Jew By Choice

I am a Jew by choice.

And before you ask-- both my parents are Jewish. One of my earliest memories is of being with my grandfather, sheltered by his tallit, as he gave the priestly benediction to his congregation on Rosh Hashana. We celebrated the major Jewish holidays (the really, really major ones) (of course, to my parents, there were only four holidays anyway: Rosh Hashana, Yom Kippur, Chanukah, and Pesach; anything else was either altogether unknown by them or counted as merely an esoteric holdover of a bygone age), mainly acknowledged and celebrated with a festive family meal. Occasionally, we even made it to synagogue.  

I was educated as a Jew, the full complement: Sunday, and Hebrew school twice a week, Bat Mitzvah and Confirmation class when their time came. I was dropped off and sent inside, while my parents had a quiet Sunday morning, or a free hour or two on Tuesdays and Thursdays in the late afternoon. I sat, every Saturday morning for almost a year, reciting ancient Hebrew and what seemed like even more ancient English, littered with "thees" and "thous" and flowery beyond belief, alone among a handful of old men, as required by the dictates of my synagogue and my upcoming Bat Mitzvah. Alone, because my parents had other things to do.

I devoured religious school. It felt as if I had found the place where I belonged (had always belonged), a familiar and sheltering home, as we navigated through Jewish history and holidays. I ran through all the primers for Hebrew our Rabbi could throw at me, so that by the time my family switched synagogues when I was in fifth grade, I was a year ahead of the rest of the kids in my (secular school) grade.  And it wasn't just schooling.  There was youth group and music.  Debbie Friedman's (z"l) songs were fresh and new and grabbed something inside us, got our hands clapping and hearts soaring. We sang a new song to God, and did it with joy. 

When I became a Bat Mitzvah (although, when I became a Bat Mitzvah, we still had  a Bat Mitzvah; there was none of this "becoming" stuff), from the bima (think: pulpit), as I gave my Bat Mitzvah speech - I declared my parents to be Lox and Bagel Jews - people who ate their way through Jewish culture, but who, when push came to shove, really felt more comfortable on the golf course than the sanctuary floor on a Saturday morning. I further declared that I would never be like them (remember, I was a teenager).  Most important, I declared my intention, my desire, to become a rabbi.

All of my fervent declarations were met with a hearty chuckle, most especially from my parents. Although they were willing to play along with my more participatory adventures in Judaism, they drew the line at the rabbinate.  "That's really not a job for a nice Jewish girl," they told me.  Funny thing: their protestation had nothing to do with the fact that I was a girl - after all, we were living in the modern world of 1974, and women could do anything (so they told us).  No, they didn't think the calling appropriate because they figured I'd never make enough money by praying professionally.

Like most teenagers, I was adamant, intractable, supercilious and superior. At thirteen, I knew all the answers to life, the universe and everything.

By fifteen, the one thing I knew for absolutely certain was that there was no God and religion - specifically Judaism - was nonsense. I refused to participate, so I told my parents, because I refused to be a hypocrite. My soapbox of self-righteousness felt firm below my feet. Of course, I still took off from school, and later, work, for all the major Jewish holidays, and ate all the major Jewish meals at their appointed times, each in its season. I mean, really - a girl has to eat, right?

From then unitl my early forties, I was a Jew by birth, and that's about it. I did not disavow my Judaism, did not seek other religious options (though I flirted with alcohol as an emergency spiritual plan, then a kind of universal just-be-a-good-person, kind of peace-and-love amorphous spirituality that had no form, and certainly no God). It was easier for me to be disconnected and contemptuous, and so I was.

Somewhere along my way, something happened, something changed. Getting sober helped. Getting married certainly didn't hurt. Having a child pushed me over the edge, turning my contempt into something quite like hope.  Somewhere along the way, I stumbled upon a grace note of faith. And while my faith doesn't actually "get" anything, and while it certainly doesn't guarantee a life that includes no hurt or pain or grief, it does give me just enough strength to put one foot in front of the other, whatever I am facing or feeling.

