Shema in the Sound Booth - Shavuot

I wrote this piece last year (2012), after attending and helping out at WAREHOUSE SHABBAT

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about standing at Sinai. As Shavuot approaches, I am reminded of the notion that we all stood at Sinai together as we received Torah from God. You were there, and you were there, and you too. You were standing right next to me as we got those sacred instructions. Don’t you remember? It was a very long time ago. Sometimes I have a hard time remembering we were all there together, too.

I also have a really hard time learning how to really bring in Shabbat. It’s not that I don’t make time for it – quite the opposite. I’m a rabbi. I celebrate Shabbat (almost) every week. But, I’m often so concerned with the details and orchestration of the service I’m leading that I don’t ever truly let myself go and relax and feel all the things that I like to help others feel. I espouse peace and rest and worship, but the truth is that I am working. And while I love the work that I do, it’s hard for me to find moments of holiness, of connection, of true release. Just because I’m a rabbi, it doesn’t mean that spiritual enlightenment comes any easier for me.

A few weeks ago, I offered to step in and help my friends run Warehouse Shabbat. I was familiar with the service after seeing it a few months ago at a convention, but I was eager to see it in its natural habitat – a hip lower east side bar on a Friday night filled with young Jews. The food was delicious. The drinks were great. The crowd was really a fun group and the band sounded awesome. But I was there to work. I tucked myself back into the sound booth with Billy (the sound guy!) and focused on the laptop in front of me, prepared not to miss a stitch with the slides, videos, and supplemental images and prayers I was about to help conjure up.

And then, something incredible happened. I let go. We began singing the Shema, slowly and quietly. No instruments, just our voices. It felt singular. I was scared of it, at first, but this feeling washed over me until I was completely consumed. We continued singing, chanting almost, a mantra of our people. And the voices around me exploded. The instruments layered their sound with ours. I was transformed. I stood there, in the sound booth, eyes closed, body swaying, and I was no longer there. I was standing at Sinai and so were the people around me. They always had been. I just couldn’t remember it until at that moment when I was lifted up and struck. Our voices were like a chord that penetrated history, penetrated time and space and place, penetrated our very being. It didn’t matter that I didn’t really know these people in the bar around me. I did know them. In that moment, we connected, we took our places once again at Sinai and together we received Torah. Our voices were one.

And then, it was over, almost as quickly as it came on. I sat down, and I played the next video.

But something about that moment changed me. It renewed me. It taught me. Community is everywhere and accessible all the time. We just need to open our eyes and our ears to the people around us. Judaism also surrounds us, in every moment. We just need the right tools to access it. Music, prayer, intention. But we also need to not get so wrapped up in always trying to make it happen. Sometimes, we just need to let go. Sometimes we cannot be afraid of letting go. Sometimes, we cannot worry about where we are, or who we are with, or what we are doing – we just have to be open to what we are given and the experience before us.

I might have been singing Shema in the sound booth that night, but I will always feel as though I was REALLY standing at Sinai, opening up my heart and my eyes and my ears to God and to the Jewish people. It might have started with my voice, but your voice was there, and yours too, and even yours. I remember now. I remember.

A question of moral responsibitlity

Often times, the greatest questions of morality and character do not reflect how to achieve happiness or whether something is definitively right or wrong. Rather, the challenge comes from our moral responsibility to care for others, to care for our cherished but broken world, and how to partner with God in continuing the daily renewed work of creation. The Jewish tradition teaches that even the poorest among us is capable of giving to others - whether through time, action, or intention.  In that way, we understand that we are  all privileged and imbued with a spirit that is capable of giving. Moreover, it is is our moral and ethical responsibility, as privileged human beings of God's world, to share in that responsibility to promote equality, to advocate for social justice, and to mend our world. As it states in Deuteronomy 15:7-8, "If among you one of your fellow humans should become poor, in any of the towns of the land which Adonai your God gave to you, you shall not harden your heart or shut your hand against them, but you shall open your hard and give them what is needed, whatever it may be."

