Op-Ed – Page 19

Experiences shape identity

I recently studied the Pardes story in Tractate Chagigah of the Babylonian Talmud. This story is a complicated, mystical journey. The Mishnah starts by asking what extremely sensitive topics are difficult and, therefore, should only be taught in small groups. The presence of G-d is one of those topics. In the Pardes (literally “Orchard”) narrative, four rabbis go in search of G-d’s presence. It’s a life-changing event. Only Rabbi Akiva comes out alive and intact. Ben Azzai dies. Ben Zoma “was harmed” – this is interpreted to mean that he lost his mind. Elisha Ben Abuya becomes acher, or other, a heretic who is forever changed by his experience.

This narrative stuck with me, particularly the stories about Elisha Ben Abuya, who, although still respectful and learned, remains forever “othered” by his experience. He’s unable to be included, or to properly reconnect or embrace communal Jewish life again.

When I was 14, I decided I wanted to become a rabbi. For years, this was my goal. I was actively involved in my congregation. My mom, a Jewish professional, started a Jewish nursery school, and then went on to become a director of education and, finally, a temple administrator/executive director. That building and community were like my house. I knew it inside and out. The rabbi’s family was extended family to me. We had picnics and cookouts, I played with their kids. I knew that Jewish professionals were people I loved. It made becoming a rabbi seem attainable.

I lived in Israel for a year in high school. I went to and worked at Jewish camps, studied Hebrew and Near Eastern studies in university, taught religious school and Jewish music and served on a religious school committee. I helped lead services. Then, in my last year of university, I interviewed at not one, but two rabbinical schools. I started with the Reform Movement’s Hebrew Union College (HUC). I later interviewed at the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College (RRC).

I wasn’t accepted. Looking back, with a lot more interview experience, I can easily see that the interview process was flawed. The committee asked illegal, uncomfortable questions. The process didn’t judge me on my academic skills, Jewish involvement or merits. I was told, after the “try again next year” rejection, that I needed counseling. (Not career counseling, but just vague “counseling.”) Since my family was closely tied to the Reform movement, I heard later that, in that cohort, the competition for women to be accepted was much harder than it was for men. Many more women applied than men did, and there were reportedly quotas. At the time, women hadn’t reached parity in the field. The seminary didn’t want to accept more than 50% women.

Later, I watched several people, including a guy I had dated in university, get into rabbinical school and become a successful rabbi. He had lower academic grades and less Hebrew proficiency than I did.

RRC’s interview was much more respectful. I appreciated it, but they suggested that they weren’t sure I was Reconstructionist. They also rejected my application, again with an invitation to resubmit later, when I was “sure.”

Losing the life goal of becoming a rabbi was a difficult identity shift. I focused on what I had wanted out of the rabbinate: Jewish learning, chances to teach and lead services, build community and write about Jewish topics. I pursued a master’s in education and started teaching. I moved, got a dog, and got engaged … all serious commitments. It meant I wouldn’t suddenly be reapplying to rabbinical school and flying off to spend a year in Israel. I didn’t want to put off my life any longer to face rejection again.

On social media, I recently watched a long-time teacher transition out of the classroom to another kind of consultancy work. It was a flashback moment. More than 20 years ago, I was a high school teacher. I also taught religious school and tutored kids for b’nai mitzvah. Teaching was a huge part of who I was as a person. However, I wasn’t sure that my position was ideal. I still wanted to study more. I decided to go back to graduate school. This coincided with getting married. When I returned to get a religious studies degree, it felt like I’d lost any sense of authority, despite having a master’s degree and teaching experience.

In the graduate program, I earned a tiny stipend as a teaching assistant. Nobody cared that I already knew how to teach. While I did learn a lot, mostly on my own, I had the bad luck to enter a program that was splintering. A lot of faculty left, including my advisor. Without an advisor, I finished with only a second master’s degree, and went back into an educational administration job. I continued moving for my husband’s academic career, becoming a shape-changer in terms of my freelance work life.

I’m now in mid-career and, while I’m not a rabbi, I achieved some of my goals. I study more, have taught some, and I write about Judaism. That said, reading about Elisha Ben Abuya’s “othering” as a result of his experiences really struck home. Many of us have had these life-altering shifts of identity. Sometimes, it is individual, like a teacher’s career change or a divorce or the death of a loved one. Sometimes, like the millions fleeing war in Ukraine, Syria or Afghanistan, it’s a complete departure from life as they knew it. It can be soul-crushing. Some die, like Ben Azzai. Some are unable to maintain their sanity, like Ben Zoma.

One’s career or life can change gently, but often it’s sudden, like in war or with a swift rejection. Sometimes, it is a sapling or “shoot,” a hope for new direction, cut down, as Ben Abuya’s experience relates. Our lives shift. We change identities and directions. However, through all this, Jewish traditions can offer us a story or a metaphor from which we can learn or with which to identify.

Elisha Ben Abuya’s story is a tough and sad one. It also offers solace. I suspect more of us have had this gut-wrenching experience than we want to admit. Acher/Ben Abuya was public about his angst and struggle – and his community did try to help. Perhaps there’s a lot to be gained through processing and acknowledging our hardest experiences, even if, in Acher’s situation, his relief and resolution came only long after he died.

Joanne Seiff has written regularly for CBC Manitoba and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. Check her out on Instagram @yrnspinner or at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.