And now?  Now I am a Jew by choice.  Every day - let me repeat that - every day I choose to be a Jew.  Choose to engage and connect and participate and act and worship and pray as a Jew.  It is a conscious act, like the King who says to Scheherazade: "Good story.  I guess I won't kill you today. Maybe tomorrow."  Some days, I am the King; some days Scheherazade.  I must both act and choose.  

And so I choose - to not stand idly by, to do justly and love mercy, to walk with as much humility as I can muster, every day. Every day, there's a little God stuff, a little prayer stuff, a little faith stuff. With that, I find a measure of peace, a sense of wonder, the joy of obligation and the freedom of service.

I still like the riotous, raucous, chaotic family meals to celebrate the holidays. I am sad that those family meals are missing a few too many faces now, but I treasure the family who are still able to come, and celebrate the additions to the family that have been made over the years. But there is so much more, for me, to being Jewish. It is family tradition and ritual, faith and intent. It is cultural and religious and social. It is how I live my life as an individual and as a member of a community. It is family meals and silent prayer. It is difficult and simple and resonates within me and fills me with light.

I am a Jew because I act. I am a Jew because I choose.  

Thanksgiving 2017 - The Blessing of Vulnerability and the Miracle of Thanks

A decade or two ago, newly sober, still mostly feral, I was in awe of what we called the "fellowship." Drinking had always been such a salve, a slippery balm that maintained an invisible but solid wall between me and the humans. Every drink, every drug, every thing that I used to make me not feel merely bound me tighter, twisted into a tangled mess of fear and loathing – and it all kept me safe. Invulnerable. And here were all these people, all these sober drunks with some time: sometimes only an hour or two, sometimes days or weeks or years (Years? What the hell?), all these people, with names I sometimes remembered but mostly didn't, with phone numbers readily given but that I never called. They all of them, mostly, showed up. For each other. For themselves.

For me.

Even when I snarled, or whined, or pushed back as far as I could go. I felt like Harry Beaton, the character in Brigadoon who couldn't bear his grief, who wanted only for others to hurt as much as he did, who ran, as if all the hounds of hell were running through his head, skittering up and down his spine, trying desperately to leave , all the while doomed to stay in the same place. "I'm leaving Brigadoon," he cried, "The miracle is over!" That was me, too: I wanted out, I wanted the miracle - of sobriety, of AA, of something I couldn't even name - I wanted it over for everyone. And still, all those drunks, they showed up. For me.

"Be honest," they said. Be open and willing and vulnerable, a little bit every day. I scoffed at their naiveté. "Keep coming back," they smiled, sipping coffee as the smoke from their cigarettes rose in delicate spirals, collecting in a haze just below the ceiling of the meeting room. I went back, again and again. One day, on a whim, or perhaps a dare to myself, I offered a truth or two, exposed the delicate skin of my secrets, just a fraction, and waited for the white hot pokers to come, seeking blood, sensing weakness. They never did, and I lived to tell the tale. I tried it again. And again. I shed my secrets like a shroud, felt their weight shift and dissolve, not all at once, but in time, over time, as I learned to trust.

"It's ok not to know," they said. "It's ok to ask for help." I laughed, I was too smart to fall for that line! I knew it all and needed nothing from anyone. I was the Fixer of Broken Things. I knew, above all else, that I would never be loved, and so decided that to be needed was almost the same. Almost enough. So I found all the broken pieces, all the broken people - and I fixed them all. And in all my fixing, I could find a whispery echo of the humanity I was so sure was just outside my grasp. I knew, without doubt, that only one person remained outside the circle of healing: me.

But those people, those glorious drunks, they showed up and they offered and they loved - freely, without any expectation of return. There were no scoreboards or scales that weighed my worth. With infinite caution and care, I crept away from the curse of people - the burden of their need and want and broken desire and slowly, almost imperceptibly, found grace in fellowship, the blessing of people who fill my life, and my heart.

So here now, a few decades later, looking back at a lifetime of wholeness and brokenness and breathless awe, I find grace - and God - in the kindness of strangers and the people I have gathered along the way, here in the quiet of 3:00 am.