As religious and spiritual beings, it is not enough it simply pray for good and expect it to come. We must be continuously committed to the hard and, often, difficult work of speaking up and speaking out and taking action so that all of God's children can live in harmony in our world. Then, and only then, will it be possible to think about calling this place Eden, once again.

What drives you to do Social Justice? Reflections from the Brickner Rabbinic Program

The question was so simple.  “What drives you to do social justice?”  But the answer was so complex and varied.  The themes were similar: family role models, personal experiences of injustice, a sense of responsibility and moral obligation.  But each one of us had a story to tell, a piece to uncover, a truth to reveal.  After 15 months of knowing the people in the room with me, I realized that maybe I didn’t really know them that well at all.  And all it takes, to really get to know a person, is to ask a simple question and let their story unfold.
I just returned from the Religious Action Center’s Consultation on Conscience. As a 2012-2013 Brickner Rabbinic Fellow, this was the culminating event to months of study, prayer, and exploration on social advocacy, as it pertains to being a rabbi. But it was more than that.  It was the culmination of months of being in relationship with a great group that helped me realize what it means to be passionate about social justice, to rely on one another professionally to help better our world, and to live with holy intention in the work that we do.
And yet, there was something so powerful, so organically raw and moving in the room as we closed out our final moments together as a group.  Rabbi Steve Fox, Chief Executive of the CCAR, invited us to reflect for a moment.  In most cases, you would expect us to reflect back on the last 15 months and the experiences shared in the program.  But we didn’t do that.  We did something much more sacred, much more meaningful and much more useful.  We shared words with one another about our own personal journeys and lives in relation to changing, healing, and helping our broken world.  It had all the potential to go wrong and be self-serving and egotistical.  But it wasn’t.  It was beautiful. In that moment, our group took the trust that had been building in those 15 months and we unleashed our stories – painful, funny, heartfelt – and we crea
ted sacred space to continue connecting our lives with one another.
That moment continued to teach us about social advocacy, about the holiness that comes from hearing and sharing stories and recognizing the beauty of the human spirit and the power of community.  Social advocacy is nothing without recognizing that we are all human beings, with complex stories and histories and lives, and that we are all in this world together, trying to create a better world so that all may live with dignity and freedom.  But it begins by listening and by sharing.
The question was so very simple.  But I am grateful that it was asked.  Because with it, I was able to understand what the last 15 months truly were about – making sacred connections so that I can be empowered to continue partnering with God and with my fellow human beings in order to help create a more perfect world through social advocacy, social justice and tikkun olam.

Judaism gets it right: Reflections 30 days later

Judaism just get it's right: 3 days. 7 days. 30 days.  A year.  

It's been over thirty days now, since we buried my mother, and I really get it.  I've been saying it to others for years, but it wasn't until now that I really got it.  You need Judaism to help you mourn.  You need the community and the laws and the rules and the structure of time.  It's not that it's comforting.  No, there's nothing comforting about it.  It's that you have no other way to express what you're feeling and going through - so Judaism does it for you. It lifts the obligation of having to tell others how you are feeling when you've never felt more sad, or more alone, or more scared.  And it provides a community that knows all of this, that provides support and love and faith when you are unable to find those things.

It's been over thirty days and I'm just starting to understand what this new reality will be like for me - without my mother on the other end of the phone at the end of the day, without her telling me how to cook something I'm not sure how to cook, without her helping me work through ideas that I have.  But it's more than that.  It's realizing that she won't be there as my life continues to unfold - celebrating the victories that lie ahead, the rough times that challenge me, the joys and the surprises, the big moments and the ordinary moments.  It's been over thirty days and I'm just now starting to really realize what this all means.  Thank goodness I have a year to continue formally processing all of this, to continue honoring my mother's memory and figuring out how to live in this new reality.  Thank you Judaism. 

Everyone tells me I should be feeling a lot of emotions right now.  A lot of people tell me it's okay to be angry.  But I don't feel angry.  I feel gratitude. I feel thankfulness.  My family and I are so grateful for the outpouring of love and support we've received throughout this whole process.  My congregation in NY, our friends and family, our congregation in Indiana and everyone who has reached out to us - we are so overwhelmed by your generosity of spirit.  Thank you - each and every one of you.  We could not have done this without you. 

