Rosh Hashanah Haftarah -- Chanah's Letter, 5776

Dear Sarah, Mother of Isaac, Wife of Abraham,

Chana here. It’s our day again – Rosh Hashanah, Take 1. The rabbis must have had something special in mind when they added two of the most famous barren women in the Torah to have their stories told on one of the highest traffic days in the synagogue. 

Did you ever think they’d be telling our stories, Sarah? My son? Yes. But me?

We lived 800 years apart, you and I, and I was around 3,000 years before any of the people in this room were born. But our stories are all here, together, now. (Your family’s story continues tomorrow, but you may not want to read ahead. At the very least, if Isaac asks to go on a hike to Mount Moriah with his Dad, say no.

Time cannot keep us apart, Sarah. And if we believe the rabbis, time in Torah isn’t quite as linear as it seems. People assume that time is a straight progression from one thing to the next, one moment to another. But Jewish time, as we know, is a bit more fluid than that. Time folds over itself like a ribbon candy, braids itself into a challah.

We are all here in conversation together. We barren women. We women of hope. You. Rivkah. Rachel. Me. Michal. And Samson’s Mother (Z’llppunith – such a name. No wonder we all just know her as “Samson’s Mom”.) But she had a name, and she had a story.

We are women of hope.

I am not a prayerful woman, Sarah. My approach was always a little more “Are you there, God? It’s Me, Chanah” than pious devotion. And unlike you, I don’t get angels as regular visitors to my home.

We come to Shiloh, to the temple, this ridiculous family of mine. My husband, Elkanah, always offers the right sacrifices, enough for that wretched second wife of his, Peninah, and all of their children. I get one portion. 

Peninah increases her worth with every child she has. Mine withers as each season passes. And all the while Elkanah is telling me I am his favorite. Do you know what he says to me, Sarah?

“Am I not more devoted to you than ten sons?”

Well, yes. And… no.

And Peninah… year after year she taunts me, reminding me of what I can never forget.

I can usually save face, but this year…this year my heart was overflowing with anger, bitterness, and anguish. I was distraught, Sarah. I could not sleep. I could not eat. I could not stop crying. And all the while Elkanah asking me why? Why? Why? My heart broke--it broke into more pieces than it had.

So I left them at the feast and came to the temple alone.

I can admit this to you, Sarah – I did not have faith, but I had hope, a desperate hope that drew from me an unimaginable promise. I made a deal, a bargain. If God would remember me, notice me, and give me a son, I would dedicate the boy’s life to the service of the Lord. I would have promised anything in that moment. Anything to make the pain stop.

There will come a time, Sarah, when prayers are written down, and people will follow along to someone else’s words. I doubt I could have read anything in that moment. No, that prayer was ripped from me like a terrible sickness. I threw myself onto the Temple steps and let my despair rush out of me. Fall on your knees.

Oh Sarah, you should have seen the priest Eli as he approached me. He thought I was drunk! Can you imagine?

“How long will you make a drunken spectacle of yourself?”

I told him, “I am not drunk! I have been pouring out my heart, my anguish, my distress.”

He didn’t apologize, but he gave me a little blessing as he gently escorted me out.

At that moment I had no way of knowing if my prayer had been heard, but it had been said. God didn’t answer right away. I had no surety, Sarah, but… I felt better. Elkanah’s ritualistic sacrifice had given me no comfort. The festive meal no joy. But the moment of desperation, pleading to be remembered, to be noticed…getting all that ugliness out was cleansing. Exhausting and cleansing empty.

I got up off that floor and dried tears. And I went home with Elkanah, Peninah, and her children.

By the time the next yearly pilgrimage came around I was a mother of a son, Samuel (Shmuley to me), whose name means: I asked God for him. As soon as I saw him, though, I was sure I’d made a terrible mistake. How could I have made such a vow? How would I keep it?

Every year Elkanah would ask, “Are you bringing the boy this year?” and every year I’d put him off. He’s not ready. He’s not old enough. The truth was, I was not ready. But I did it. I kept my vow, Sarah. I brought him to the temple.

We all do it, don’t we? We mothers. We fathers. At some point we all give up our children. Oh, it’s not always as dramatic as dropping them off for a lifetime of temple service…sometimes it’s the first day of preschool, the bus stop for summer camp, an airport gate, or their college dorm room. 