Who am I kidding? "Looking back at a lifetime..." Ha! It's all well and good to talk of lessons learned - difficult, daring, skin-crawling lessons that you learn and then fold up neatly, put it away in a drawer in a locked room that lives down a long and cobwebbed hallway that is dusty with disuse. I like lessons like that, feel a smug humility that I can say, "Ah yes - that was hard, learning how to do that. Not that I'll do it again or anything; I got that badge, thanks."

This past year has been a never-ending parade of learning that lesson, again and again, the one where I ask for help. I tried. I tried so hard to shoulder all the broken pieces, all on my own. God, I tried! And I couldn't do it. Time and again, I struggled, like Atlas. I carried every load I was handed, felt buried by the weight of it all, until I stood - motionless, breathless, defeated - until the pain of not asking for help was finally greater than the fear of reaching out. And so, skin crawling, face pink with heat and body glistening with flop sweat, I asked for help.

And without fail - without fail - every time, there it was. Offered not as an "if - then" statement, but freely, unstintingly. There were rides and loans and stronger shoulders than mine that could bear the weight of my fear. People showed up, offered their love, sometimes in the form of coffee and a willing ear, once or twice as a meal, delivered with a happy smile and no strings. There was the offer of advice a time or two, but more often, a steady presence and a gentle hand to hold. I needed everything that was given.

I used to say, in the early days of my sobriety, that the only thing worse than not having friends was having them; the only thing worse than depending upon the kindness of strangers was depending upon the kindness of people you know. Now, a quarter of a century later, I still hesitate. I still stumble, making my solitary way to some desperately high ledge. But with every piece of brokenness that I cling to, I hesitate a little less, don't walk quite so close to the teetering edge. I am learning to shrug a little sooner, so that whatever it is that I think I must carry doesn't crush me under its weight. While I still can’t seem to say “Please…” I can finally, sometimes, actually say “Thank you,” with a modicum of grace and graciousness.

A quarter of a century later, after a lifetime of steadfast fear and absolute certainty that my burdens are mine, that I am the fixer who can never be fixed, I have discovered a new conversation topic with God. These days, there's a lot less "Why me, God?" and a helluva lot more gratitude for all the gifts I have been given. Why me? Sometimes, it's the choices I've made or the actions I've not taken that place me smack dab in the middle of something hard and fierce. Sometimes, there's no reason at all, a thing of fearsome and capricious chance that happens because it does. Even then - a conversation of thanks.

So, as we enter into this season of blessings and thanks, I offer this, my prayer of thanks, with humble gratitude for the presence of strangers and friends who teach me, every day, what grace looks like.

God of infinite compassion, who fills the world with quiet wonder and endless breath, thank You for the gift of not knowing, the grace of bending and the joy of asking, and in that joy, gratitude for the strength of vulnerability, and the ability to give thanks

For Vashti, who danced

I remember when he crooned,

Come, dance for me!
And I would,
just for him.

And Oh! It was
glorious, all silk and
heat and lithesome.
I moved like fire
I moved like water

And later, he moved
with me,  a different kind
of heat, and he called me
his queen.

When did crooning
turn to calling,
and calling to demand?

Dance, he says,

Dance for me, and move

your hips,

and wet your lips

and come - as if I were
his pet, a bitch to lap up

praise from her master,
kept on a collar and leash.

But I am queen.

I am fire,
and water,
and lithe.

I will not dance
when you call.


.

Jew By Choice

Editor's note: I wrote this several years ago for the URJ, proud to declare my Judaism for all the world to see. I am still a Jew by choice. I am also an American. The one has nothing to do with the other, and it frightens me, at a time of rising antisemitism and hatred, that anyone - especially our government, and this administration in particular - would declare my faith, my belief, my actions, seperate from my citizenship. It is too close to a declaration of divided loyalties, and this particular declaration goes so far as to tromp on civil liberties and the First amendment. The trop is all too familiar and leads to a path of violence and vitriol. 

************

I am a Jew by choice.

And before you ask - both my parents are Jewish.  One of my earliest memories is of being with my grandfather, sheltered by his tallit, as he gave the benediction to his congregation on Rosh Hashana. We celebrated the major Jewish holidays (the really, really major ones) (of course, there were only four holidays a year anyway-- Rosh HaShana, Yom Kippur, Chanukah, and Pesach; anything else being an esoteric holdover of a bygone age), mainly with a meal.  Occasionally, we even made it to synagogue.  