But my gratitude lies deeper than this.  It lies with my mother.  The greatest emotion I feel right now is gratitude for having a mother like mine.  She was a great teacher and she was patient and kind and wise and fun and smart.  She gave me so much, and for all of those lessons I will be forever grateful that she made me into the person that I am now.  As I wade in the sea of emotions that have taken over me and begin to really process all of this, I hope that I will never loose this sense of gratitude and kindness that I have been given and that I sense all around me.

Judaism marks time so brilliantly.  We mark our years (and reflect on them at various times), we mark our months, our days, our weeks, even our moments.  As I've come through these thirty days, I've realized the importance of time and of marking time.  I realized that it was 10 weeks from her diagnosis to her death.  That's not even three months.  I've realized that I think about how long it's been since I last saw her, since I last heard her voice, and since I last held her hand and kissed her cheek. I also think about how it's gotten lighter the more I come out of mourning.  The first few days were an exhausting blur.  The first seven days of mourning were painful and unbearable.  The first thirty days were a mixture of tears and sadness and catching my breath and trying to keep busy.  Now, things are a bit different.  I still have incredibly hard moments, but I feel more like me, again, than I have in a while.  I remember what it is to smile and to laugh and to enjoy time with friends and family and to be back at work and to be doing good and productive things. I remember that sparkle that I used to have - the one my mother taught me never to let dim or die.  I remember that I have the next year to deal with all of this.  And then, I remember that I will always honor the memory of my mother and her beautiful life by marking the anniversary of her death, year after year. We mark a person's life in Judaism by celebrating the date of their death (not birth) because it reminds us of all their life held and all the things they gave us. And we remember that we never forget who they were and what they mean to us.

Even in death, my mother is still teaching me.  I can still hear her voice telling me to keep smiling and laughing and enjoying life the way I do.  "You're a party in a package!" she would tell me. She was too.  But she loved seeing that in me as much as she loved that it was a part of her.  She would remind me that it's okay to be sad and to use the beautiful structure that Judaism has provided for us to work through all of my grief.  And then she would remind me that there is SO much life to be lived and that it's my job to get out there and to live it and to love it.  

Thanks for letting me grieve, dear friends and family and community and for holding me up and holding us in your thoughts and prayers.  

I'm so grateful for Judaism and the structure it has provided for us in grief, but I'm also grateful for my mother and her lessons, in life and in death. 

Thanks, mom.  You'll always be with me and I'll always keep learning from you - days, months, even years after you are gone.

A Mi Sheberach for me? I'll take it

It 's taken me over a week to finally have the energy, courage, and strength to get this blog post written.  After all, it's been quite the week. First, there was the devastation that Hurricane Sandy caused to the entire Eastern coast. Thousands are still without power, shelter, or basic needs. Then, there was the 2012  election - an energy all of its own in this country. Finally, there was our own personal family crisis: this last week, my mother was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia (AML). Because of so many other factors related to her health, we were told that we could maybe slow it down, but we couldn't stop it. My heart plummeted into my stomach. BOOM! Suddenly, everything became different.

It felt like something out of a movie. We went into the doctor's office first thing Monday morning of last week to get the devastating news - this is how long you have to live....maybe more, maybe less.  We should assess quality of life, not just quantity. How can we make you more comfortable in this whole process?
And before we knew it, my mother had to be admitted to the hospital because her blood numbers were so dangerously low.  Her cough was too suspect. She couldn't eat, she couldn't breathe. It was not good.

My father and I have been alternating days and nights staying at the hospital to help care for my mother. Shes been in for 10 days now. My grandmother, aunt, uncle, brother, sister-in-law, niece and nephew all came into town this last weekend. We're all hugging each other extra tightly, saying things we've never said to one another before (and we're not a shy bunch), shedding tears together, and working as hard as we can to support her and support each other.  We were never the kind of family to take much for granted, but right now, the gift of time is in our faces and we aren't going to lose a minute of it.