We all have to do it. We open the circle of our embrace and let them walk out into the world. And we stand there, arms wide, waiting for them to step back in.

You did let Isaac go on his trip up the mountain with Abraham. It may have slain your heart, but you waved good-bye, and you watched them go.

They all go. They all find other women to love; they leave our houses and make places of their own. We give them to the universe and we hope, and maybe pray, that the universe treats them kindly.

Parenthood can make anyone turn to prayer:

Lord, help me get through this day!

Lord, keep him safe…

Anah el na… Anah el na…Please, God, heal her.

So many of the stories we tell from this bimah end in the middle. (Most good stories do.) 

You died offstage, Sarah. 

After my prayer of Thanksgiving, “My heart exults in the Lord!” I’m never heard from again. 

If my first prayer was the anguish of my heart, the second prayer was a record of my joy, my thanks, my triumph!

It’s not how I’d wanted to be quoted, honestly, and if I could go back and change it, I would. There’s a little too much bragging. It’s self-serving, all “I gloat over my enemies… the barren woman bears seven; the mother of many is forlorn…” That barb for Peninah was unnecessary. I know you understand the sentiment, Sarah. It’s so easy to say yes to that ugly impulse inside us, to want to win. To want someone else to lose. I understand Peninah much better now. I’m betting you “get” Hagar as well.

When we felt unnoticed, we were cruel.

When we were blessed, we forgot to be kind.

It was a miserable journey home after leaving Samuel at the temple for the first time. My arms ached with the weight of his absence, feeling his phantom body in my embrace, as someone who has lost a limb feels what’s gone.

We returned to Shiloh every year, and each year I had more children to shlep along, 3 boys and 2 girls. And every year…. Every Year… I’d bring Samuel a new set of robes, guessing how much he’d have grown over the year.

Before I knew it he was taller than me. He’d tease me, but I secretly enjoyed looking up to my son, the leader, the prophet. I hope he does not judge me too harshly for my vow, my promise made for him without his permission. It was my plan, but it’s his life.

He went on to become a big deal, a real macher. 

He was the last of the judges and appointed the first of the kings. 

He was gifted with prophecy, but he was always my baby, my little Shmuley. 

My first born. 

My gift from the universe and back to it… the prayer of my heart.


(The actual text from the book of Samuel can be read here.)

The Yom Kippur Flood of 2013: Are You OK?

It's Yom Kippur, and on my laptop I have two windows open. On one, I am streaming the final service of the day, Nei'lah from Lab/Shul, a project of Storahtelling's Amichai Lau Lavie. It's passionate, musical, innovative, and moving.

In the other window is live video from 9News.com from the Boulder Airport, where National Guard helicopters are taking off and landing in a constant stream. They are looking for and looking after victims of the devastating Colorado floods.

When the bay doors of one of the helicopters opened, it revealed a large cardboard sign with this handwritten message:

ARE
YOU
OK?

I can picture the helicopters hovering above the floodwaters, a Guardsman or woman spotting a person and holing up the sign, then waiting for a sign.

Yes, we're fine.
No, we're not fine. We need help!

At its best, Yom Kippur asks the same question.

My daughter loves to tell the story of the man who was caught in a shipwreck. A rescuer in a small row boat came and offered assistance. The man refused, saying confidently, "No thanks. God will save me." The woman in the row boat shook her head in dismay and went on her way. Then a larger ship happened by, and the captain shouted down to the man, who was clinging to what was left of his own ship. Again, he refused help. "No thanks! God will save me!" Finally, a rescue helicopter comes by and tries once again to offer the man help. Maybe they even held up a sign. Again, he refuses. "No thanks! God will save me!"

The man dies, and when he gets to heaven, he meets God. "God. What the heck? Why didn't you save me?"

God says, "What else did you want me to do? I sent a boat, a ship and a helicopter! You fool."

At Nei'lah, we come face to face with the big questions.

ARE
YOU
OK?

We are tired. We are hungry. We stand for the entire service, the ark open the Torahs revealed and standing witness to our final pleas. Dressed in white, a reminder of the burial shrouds we will all eventually wear, we confess our wrongdoings for a final time and try to squeeze in some last minutes of soul searching before the gates of heaven close to us.