Positive Jewish leaders online

It’s hard not to doom scroll lately, but I’ve been heartened by watching Jewish leaders take centre stage via social media. These are bright spots in a difficult time. Here are a few to Google and follow. I’ve learned a lot online this way. Perhaps you might, too.

In the world of social media and Talmud study (yes, that’s a thing!), the short social media videos of Miriam Anzovin have gotten a lot of attention. She offers TikTok, YouTube and Instagram posts and links via Twitter. These are on the Daf Yomi, the 7.5-year cycle where one studies a page of Talmud a day. Anzovin’s amazing effort offers a brief summary and analysis of some of the big rabbinic issues. It’s also a breath of fresh air in a field historically dominated by men. Anzovin is a writer and visual artist. She describes her videos as “Daf Yomi reaction videos.” These takes often include slang, curse words, and perhaps difficult interpretations for the usual Jewish text study audience.

Some Orthodox men have voiced criticism to this approach to Talmud study. I would argue that this is a defensive, unhelpful reaction. More Talmud study is good. Talmud study of any kind, is, quite simply – more. It brings more attention to Jewish text and ideas, which is a good thing both for Judaism and for intellectual analysis. Sometimes, the reaction stems from being forced to admit that there are other perspectives and ways of reading religious text. Anzovin centres women’s voices, issues and opinions, critical thinking, liberal and modern views of very old texts. Social media offers her a perfect platform and her work has taken off. It’s long past due. I’m thrilled to see her show up in my feed.

Rabbi Sandra Lawson has been one to follow for awhile. She’s a leader – an activist, a musician and a teacher. Her social media presence allows me to learn a lot. I’ve learned Torah, said Kaddish, and more. Through her anecdotes, she’s encouraged hard examination of ways in which racism is a problem in Jewish life. She’s taken on a lot of firsts in both her former role as the associate chaplain for Jewish life at Elon University and is now the first director of racial diversity, equity and inclusion at Reconstructing Judaism. She was the first African American and first openly gay African American accepted by the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College. Her open, strong online presence embodies many things Judaism needs to see: her identity as a veteran, vegan, personal trainer, musician and wise educator pushes the boundaries of what some people think Jews or rabbis look like. For younger Jews on the web, seeing her laughing with her wife Susan, featuring her little dogs as she makes music – these are models of joyful, modern Jewish life that we need now more than ever.

What does informal Jewish education look like on Instagram? Well, many people source Jewish news specifically from A Wider Frame (@awiderframe).

Debbie, the jewelry designer behind @rootsmetals, posts deep dives into very specific historic, geographic and cultural Jewish topics. It comes complete with bibliographies. Prepare for her snarky responses to trolls (ever present online) who try to threaten her well-being.

Ashager Araro, @blackjewishmagic, is a liberal, feminist, Black Israeli. She does incredible work as an educator in person in Israel. She’s also on Instagram and Twitter, and travels to speak at Hillels and Jewish student centres in the United States. Her focus on Ethiopian Israeli history and modern Jewish life is illuminating, particularly for those who view race only through a parochial North American lens.

Some social media education targets a specific group. For example, Shoshanna Keats-Jaskoll speaks out for others who aren’t able to in the Orthodox world. She tackles the issue of agunot. Agunot are women who cannot obtain a Jewish divorce from their husbands and are unable to remarry according to Jewish law. Keats-Jaskoll also works to provide modest images of women through an internationally sourced photo bank. This works to combat the erasure of women’s faces and bodies and imagery in Orthodox photos, publications and Israeli billboards. Chochmat-Nashim (Women’s Wisdom), her organization, advocates for Orthodox women, including both modern Orthodox and Haredi groups in Israel and the diaspora.

This is just a taste of what’s out there. It’s a start to diversifying your feed. You may have noticed that I started by writing about leaders I admire and, guess what? They’re all women. It’s not that I don’t admire some male leaders. There are plenty of them and some of them are fine human beings – but too many “leader lists” leave women out entirely. March 8 is International Women’s Day. It’s one thing to say we advocate for equality, and to celebrate women’s achievements on a specific day. It’s another to raise up, embrace and educate on a daily basis.

Our tradition offers us moments to celebrate women’s roles, such as the recitation of Woman of Valour (Eishet Chayil) in some homes on Shabbat. However, that’s not a standard practice in every household. Plus, it’s only one moment of one day of a week, when Jewish women are contributing 24/7.

Many of our paid leaders, rabbis and cantors, and even volunteers, such as synagogue board members, are men. It’s been “traditional” to embrace a male leadership model in some communities. However, in an era when more of our lives are both online and more egalitarian, it’s OK to stop the doom scrolling and open up one’s mind – and feed – to some new leaders. In this case, they also just happen to identify as Jewish women.

We all have our limitations

This month, Jewish communities across North America take time to recognize and celebrate one of the world’s largest and often overlooked minorities: persons with disabilities. Jewish Disability Awareness and Inclusion Month (JDAIM) was launched by a Jewish educational consortium in February 2009. It’s no surprise that its call to action resonates loudly with Canadians – Canada is believed to be the only country in the world that has disability rights enshrined in its constitution.

As someone with disabilities, I can see why a cold and often blustery month was chosen to mark the need for better inclusion. February weather often comes with its own navigational challenges. For the more than 6.2 million Canadians who live with disabilities, icy streets, cold, rain, snow and dismal skies can be even greater impediments to independence.

As I discovered one winter, however, an inclusive community can also play a significant role in easing those challenges. In 2015, my husband and I were in Idaho caring for his mother when I received word that my mom was in the hospital. I needed to come back to Vancouver.