I've been thinking a lot about the Mi Sheberach prayer this last week. As a rabbi, I often remind my congregants that we are not only praying for those who are ill and in need of recovery, but we are also praying for the doctors and nurses that help to make our loved ones healthy, and the caregivers that support the sick day in and day out.  As I was thinking of this, suddenly it hit me.  That's me. I'm in need of a little strength, comfort, and prayer too - suddenly I have become a caregiver, helping my very sick mother to be more comfortable and help her be as healthy as possible, while trying to keep her spirits high and the hope of miracles alive. Of course my mother needs to be at the forefront of prayers - praying for comfort and strength for her. But my family and I could use a little prayer too - we too are in need of comfort, strength, support, and love.

This is not easy for me to say. Part of the reason I became a rabbi is because I enjoy caring for others and find it hard to often accept it, myself. It's more comfortable for me to focus on you than for you to focus on me. Plus, I'm pretty independent, pretty self-sufficient, and pretty accustomed to being strong - both for myself and others.

But, right now, I'm a mess.  My mother is laying in the hospital bed next to me on oxygen, dialysis, and light chemo (in order to alleviate some of the difficult symptoms she is experiencing right now - not to try and cure it) and we don't know what each day will bring.  There are good days and there are bad days. But the constants in our life haven't wavered.  Those of you who have texted, called, emailed, sent notes/cards and brought us food - we are so grateful to you and feel so supported by your love and friendship. Truthfully, that has really helped sustain us.
And our faith has  helped sustain us as well: a visit from our Rabbi here in Indiana who offered words of prayer and comfort. The Jewish songs my mother asked me to sing in her room as she received her first chemo treatment. And the prayer for healing. Mi Sheberach - may the one who blessed our ancestors, bless us and heal us now.

When everything changes in a moment, we must cling to one another,  to our Judaism and be strong enough to say , "I need a little extra strength and support right now." No matter what the future brings, we can always count on these things to sustain us.

If you are the praying type, my mother's name is Sharon Wood. She could certainly use your thoughts and prayers. Come to think of it, so could I.

Creating Community, REAL communnity

I have a friend.  Her name is @knitgrlnyc.  You see, that's how we first met. Online. On Twitter. Let me tell you about her.  She lives in my neighborhood, is married, has an adorable little dog, works from home,  and likes to knit and take photos.  Now, let me really tell you about her.  She's Cuban-American, an only child, and she's an incredible friend: She listens well, gives great advice, and will drop anything at a moment's notice if you need her.  She is fun, giving, and incredibly intelligent and hard-working.  Even though she is not Jewish, she knows a lot about Judaism and is always the first to wish me well on a Jewish holiday or to ask about it so she can learn more.  Basically, she's an awesome friend.  And yes, we met online. But now, we're real friends.  In Real Life.

I've been thinking a lot lately about community.  And I've been thinking even more about significant friendships and relationships in life. Over Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year) I gave a sermon about love.  One of the things I spoke about was the importance of building and acknowledging love that exists between friends.  How often do we say how much we love and care for the people who support us, day in and day out? It's easy to tell a spouse or partner that we love them, but what about our friends who provide so much for us, as well? I also stressed the importance of love when building community. You cannot create trust and togetherness without a little love - either for one another or for a common cause/purpose.

Community and friendship can happen in the most unexpected places and at the most unexpected times.  In fact, it can even happen online. Social media, by its very nature, is intended to make our relationships with others more accessible, more ubiquitous, and more frequent.  And these relationships can be just as significant, if not more so, than our relationships that we build in person. After all, you get to know your online friend's thoughts, feelings, habits, musical choices, food preferences, favorite quotes and updates on a daily basis.  And, oftentimes, when you see these people "in real life", you feel more connected to them because of what you know about them.  Personally, I find it very hard when people blame technology and social media for our lack of being able to relate to one another, these days.  I think that when we use it properly, the possibilities for building friendships, community, and even sacred spaces are endless. We just have to get outside of our comfort zone and recognize that there is validity in creating relationships in non-traditional ways, like through our virtual experiences.