We stand up, say what we need to, and voice our needs. Not in shouts, but in whispers.

Our religion is a smart one. We have specific rituals to deal with grief; we build sukkahs to house our joy; we have prayers and traditions and rituals for every stage of life and, seemingly, every human emotion. We have Yom Kippur, which is a time set aside for asking the big questions. What have I done in the past year that I regret? How have I fallen short? The picture we paint of ourselves is not always a fun one to look at. But in the end, when the light of Yom Kippur fades, we are really left with one question:

AM
I
OK?

We all have to be careful not to ignore the row boats, ships and helicopters in our lives. Today, when the total number of people unaccounted for in this terrible flood stands at over 200, we must also remember that sometimes there is nothing that can be done against the forces in our lives -- the forces of nature, the forces of the needs of the others; the forces of all those things that are bigger than ourselves. This is part of Yom Kippur, too.

Sometimes you are not OK.

Tonight I will turn some of my prayers to those who are not OK.

Families who have lost everything to the water.
Families who are still stranded on the mountain, waiting for their rescue.
Those who are missing, and those who are looking for them.
Children in Syria who have lost their parents, grandparents and siblings to war.
Parents in Syria who have lost their children.
Those around the world who are truly hungry.
To all who carry their own pain.

The gates of Nei'lah are closing.
But so many gates are opening.

And as your friend, I ask you sincerely...

ARE
YOU
OK?

Beautiful Fotos 10: The View from There

4 out of 5 of these photos were taken from a place other than Earth. How cool is that?

Teach Your Own Children?

If you truly wish your children to study Torah, study it yourself in their presence. They will follow your example. Otherwise, they will not themselves study Torah, but will simply instruct their children to do so. -- Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Kotzk

To tutor or not to tutor? That is the question.

In our synagogue, the normal process for preparing a child for bar mitzvah is a team event. The kids attend Religious School on Wednesday and Sundays, as they have for years, but they also have private lessons with both the rabbi and a bar/bat mitzvah tutor. The rabbi studies the meaning of the Torah portion (and perhaps the meaning of life) with the student; the tutor goes over the mechanics of the service and chanting Torah. In the past, I've played both parts for other children's ceremonies.

When we didn't have rabbis on staff, I took on the role for several students. I loved those sessions of sharing and teaching and learning. The moment when something from Torah clicks and becomes relevant for a young student is precious and sweet. I've also served as the tutor, leading boys with cracking voices through the ups and downs of Torah cantillation, and though the material is prescribed, there are the same moments of discovery. Remembering how to start Hatzi Kaddish without prompting, or the first time successfully chanting without vowels and trope marks.

Now I'm the parent of that kid with the cracking voice, and I'm wondering where I fit in.

On the one hand, it's my job as a Jewish parent to educate my kids, and unlike a lot of other parents in this position, I have the knowledge to do so. That's a privilege.

On the other hand, it's good for kids to study with a variety of adults in the community. It connects them, builds relationships beyond the family, and exposes them to different perspectives on Torah and the service.

But on the other hand, would it be good for my relationship with my kids to study and prepare with them?

On the other hand, teaching your own kids often involves those interpersonal conflicts that don't exist with another teacher. It might be an easier road with someone else.

But on the other hand, isn't it worth overcoming and working out those conflicts for the sake of the bigger purpose? I used to be a much stronger hand in my own children's Jewish education, and those conversations about Torah, God and Judaism were holy. Why hand that off for one of the biggest conversations of them all?

On the other hand, it's not about me, and being his tutor feels like it's about me, not him.

On the other hand, this time to study together might be a once-in-a-lifetime gift.

On the other hand, lots of other parents in our community, including those who work as tutors for the community, do not tutor their own kids. What do they know that I don't?

On the other hand....

I'm getting nowhere with this back and forth. What do you think?

Countdown to Manhood. Bar Mitzvah Blog 1

My son turned 12 this week, so approximately one year from now we will be celebrating his becoming a bar mitzvah, a literal "son of the commandment(s)," a Jewish coming-of-age celebration. For the next year I plan to blog about our experiences as a family going through this process.