Returning home wasn’t an issue for me. I had traveled to Vancouver many times to visit and care for family members. Attending Shabbat services at my local synagogue had become a ritual each trip that helped provide balance and focus. The Isaac Waldman Jewish Public Library, which afforded me a place to write, had been my other essential refuge.

But this time there was a problem: I couldn’t make the trip alone. As is true with many people diagnosed with an autoimmune disease, my symptoms were multi-factorial and differed according to the time of year. In this case, my biggest adversary was the ups and downs of winter weather and their impact on my circulatory system. This year, the flares were worse. I knew Happy, my trained service dog, would be needed in order to make the trip. Weighing 50 kilograms and hip-high, my King shepherd was strong enough not only to provide support when I walked, but help me up when I fell.

Judaism has never been terribly comfortable with the idea of an animal stepping inside a synagogue, even a professionally trained service dog. In my grandparents’ time, such considerations would have been unheard of. The prospect of a guide dog inspired lengthy debates by 20th-century rabbis who held wildly differing views about the appropriate accommodation for community members with disabilities. As I picked up the phone to call the synagogue, I readied myself for the possibility that I wouldn’t be attending Shabbat services that trip.

There was an understandable pause on the other end of the line when I asked if I could bring my mobility service dog to services. I was told to hold on; she would ask the rabbi. The answer came almost instantaneously: the congregation would be pleased to welcome us to shul.

If there is anything that these last two years of COVID precautions have underscored, it’s the irreplaceable value of community. Sitting in synagogue and having access to the community resources I cherished during my times in Vancouver helped provide a sense of normalcy while I dealt with my mother’s illness. Happy’s stoic, quiet strength not only gave physical support when I needed it, but a heightened sense to unfamiliar territory. Research has found that service dogs can detect changes in heart rate with a range of medical challenges, including heart conditions and diabetes. More than once, Happy guided me back to a point of safety when he sensed my legs weren’t able to navigate the cold.

To educate the library’s many young visitors about its unusual working visitor, the head librarian at the time, Helen Pinsky, informed patrons of Happy’s visit. The Jewish Community Centre of Greater Vancouver did its part to make us feel welcome as well. Most surprising were the parents’ reactions. Many saw our presence as an opportunity to teach children about respecting the role of a service dog and the person at his side. One mother confided that her little boy, who struggled with his own physical disability, was uplifted when he met Happy.

This issue’s article on disability explores the many ways that Vancouver Jewish institutions are working to increase disability awareness and inclusion. (Click here to read.) The examples are paired against research that suggests that while U.S., Canadian and Israeli Jewish communities continue to make remarkable strides in this area, there’s more that can be done. Building a disability-inclusive community is most successful, the research found, when leadership reflects the society it leads. We spoke with one rabbi who is using his own medical challenges to uplift and inspire those with differing abilities in his community.

I have come to realize over the years that a truly inclusive community is one that sees no limitations in how it defines capacity. We all have our limitations, and our unique gifts. We all have our dis-abilities. By bolstering diversity and inclusion in the society in which we live, we not only lift up those beside us, we lift those who will follow after us.

Jan Lee is an award-winning editorial writer whose articles and op-eds have been published in B’nai B’rith Magazine, Voices of Conservative and Masorti Judaism and Baltimore Jewish Times, as well as a number of business, environmental and travel publications. Her blog can be found at multiculturaljew.polestarpassages.com.

New lessons in everything

All over social media, we’re reminded to “Learn something new each day!” Even before the internet, I remember similar aphorisms – and then “Heck, if you’re lucky, learn two!” Attached to these reminders was the message that each experience and, yes, especially the awful ones, offered us learning opportunities.

While encountering this social media push for self-improvement, I happened to study, from the Babylonian Talmud, Chagigah 3a&b. This page of Talmud points out something that never occurred to me before. This message about lifelong learning is both a Jewish and ancient one. In the second century CE, in Peki’in, Rabbi Yohanan ben Beroka and Rabbi Elazar ben Hisma went to greet Rabbi Yohoshua. Rabbi Yehoshua asked them what new thing they’d learned that day in the study hall. They suggested they were his students and learned directly from him – how could they present him with something new?

Rabbi Yehoshua responded there couldn’t be a study hall without “novelty.” He went on to ask them who had lectured that week. Upon learning that Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya had taught them, he coaxed them for information. Then, he learned something new from the students.

This sounded just like when we greet our kids as they get off the school bus, or ask students (of any age) what they are learning from other teachers. Inevitably, there is something to learn. This bit of wisdom goes further. The Gemara (later commentators) add that the Torah is like a goad. It pushes us on to learn more. Like a sharp nail or cattle prod, it forces us to keep moving onward and learning from new and different circumstances. Torah, the rabbis conclude, doesn’t just have a single, immovable or simple answer for us.

OK then, I thought, what are some of the lessons we’re able to draw from the pandemic and the political upheaval around us? Many feel as though the pandemic is over, just because we’re tired of it but, practically, this virus will “be over” only when it’s ready to be. In an effort to get past this world-weary reaction, I thought about some of what we’ve learned so far.

1) Since Omicron’s arrival, we’ve realized, more than ever, that we must do our own cautious self-management of health. For awhile, in our North American culture, we expected a doctor to diagnose every illness; our workplaces required a doctor’s note. However, when the level of sickness around us is overwhelming, we’re required to examine and diagnose ourselves. This actually returns us to the world of the rabbis in some sense, where bloodletting, herbs and other cures were advised. Much like Ivermectin, some of these did more harm than good.