Let me be clear - I am not a wallflower.  I am bubbly and friendly and I like interacting with people.  But I also love making connections and creating community and friendships online. It's just another way to get to know someone and to get to know what matters most to them - which is at the heart of creating community (both personally and with others).  And it helps strengthen/maintain/reinforce relationships that you have with people once they are taken offline.  And there are several people in my life that I never, ever, would have gotten to know if I hadn't met them through social media (and then eventually in real life).  I might have seen @knitgrlnyc around the neighborhood, but I might not have ever met her and I would have lost out on all the blessings and love of this beautiful friend.  Many weddings that I officiate include couples that meet online. After getting to know each other through emails or chat, they move their relationships offline and their love blossoms and grows.  You never know who might be just a click away....

I'm sad that @knitgrlnyc will be moving out of the neighborhood this next month.  But I'll be okay.  Because I know that I will still talk to her, see her updates, chat with her through facebook and twitter. And I know that our real friendship, in person, will endure because when I don't get to see her, I'll still have a way to connect with her. That's the beauty of social media - to me.  Even when our community and the people who create community in our lives are not sitting right next to us, we can still always be close to them.
And to me, there is nothing more special and nothing more sacred than the love and relationships and community that we create for ourselves and others through our connections - no matter what the source.

A letter from Auntie Liz

There are only six people in the world who call me Auntie Liz.  Two of them are my own niece and nephew.  Four of them are my friends' children - David, Sam, Yael, and Solly (who really just burbles and smiles at me...he'll get there soon). My best friends for over a decade have made sure that I have a special relationship with their children, because I have an incredibly special relationship with them.
These friends taught me that family is more than just the people who brought you into this world.  Family can be the most special people that you chose to surround yourself with, that are more dear to you than almost anyone else. These families will stick by you through thick and thin (in moments of great joy and moments of utter devastation and loss), make you laugh and cry and add dimension to your life in ways you never thought possible.  There is unconditional love and trust and respect. It has been one of the most sacred and enduring lessons I've learned, as an adult, and I have Michael and Phyllis to thank for that.

Right now, my family is devastated.  I can feel their anger, shock, fear, and sadness.  I feel it too. I can sense their tears.  I am shedding them too. Sammy, who is only six, was diagnosed with Leukemia this week.  And there is no way of understanding it.  None. 

My friend Rebecca wrote a beautiful blog about it here.  She and I went together, less than two years ago, to surprise Michael and Phyllis at the Bris of their newest child. I know she hurts too.  Though she aches for our dear friends, I know her kids are of great comfort to her right now.  And for that, I am incredibly jealous.  I don't have kids of my own.  Michael and Phyllis's kids are as close to my own as any. 

It's hard to feel so helpless from afar.  And while it's okay to feel sad for a while, I can also do something about it, and so can you.  Michael and Phyllis (in particular) are really into Social Media.  Send them a note on Facebook or Twitter (@imabima) (@Abba_Sababa) and follow their blog about Sam's journey once it goes live (soon).  They are overwhelmed by your love and support these last few days.
If you're the praying type, you can add Sam Sommer's name to your healing list and keep all of them in your thoughts and prayers. 
Or you can click here and donate to the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society.  These are just a few ways to be proactive in a time that feels so unraveled.

This is going to be a long road and a rough journey.  But, I know that in the end, they will get through this.  We all will - because we are all with them on this journey.  So I'll leave you with what I would think Michael and Phyllis would say.  Michael would tell you to not dwell so much on the negative and to visualize the outcome that you wish and hope for - to remain as strong as you are and to know that you can achieve anything if you believe in it.  This is what we can do for him.  Phyllis would tell you ways to be proactive, give great advice, and show her love through her warm smile, her baked goods and home cooking, her texts, tweets, and posts.  This is what we can do for her. 
Sam would ask to play angry birds on your iPad, iPhone, or computer.  He would crack a joke and then laugh like crazy.  This is what we can do for him.  And we can do so much more.

R'fuah Shleimah - A complete healing of body and mind to my little one and to my friends who are truly my family.

Love,
Auntie Liz