As a jumping off point, I'm sharing two articles about b'nai mitzvah that have appeared recently. I'll probably blog about them in more detail later, when Rosh Hashanah isn't bearing down on me and I've had some time to gather my thoughts. But together the illustrate the kind of trepidation with which I approach this process.

First, from the New York Times, an article about how how Jewish families are "... living in the religious school industrial complex..." which creates cookie cutter ceremonies and produces largely disinterested cookie cutter kids. Take the time to read the comments; it's a fabulous conversation. As a former member and driver of that system, I find the comments encouraging and depressing. (Click here to read the article.)

The second proposes turning the entire b'nei mitzvah process on its head by changing the age from 13 to 17. If more than 50% of kids drop out of synagogue life after their b'nei mitzvah  because they see it as the culmination, the graduation, move the goal post. (Click here to read the article.)  

In some ways, I've been planing my son's bar mitzvah since the day he was born, perhaps even before, and each one I've attended over the years has shaped and influenced what I envision as what to do and what not to do. 

But these articles are tempting me to blow the entire process wide open, kick tradition to the curb and see what we build. 

370-ish days and counting.

Oh, I've Seen Fire

My room smells of smoke, and not any sort of fun smoke either. Campfire smoke. Wood burning smoke. Forest fire smoke. About 15 miles from our house a 46,000 acre fire is burning in the foothills just west of Fort Collins. Over 100 structures have been damaged or destroyed, and one person lost her life. 1,100+ firefighters from many different states and Canada are fighting it round the clock, many of them in relentless 16-hour shifts...and they are losing.

I have multiple monitors at work, and for the past three days one of them was devoted exclusively to social media about the fire. I saw every Facebook status and photo posted by fellow Fort Collins folk and hundreds of tweets from the Larimer County sheriff, local papers, Denver papers, the Red Cross, national news agencies, acquaintances and darn near everyone who used the hashtag #highparkfire.

Facebook has become local and somehow remains decidedly global. My entire community of Fort Collins friends is posting about the fire, and friends far away give a look back into the normal everyday dronings of the world -- their work, their children, their jokes -- a world not focused on conflagration. 

I have overheard voices in the cube farm at work talking about their homes as they gaze at the most recent map and try to figure out if their property is on the right side of the red line. Like the smoke itself, the emotions of the fire -- anxiety, fear, worry, sadness, grief, hopelessness -- are seeping into everyday life. We are tired, snippy, and distracted. Our throats burn and we suffer headaches and sneezes. And we are lucky. Lucky that we live at 40°33′33″N 105°4′41″W and not a few meridians west.

Lightning started this fire and it's likely that Mother Nature will also be responsible for its end, but man is fighting as hard as possible to make a difference. I am in awe of the men and women putting up the fight with pick axes, chain saws, flamethrowers (fight fire with fire), bulldozers, airplanes and helicopters. 

The land will be devastated for years to come, and I am remembering our honeymoon in 1998. We visited Yellowstone a decade after it's 800,000 acre fire. There were signs of new life, but the scars remained, and I know this is the fate of our foothills... the backyard we've played in together for the past 18 years Homes will be rebuilt or not, but our children will be grown by the time the forest recovers, if it ever does... 24 years later, Yellowstone is still in recovery: Satellite slide show.


At the same time I am utterly fascinated by the power of this force knocks us humans flat on our asses with its power. I drove a couple of miles out of my way after work tonight to get the best vantage point for seeing as much of the mountains I could at once. This is the result. It was a lonely moment on east Horsetooth road, and I didn't/couldn't linger long. 

I am not/am no longer a faithful person, so I am a bit befuddled by the tweets and statuses that I see calling for prayer in times like these. I want to know, but have enough social grace not to ask individuals right now, exactly what difference prayer can make. if God can keep firefighters safe, why not obliterate the fire when it was 2-acres, or 2 feet, or keep the lightning out of dry forestland, or make the rains come Saturday? This is not a heartless position -- I too want the fire to stop and the houses to be saved and the firefighters to be safe, and for things not to have to get worse before they get better. If prayer is hope, maybe we are on the same page. 


I've seen fire... I'd like to see a little rain

Beautiful Fotos 9: Made You Blink