2) We should stay home when sick. We’ve all felt forced by the culture around us to work through illness even when it would be best to stay home. Yet, highly contagious illnesses mean we need to protect others to keep sickness from spreading. Again, we’ve lived in a “modern” bubble here for awhile. We’ve had fewer contagions and better vaccines and medical care that allowed us to circulate even when we were probably sick. For centuries, people have fought terrible illness by isolating. A quick example would be that of leprosy – we learn from the Torah and the Talmud that those afflicted must stay outside “the camp” and away from others. Self-isolating is the modern equivalent.

3) With the requirement to stay home came widespread acknowledgement of inequity. Many low-income people can’t afford to stay home. Their jobs don’t allow for it. Without paid sick leave, people can’t rest at home. Jewish tradition suggests we should visit or bring food for the sick. We should care for those less fortunate in our communities, such as widows and orphans. While our political advocacy may involve supporting food banks or homeless shelters, does our contemporary Jewish community focus on fixing inequity? We no longer have a Shmita year that forgives debt and evens the playing field. Is the Canadian answer something like universal basic income or the $10-a-day childcare plan?

4) Change isn’t always bad. Career changes, whether forced or chosen, can be positive. Our educational systems shifted enormously to deliver remote learning and accommodate COVID protocols. Our elder-care facilities are in dire need of improvement. Our hospitals need more capacity and redundancy, in both staff and space, so that even pandemics can be managed.

5) Scientists predicted that with climate change, pandemics may become more frequent. Planning to alleviate some of the effects of climate change has been a rocky path. So many governments get swept up in politics and make no policy adjustments. Our current COVID situation is a reminder that climate change, long predicted, is now here. Leaders must arm themselves with science rather than politics to save lives. Saving lives and caring for the earth are Jewish imperatives. This pandemic has been a frightening wake up call.

We can learn from every situation. The rabbis in the talmudic tractate of Chagigah at first assumed their mentors and leaders knew everything. This offered me a lesson too. Good leaders pursue lifelong learning because they are humble enough to know they will never know it all. Facing challenging experiences and learning from them can goad us so that we grow to be better people. The huge number of deaths, chronic illness and hospitalizations from COVID is devastating. If we try hard, we can find lessons here for a better future.

Grateful for ability to play

Six members of the 35th Street Gang, with the author second from the left in the back row. (photo from Cassandra Freeman)

Sheena and I don’t recall why we were trying to measure the house with a ball of string. We just remember me holding one end of the string, throwing the rest down from my bedroom, and her running all around the house with the rest of it till she got back to me. We were 8 years old and we were part of what we proudly called the 35th Street Gang.

At a recent reunion, 43 years later, seven of us mischievous women decided that playing was a powerful thing. It was about athletic activity, creativity, community building, trust – and simply some of the funnest times we’ve had.

Fairly early in our lives, “we seven” decided we owned the block. That’s why we called ourselves the 35th Street Gang. For some of us, a rite of initiation to the gang was to climb with hands and bare feet up to the very top of the pole and touch the signs that read 35th and Maple, then slide right back down again.

Kick the can was one of our favourite games. It was a combination of tag and hide-and-go-seek. I remember shivering with anticipation in a neighbour’s garage, hiding from the girl who was “it.” Of course, she found me before the others, and we raced down the short hill and around the corner, each of us trying to be the one who would kick the can first. I’m betting that we ran faster than we ever did in phys ed class. (Some adults still play this game I discovered, and you can search for them on meetup.com.)

Roller skates were all the rage in the early 1970s. They attached to the bottom of your sneakers with a metal key. I can still feel the vibration from the wheels going all the way through my body from the contact with the cement below. And just skating in the middle of the road wasn’t good enough for us. One of us, Louise, created a song we all sang and did the motions to while skating. It went like this: “Butterflies fly, and so do I, and I like it, so I don’t sit, I fly … so do I.”

The most daring kind of play we did was tobogganing. Daring because we slid down a severely slanted sidewalk covered with snow and ice. The year I was 8, winter was particularly cold. That did not deter us and neither did the teenage boys who threw ice balls at us on the way down. We were determined to have a good time.

We had a regular toboggan that fit three of us, a red slippery carpet, and a small round “flying saucer” one that would go round in circles as you went down. The bump we all made in the middle of the run was the most fun. We would fly off that thing so high it took a few seconds to come back down to earth again.

One time, I was sitting in the middle of the flying saucer and flew off that bump and started spinning in circles. I still remember that moment when I realized – too late – that I was going to hit the huge chestnut tree at the bottom of the run. And so I did. Thwack! My back hit that tree so hard it took all the breath out of me. Realizing a few seconds later that I was all in one piece, I got up and marched back up the hill and slid all the way down again on someone else’s toboggan.

We did all of these things running in and out of my parents’ house. As a result, all of my friends still know about all the Jewish holidays and what a kosher kitchen is. They would even march in on Passover with non-kosher-for-Passover popsicles to torment my poor older sister who was trying to keep the holiday. Today, they remember my parents, Joyce and Bernie, as being their second parents growing up. One of us, Madeleine, even says that she became a war crimes prosecutor because she learned about the Holocaust from spending so much time in our house. (See jewishindependent.ca/working-for-human-rights.)

