a day when the ship captain not only listens but laments with the slave woman, when the prison guard laments with the prisoner, when the business owner laments with the grossly underpaid laborer, when policy makers and judges lament with the African American families separated by incarceration, when we each soften our hearts and when white and black people groan together. This is beginning to happen here in America. I believe that God is listening to, and waiting for, our cries.

Remembering my grandmother Pauline

Today is my grandmother Pauline's 21th yahrzeit.  She died on the 3rd day of Chanukkah in 1996, when I was 24 years old.  She was the only grandparent I knew well, as the other three had died by the time I was 4.  I was living in Boston at the time and suffering from depression, which was in many ways connected to not having a clear sense of purpose.  Pauline's death brought me back to myself.  

When I got the call that she had died (she died suddenly-- had a heart attack after winning a game of bridge), I knew what I needed to do.  I bought a plane ticket to Florida, where she had been living with Arthur, my step-grandfather.  I helped Arthur make the arrangements with the funeral home to transport her body to New York, conducted a memorial service for her friends in Florida, found a rabbi who taught me how to conduct a burial, and flew with Arthur up to New York, where we met the rest of the family and buried my grandmother.  Pauline, a first generation American, had strongly discouraged me from becoming a rabbi.  It was "too Jewish" from her perspective, the perspective of one whose life project was learning to integrate into American life.  Yet, my grandmother's friends all said to me, "that was such a beautiful service! You should be a rabbi."  

In her life, she was not ready to bless my path to the rabbinate, yet in her death, she was.  I found the courage to navigate my way out of the depression and two years later, moved to Philadelphia to study at the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College.  Today, on her yahrzeit, I am preparing to conduct a memorial service for a friend's uncle, and I am grateful to be a rabbi and grateful for the blessing of knowing my work in the world, to create sacred space and to serve God with joy.  

I recently wrote a blog post, "Serve the Beloved with Joy", for Mental Health Safe Space, a peer support Jewish community for those struggling with mental illness, which you can read here.  

Happy Hanukkah! Shabbat Shalom!

With my Grandmother Pauline and Grandfather Nathan.  I'm the baby in pink in Pauline's arms.

Blot out the Memory of Amalek: Do not forget!

This past Shabbat marked the 32nd anniversary of my Bat Mitzvah.  I had the opportunity to lead services at P’nai Or Philadelphia, the dynamic Jewish Renewal community founded by Reb Zalman Schachter-Shalomi and his students and colleagues in the 1980’s and now led by Rabbi Marcia Prager.  I love P’nai Or because it is a community to which I am invited to bring my full, authentic self:  she who dances, she who yearns, she who sings, she who cries, she who loves, she who shines forth light.  Here is the teaching I offered for this past week’s Torah portion, Ki Tetzei, based on the maftir (the final few verses of the Torah portion), Deuteronomy 25:17-19. 

P’nai Or offered a workshop last year about the art of sofrut, writing and repairing Torah scrolls.  Each letter of a Torah scroll (there are 304,805!) is lovingly and precisely handwritten on parchment by a sofer (scribe), and the sofer performs many rituals in preparation for this act of sacred writing.  One of the rituals that my friend and colleague, Rabbi Kevin Hale, shared in his workshop particularly intrigued me.  He shared that each day, before beginning to write in a Torah scroll, he writes the word עמלק (Amalek) on a scrap of parchment and then crosses it out.  Amalek represents ultimate evil, the one who attacked the Israelites from behind, attacking the most vulnerable of the community at a time when they were tired and weary, having just left Egypt.  In Deuteronomy 25:19, we read: “you shall blot out the remembrance of Amalek from under heaven.  Do not forget.”  The sofer literally blots out the name עמלק on a regular basis as part of preparing for his sacred task.  

Kevin shared that his teacher, Eric Ray z’‘l, had pointed out that the gematria (a mystical system of finding connection between words in the Hebrew Bible, based on assigning numerical values to the letters) for עמלק (Amalek) and ספק (safek) is equivalent.  ספק (safek) means “doubt”, and Kevin explained that the ritual of crossing out עמלק (Amalek)  is a way to acknowledge and release self-doubt.  He enters his scribal work, an awesome task, having consciously let go of the questioning: “am I worthy of this task?  Will this be good enough?”  

I went home from the workshop and began writing and blotting out (well, crossing out) עמלק as I began to write in my journal.  I also wrote and crossed out עמלק on a small piece of off-white fabric (pictured above) that I pin to my main backpack.  Just like my colleague the sofer, I am called to do sacred work.  My sacred work is in the realm of teaching, leading prayer and ritual, guiding organizations, writing, bringing communities together, parenting, cooking, caring for my home and body. In all these realms,  self-doubt can be paralyzing to me.  “Am I worthy to perform this task? Will I perform it well enough” are questions that often arise for me and hold me back.  I also carry a dread that my presence or actions might make things worse.  

I have come to appreciate that a powerful enemy dwells within.  My inner עמלק (Amalek) keeps me from bringing forth the best of my gifts.   It attacks me most when I’m tired.  It attacks the vulnerable part of me that yearns to take creative risks, to try new things, to explore, and it says, ”You can’t do that!“  It tells me: ”that’s not good enough to share with your colleagues and community“.  It distracts me from engaging in the work that I feel called to do. 

In recent months, so many of us have felt newly under siege: for me, it has been as a woman, a Jewish leader, a lesbian, a protector of a livable planet, an anti-racism advocate, a mother.  I have many practices for keeping the despair and fear at bay, but it still creeps in.  I get attacked from inside, which affects my ability to care for myself and loved ones.  

As I have shared on this blog, I heeded the call to rabbis to travel to Charlottesville to support the local community during the violent weekend in mid-August.  Being there was scary.  We didn’t know how much violence was going to erupt.  Yet being there, being a witness to a modern-day form of Amalek, was also powerfully life-giving.  Experiencing visible anti-Semitism and witnessing the rage of the white nationalists as well as the rage of those who had come to protest them, has propelled me to a new level of spiritual leadership.  It is time to stop being afraid to lead.  I have important work to do.  This is not a time for self-doubt, for allowing the inner Amalek to attack.  A time for humility, yes, for exercising wise discernment and caution, yes, but for letting self doubt and fear hold me back from doing my part in healing our world, no!  

One of the speakers at the 1000 Minister March in DC this past Monday spoke about the role of people of faith: “It’s not about speaking truth to power.  We, as people of faith, are power.  And we speak truth.”   It’s time for us to stretch outside our comfort zone and speak our truth.  The future of life on Earth is in the balance.  

May we remember each day to blot out Amalek.  May we work together to protect one another, particularly those most vulnerable, from the attacks of those who manifest Amalek energy, threatening and carrying out acts of hate and destruction. May we open the channels so that our inner light and love shine forth.  In the name of the Holy, Mysterious, Beloved, Great One, to whom we call in many Names, may it be so.  

The Reluctant Prophet who Saved the World

Here is a zine that I created last night, inspired by the book of Jonah and by the Biblical practice of wearing sackcloth in a time of grave danger.  A few years ago, I took a class at the National Havurah Institute during which we created a zine, and I learned about having the courage to share a first draft, as the editing process sometimes loses the initial raw power.  Here is my little book--first draft. Enjoy!  

If you would like to start the practice of wearing a piece of sackcloth, one place to find it is at a cafe that roasts its own beans.  Please share images and reflections on wearing sackcloth.  

And on another note, happy 54th anniversary to my parents, Morris and Susan.  I appreciate your generosity, courage, and commitment to learning and growing throughout the life journey.