I was educated as a Jew, the full complement: Hebrew school on Tuesdays and Thursdays and Sunday school and Sunday school on, well, Sundays, and eventually Bat Mitzvah and Confirmation classes. My parents dropped off, while they had a quiet Sunday morning, or a free hour or two on during the week in the late afternoon. I sat, every Saturday morning for almost a year, reading ancient Hebrew and what seemed like even more ancient English, littered with "thees" and "thous" and flowery beyond belief, alone among a handful of old men, as required by the dictates of my upcoming Bat Mitzvah. Alone, because my parents had other things to do.

I devoured religious school. I felt as if I had found the place where I belonged (had always belonged), a familiar and sheltering home, as we navigated through Jewish history and holidays. I ran through all the primers for Hebrew that our Rabbi could throw at me, so that by the time my family switched synagogues, I was a year ahead of the rest of the kids in my (secular school) grade.  And it wasn't just schooling.  There was youth group and music.  Debbie Friedman's (z"l) songs were fresh and new and grabbed something inside us, got our hands clapping and hearts soaring. We sang a new song to God, and did it with joy.

When I became a Bat Mitzvah (although, when I became a Bat Mitzvah, we still had  a Bat Mitzvah; there was none of this "becoming" stuff), -- from the bima (think: pulpit), as I gave my Bat Mitzvah speech-- I declared my parents to be Lox and Bagel Jews--- people who ate their way through Jewish culture, but who, when push came to shove, really felt more comfortable on the golf course than the sanctuary floor on a Saturday morning.  I further declared that I would never be like them (remember, I was a teenager).  Most important, I declared my intention, my desire, to become a rabbi.

All of my fervent declarations were met with a hearty chuckle, most especially from my parents. Although they were willing to play along with my more participatory adventures in Judaism, they drew the line at the rabbinate.  "That's really not a job for a nice Jewish girl," they told me.  Funny thing, it had nothing to do with the fact that I was a girl--- after all, we were living in the modern world of 1974, and women could do anything (sort of).  No, they didn't think the calling appropriate because they figured I'd never make enough money by praying professionally.

Like most teenagers, I was adamant, intractable, supercilious and superior.  At thirteen, I knew the answers to life, the universe and everything.

By fifteen, I knew that there was no God and that religion--- specifically Judaism--- was nonsense.  I refused to participate because I refused to be a hypocrite.  Of course, I still took off from school, and later, work, for all the major Jewish holidays, and ate all the major Jewish meals at their appointed times, each in its season.  I mean, really--- a girl has to eat, right?

From then unitl my early forties, I was a Jew by birth, and that's about it.  I did not disavow my Judaism, did not seek other religious options (though I flirted with alcohol as an emergency spiritual plan, then a kind of universal (not to be confused with Universalist) just-be-a-good-person, kind of peace-and-love amorphous spirituality that had no form, and certainly no God).  It was easier for me to be disconnected and contemptuous, and so I was.

Somewhere along my way, something happened, something changed.  Getting sober helped.  Getting married certainly didn't hurt.  Having a child pushed me over the edge, turned my contempt into something quite like hope.  Somewhere along the way, I stumbled upon a small grace note of faith.

And now?  Now I am a Jew by choice.  Every day--- let me repeat that--- every day I choose to be a Jew.  Choose to engage and connect and participate and act and worship and pray as a Jew.  It is a conscious act, like the King who says to Scheherazade: "Good story.  I guess I won't kill you today. Maybe tomorrow."  Some days, I am the King; some Scheherazade.  I must both act and choose.  With that, I find a measure of peace, a sense of wonder, the joy of obligation and the freedom of service.

I still like riotous, raucous, chaotic family meals to celebrate the holidays.  But there is so much more, for me, to being Jewish.  It is family tradition and ritual, faith and intent.  It is cultural and religious and social.  It is how I live my life as an individual and as a member of a community. It is family meals and silent prayer.  It is difficult and simple and resonates within me and fills me with light.

I am a Jew because I act. I am a Jew because I choose.