When John Fraser became a member of Parliament, we used his election signs to build a huge maze in the Frasers’ front yard. We crawled around until our knees hurt. We had such a great time until we learned that he and his wife would be leaving for Ottawa with their three daughters. We said our sad goodbyes and waited for the time we would see them again.

Looking back, I am thankful I was involved in an old-fashioned kind of play that created lifelong friendships. Now, at our reunions, we become kids again and laugh our heads off for hours.

Cassandra Freeman is a freelance writer and teaches improv games for parties and performance.

On safety, listen to your gut

Last week, I received an email, out of the blue, from a Canadian media research company. A part of its business model involves scraping writers and journalists’ internet data, putting it into a public database, and then “enabl[ing] PR professionals to identify the right contacts for their press work.” I found out about it because they approached me. They showed me information they had, which identified me solely from writing this column. They suggested that, unless I revised and improved the profile, it was about to be publicized online as they sent it.

Lots of our data is on the web. It’s not private. I’m not contesting that. I haven’t hidden my identity. However, I felt unsettled by this contact and my lack of control. First, I wondered, did this company’s mission have any benefit for me? The answer to that would be, no. I didn’t want to be barraged by press releases. Also, based on what I wrote about in the Jewish Independent, what would those PR professionals want to market? Jewish book subscriptions? Time-saving devices for Jewish moms? I was baffled – but their approach has more problematic angles as well.

The first would be ethics. I’m a writer, but I didn’t go to journalism school. I write opinion pieces, knitting patterns and, occasionally, informational articles. I have written books for knitters and fibre artists. I’m not a hard-hitting journalist. I’ve signed no official ethical code of conduct. Even so, it doesn’t do me (and most writers and journalists) much credit to assume that, if I were low on ideas, with a deadline coming, that I would rely on press releases for something to say. Essentially, those public relations professionals write press releases so that they can get free publicity or information distributed for their clients. It’s about money, buying and selling.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’ve written a press release or two of my own. I wrote them to market a new piece or design I’d made, and I sent them to my newsletter subscribers, or editors I worked with – people who might choose to read my work or knit my design. Perhaps they’d like it. So, I am not completely above the fray here, ethically, but I was asking them to read my (low-cost or free) work. I’m not marketing the next best expensive gadget to clean the kitchen floor. In these self-distributed press releases, I suggested people check out my writing. If they liked it, to say so, and I followed up with “thank you.”

The second issue was that of the public distribution of a person’s contact information. I’ve written for Jewish publications over the last 15 years. I’ve had my share of hateful letters, emails, phone calls and threats. Although many of our physical institutions have boosted security, with security cameras, guards and police contacts, as individuals, we don’t all have the same monitoring. Heck, I don’t even earn a salary for what I do. So, in light of the rising antisemitism around us, I pick and choose carefully what to write and what I say. It’s a balancing act. I want to speak out, be proud of my Jewish identity, and also be safe.

These decisions about our personal safety are usually done behind closed doors. Mostly, it’s unconscious, a gut-level response. For example: “Does this dark shortcut look like a safe place to walk at night? Nope, let’s walk farther, along the better-lit sidewalks.”

While I thought about these issues, after a whole spate of antisemitic and racist events in North America and Europe, I was reminded of the discussion in the talmudic tractate of Moed Katan. In this tractate, the rabbis examine what it is to ostracize or excommunicate someone, usually a rabbinic colleague, in the Jewish community. The decision is a hard one, and the details vary from one case to another.

Ostracizing someone is a temporary move. The person is still allowed to study Torah, earn a living, and can seek readmission to the community once he (it’s almost always a “he” here) seeks to correct his wrong or apologize. The notion of excommunication is much more severe. The most well-known “modern” excommunication is of Baruch Spinoza, who was famously excommunicated by the Jewish community of Amsterdam.

While I’m not a rabbi, and certainly lack any level of importance like Rav Yehuda (Rav Judah HaNasi), I do feel like these lessons he offered on page 17 of Moed Katan are still useful. His message is that we cannot separate a scholar from his actions. Even someone who has conducted himself poorly and others have reported that bad behaviour can be suspect. We can choose to separate ourselves from that person.

I asked the newswire to immediately remove me from their database. Their mission didn’t align with mine. In any event, I didn’t feel safe with what they wanted to amplify about me online. It was, in a small way, my chance to distance myself, if not ostracizing or excommunicating.

The recent events surrounding the Freedom Convoy and its allies, throughout Canada, also have given me ample moments to reflect. We were out on the Winnipeg River trail last Saturday, taking a Shabbat walk with kids and dog, when we heard the trucks honking. Freedom Convoy allies protested in Winnipeg, along with displays of antisemitism. I didn’t personally see the Juden stars and swastikas, but, like Rav Yehuda, I didn’t need to. I believed the reports of fellow Winnipeggers. In my gut, things felt out of control. We climbed off the river, up the riverbank and headed home.

Our choices to publicize or keep private, to behave in an upright way or not, to separate ourselves from those whose behaviours don’t align with our values, are personal ones. The talmudic rabbis recognized these behaviours long ago. It’s also a pressing modern-day question. Do we wear things that identify us as Jews? Do we choose to keep good, upright companions around us? Do we speak out against injustice? These are sometimes unconscious steps to protect ourselves and those around us.

Rav Yehuda isn’t here to tell us how to act, but I think most of us know already. When someone approaches us, and the situation seems unsafe? Listen to your gut. We have thousands of years of struggle behind us, helping us to keep safe in perhaps dangerous, or just unknown, waters.

Sadly, not a new experience

Some of us are likely struggling to recover from the hostage-taking event at Congregation Beth Israel in Texas, along with pandemic stress. Perhaps most stressful is that we know a synagogue invasion could happen anywhere, during any service. Most of us figure out where the exits are when we go to synagogue, a Jewish community centre or other Jewish institution. We know the history. We need to be on guard when we gather.

On Jan. 15, we streamed our local congregation’s services to our Winnipeg living room and watched a kid my children knew from elementary school lead services. He was becoming a bar mitzvah. Jewish life continues despite the pandemic.

Antisemitism and traumatic events continue, too. When I realized what was happening in Texas, thanks to Jewish social media, it was hard to look away, even though it was Shabbat. Initially, non-Jewish news reports said there was an “apparent hostage-taking event.” This language was used despite the event being livestreamed. Why wasn’t it “real” from the beginning? Even after the hostages were freed, alive, thank G-d, the FBI didn’t immediately use the word antisemitism or hate.

There was no immediate answer from the FBI on why this person chose a synagogue during Shabbat services. There was a rush in some quarters to discuss why Islamophobia is wrong. Even as the hostage-taker identified his cause as aligned with that of Dr. Aafia Siddiqui, a convicted felon who was outspoken in her antisemitism at her trial, others (including the synagogue president and the FBI) suggested this was a random event. Some articles said the hostages were “detained” – somehow implying they were at fault by being at synagogue on a Saturday morning.

When Jewish leaders, as well as President Joe Biden, Vice-President Kamala Harris and Prime Minister Justin Trudeau spoke about this as an antisemitic act of terrorism, it wasn’t a narrative immediately embraced elsewhere. I found this unsettling. The feeling – of pointing out an issue but not being believed or heard – felt all too familiar. Language and how we tell our stories can twist our understanding of events, and this experience already seemed to be depicted in a way that didn’t ring true.

Certainly, the hostages will be debriefed, the hostage-taker’s family and history will be examined. We’ll learn more about what his motivations might have been. However, my instincts follow that of many Jewish people, as Rabbi Rick Jacobs, Union for Reform Judaism president, told MSNBC, “There’s no doubt that the underlying whole premise … was antisemitism,” he said, “The hostage-taker didn’t go to McDonald’s, didn’t go to some random place, and that is part of the story of antisemitism, to single Jews out.”

Remembering similar recent experiences hasn’t helped. Since the May 2021 war in Israel and Gaza, I’ve spent time reminding myself that I’m not crazy, and that I studied a lot of Middle East history as part of my long-ago undergraduate degree and graduate work. I knew that some of the narratives being touted online about the Israel/Palestine conflict were incorrect and badly mangled interpretations of the relevant history. I was particularly upset by the idea circulating on social media that Israelis were simply “white colonizers” subduing a brown people. This narrative didn’t reflect our thousands of years of history in Israel, nor did it account for the detail that, in fact, more than 50% of Israeli citizens are people of colour.

I recently studied a text in the Babylonian Talmud, Megillah 29A, which brought these issues to mind. It explored where Jews could find the Divine Presence in Babylonia. Rabbis were discussing how to find a holy place in the Diaspora after the destruction of the Temple. Rabbi Abaye says the Divine Presence visits the ancient synagogue in Huzal and the synagogue that was destroyed and rebuilt in Neharde’a. From there, two different stories are told about when the Shechinah, the Divine Presence, made itself known in Neharde’a.

Abaye died in 337 CE. So, we know that nearly 1,700 years ago, synagogues existed where Jewish people went to pray and study, and some of them were ruins that were rebuilt. Our need for holy places of gathering in the Diaspora is not new. Further, according to the stories on this page of Talmud, these places didn’t always feel safe. Sometimes, even the Divine Presence herself, the Shechinah, dropped by and that was frightening – never mind modern-day hostage-takers with guns.

A bit farther down on the page, Rabbi Eleazar haKappar, a late tannaitic rabbi (who lived roughly around 220 CE) suggests that, one day, in the future, all the synagogues and study halls in Babylonia will be transported and reestablished in Israel. Even then, there was a longing for return to Israel. Archeology shows us that Rabbi Eleazar haKappar was a real person, a colleague of Judah HaNasi, who likely spent most of his life in Katzrin. There is a door lintel originally from his beit midrash, his house of study, in the Golan Museum. Found in a mosque in the Golan Heights, its inscription says, “This is the Beit Midrash of Rabbi Eleazar haKappar.”

I felt reassured by reading about the Babylonian synagogues and the longing for Israel that was felt so long ago. Our religious connection to Israel is old. It’s in every synagogue service, every Passover seder, and deep within the Talmud. Our stories are tied to Israel. Despite others’ “versions” of history, the Jewish connection to Israel cannot be made into just a 19th-century European political movement.

Also, like the rabbis, I believe that those who are inclined to do so can feel the Shechinah within ourselves and in our synagogues. Jews and allies prayed world over for the safety of the hostages at Congregation Beth Israel. It would also take the hostages’ training and bravery and the intervention of police and FBI. Many people, including Rabbi Angela Buchdahl in New York, called 911 in the effort to try to help things turn out OK.

The trauma of this experience will linger with the Jewish community of Colleyville, Tex., for a long time. A man with mental health issues was offered shelter in a synagogue and given a cup of tea by Rabbi Charlie Cytron-Walker. That man became an armed hostage-taker. He took Jews as hostages. That rabbi and his congregants bravely handled the situation. The rabbi threw a chair at the right moment – and then, this man died there.

We’ll surely learn more detail over time. Meanwhile, we continue to be on our guard. Our congregations are holy because we come to be inside them. Sometimes, the Shechinah is there, too. This is the powerful story of the synagogues in Huzal and Neharde’a.

The text reminds us that we must keep track of our Jewish identity and narrative. Journalists who call Jews “apparent” hostages or say that Jews were “detained” in their own place of worship and an FBI spokesperson who doesn’t mention antisemitism? This isn’t our narrative. We can’t let it become the history that matters.

We’re People of the Book. We’re a people with a long, well-documented history. This ages-old written and oral history, and even archeological evidence, gives us confidence to believe in who we are and our story. Our words and the way we use them matters, so we must choose carefully. No story is perfect, we are only human. Even so, we should be the ones to tell it and guard it for future generations.

Joanne Seiff has written regularly for CBC Manitoba and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. Check her out on Instagram @yrnspinner or at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.

Sit, stand? It takes all kinds

When it was warmer, back in the fall, I met an older friend outdoors for coffee. A third person was there, someone she wanted me to meet. She couldn’t imagine how I’d never met them before. Winnipeg is like this, small enough so that everyone might have a few connections in common. Big enough that, actually, you don’t know everybody either. As it turned out, my new acquaintance was someone in the Jewish community. By the end of our meeting, I’d learned that she really didn’t like when new melodies were introduced at services. I suggested that it was important to keep learning, that the melodies themselves weren’t what was important. And that, in fact, some of the “new” melodies introduced were pretty old themselves, but just hadn’t been used at the congregation she’d attended.

She wasn’t to be swayed. As we parted, it was clear that I liked the changing tunes and she, most certainly, did not. This exchange came to mind because at the Saturday morning Shabbat service I attended (via streaming only) on Jan. 1, Adon Olam was sung to – snort – the tune of Auld Lang Syne.

All this came to mind, too, as I considered the Jan. 5 anniversary of when I started studying Daf Yomi, a page of Talmud a day. This year, in 2022, I’ll have pursued this endeavour for two years. I’ll be a fourth of the way through the commitment. At a page a day, this process takes seven-and-a-half years. For me, it’s mostly a solitary practice. I study late at night before I go to sleep, and only occasionally learn with others during a special class or siyyum (celebration when finishing an entire tractate).

I read mostly in English translation, only reading the Hebrew and Aramaic in chunks when I’m not too tired or struggling too much with the text. It’s not perfect, but it’s what I’ve got for now. It’s enriched my Jewish learning and practice. Now I find answers for many things I never knew before – the information has always been there, spelled out in the Babylonian Talmud.

For instance, I read in the tractate Megillah, on page 21, about the seemingly arbitrary rules we set up for ourselves – like how many parshiyot (Torah portions) we read, how many people can read each one and when. For the Megillah reading on Purim, we can sit or we can stand, we can hear one person read or several. How does this work?

I flashed back to all the different ways I’d heard the Megillah or even read it through the years, from spiels and Purim carnivals as a kid and onward. I remembered when I read the Megillah to myself in an airport on the floor, on a long layover between flights.

One snowy, cold Purim, crammed into a smaller, overheated, crowded room at Chabad, one of my twins nearly passed out in his polar bear costume. I rushed him through the open fire door, into the hallway, to the emergency stairwell. His colour returned as he cooled down. This, too, was a place to hear the Megillah.

Before my son nearly passed out, I remember that we were sitting near someone who smiled at us, in the integrated seating (men and women sat together) area. He was familiar, part of the community. Only later, it turned out he had a date in court for something that went very wrong. This also is community.

I thought a lot about variations to traditional practice last week as we watched services, streaming, on Shabbat morning. It was a bitterly cold morning in Winnipeg, the kind when the windchill is -45 and you feel remarkably lucky if your car starts. Except, because of COVID, we didn’t have to decide to stay home or go. On Jan. 1, there were only three people in the sanctuary. Two people ran the service, and one person did the streaming.

A service must be adaptable. One person, the cantorial soloist, read the entire Torah portion – a real feat, she did a beautiful job. So, I thought, here we have a tradition with a lot of rules, a lot of “ways things should go,” but also, to keep our traditions strong, we build flexibility.

In Megillah 21a, it says, if it’s the custom to say a blessing before the reading of the Megillah where you are, say a blessing. If not, don’t. Later, it explains, yes, here are the blessings to say and it’s good to say a blessing, but it’s a truly open discussion. Do what works and is usual where you are.

In the midst of the Omicron wave, I hear a lot of random but repeated comments: “in-person schooling is much better” is one. However, safety and avoiding healthcare collapse really must come first, in my view. In our family, during most of the 2021-2022 school year, we did remote schooling. I worked, writing at night. As a former teacher, I was able to help my kids learn and guess what? They came out of it better academically prepared than they were previously. What does this mean? There is no one size fits all. There’s no perfect way to be.

We are all different. Yes, we need to work together, as individuals and communities, to acknowledge this pandemic challenge. We must choose to do everything we can to be as safe as we can: vaccinate, wear high-quality masks like N95s, stay home as much as possible, social distance, self-isolate when sick, etc. But, there isn’t just a single way to take care of a community. That’s what Torah – and the talmudic tractate Megillah 21 – tell us. There isn’t just one way.

Singing for my supper

Do you sing? I’ve always fancied myself as one who had a good singing voice. I love to sing. I’m always ready to join in when there’s a sing-song, particularly if I know the tune and especially if I know the words. Although I’ve never had ambitions to be a singing star, I’ve always been first in line to make a musical noise.

For me, singing is associated with all those times around the campfire. The nostalgia for those times may be the underlying reason for the positive response I have toward the whole idea. Those memories carry a strong positive emotional content.

When I was a kid, I never had the least idea about singing. I never was a fan of singers. I never bought records or tapes. I was too busy reading all those delicious books.

My greatest exposure to singing was my experience in the chorus when my high school – St. John’s Tech, in Winnipeg – annually presented operettas by Gilbert and Sullivan. I loved that. I was in the chorus every year I was at that school. I appeared in HMS Pinafore, Yeoman of the Guard and The Mikado. It was a lot of work, and we spent many hours after school in practices before we could get things right. It shouldn’t be a surprise then that some of the tunes are still with me after more than 60 years. The excitement, and even the thrill, of the performance occasions lends a rosy glow to my memories of those days.

It was only in later life, in Montreal, when I tried to repeat my vocal exploits, that I really learned to appreciate how small my talents were in this area of endeavour. I discovered that I was prone to take up the tune of anyone who stood beside me. I found out that my capacity to keep strictly to the notes of the part I was supposed to sing was variable. I had no knowledge of how one could sustain a note. In short, it was a hazardous undertaking for anyone to include me in a respectable chorus. To make things worse, I was known to become confused as to where we were in a production, and to launch myself forcefully into song when the rest of the chorus was steadfastly silent. These were the only solos I ever performed.

To the detriment of those who might be concerned about sound pollution, these small negatives have never discouraged me from forcing my voice on an unappreciative public. I leap with lusty abandon at any chance to show off my limited abilities.

Over time, I have passed from tenor to muffled baritone, and I continue to be eager to share my gifts. While I have never been offered money to do this, I feel it is my duty, nonetheless, to do so, especially when participating allows me to share in the buffet that can sometimes accompany such occasions. It is only fair that I sing for my supper.

When I am engaged in my full-throated roar, I am too busy to note the pained expressions of those around me. This is just good fun for all of us, isn’t it? I am just entering into the spirit of things, and covering for those lacking a musical sense, aren’t I? Or perhaps they are just too shy, a failing from which I do not suffer. Surely, they are enjoying the noise just as much as I am? I worry only if people start to leave.

I sometimes sing in the rain, something like whistling in the dark, to keep up my spirits as I venture into unknown places. Let the winds blow the clouds away to deliver to us another sunny day, I say.

We were fortunate enough, at one time, to have had a second home in Arizona. Really only a trailer, it permitted us to spend the worst winter months away from the cold and dreariness of both Ireland, when we lived there, and the wet fall and winter seasons in the rain forest where we’ve lived lately. What had brightened our time even more was to have fallen in with a group of Canadians fleeing the winter cold. Wonder of wonders, one of them played the guitar and liked to sing.

Was I happy? You betcha! We were just a small group and when I was belting out songs as loudly as I could, it was as if I were back at camp. And they tolerated my enthusiasm. And, sometimes, they fed me. I was singing for my supper, again.

Now, in our current hideaway, we’ve joined a group, mostly oldsters, who meet weekly to reprise all the melodies reaching back across recorded history. My Bride is a witness – and if I perform as required, she will serve me a hearty brunch as a reward when we return home. I can do this!

Max Roytenberg is a Vancouver-based poet, writer and blogger. His book Hero in My Own Eyes: Tripping a Life Fantastic is available from Amazon and other online booksellers.

A little magic is important

Imagine facing a drought. Approximately 2,000 years ago, the rabbis in the Babylonian Talmud felt that calling for a fast day might alleviate it. In the talmudic tractate of Taanit, the main issue is that of when, why and how a fast day could be called. Yet, also in Taanit, we’re introduced to Honi HaMe’aggel, or Honi, “the circle maker.” There’s some indication that means he could have been a roofer, as this was a tool they used, but, in this tractate, Honi is like a miracle maker.

When Honi is called on by his community to pray for rain, he doesn’t fast. He draws a circle on the ground, stands within it, and says he will not move until it rains. He has some stops and starts. At first, the rain is very light and then, when he prays for more rain, it becomes too heavy. He creates what amounts to a flood, because, previously, the talmudic rabbis have suggested one should never pray to stop the rain. That is, when it’s raining, we are to be grateful, even if it’s too much rain.

The rabbis describe Honi as someone who is like a kid bargaining with and demanding things from his father – but his father is G-d. This infuriates the rabbis, but, at the same time, they are grateful for the rain. In Taanit, page 19a, Shimon ben Shetah, head of the Sanhedrin (rabbinic court) says: “Were it not Honi, I would have decreed that you be ostracized, but what can I do to you?”

Call it what you will, Honi’s magic or miracles or unconventional approach worked. Maybe it was too much rain, but he made it happen. His technique didn’t require formal schedules for fasting or abstaining from work or sex. He was willing to talk directly to the most powerful presence and demand results. He talked turkey and worked outside the system.

Even today, there are lots of parallels to this. Maybe the Sanhedrin’s rabbis don’t rule our world, but our politicians and government infrastructure do. Maybe, too, there are “miracle makers” who work outside of the normal routines in our midst. The rabbis’ approach to things was very rule-bound, but they left room for the fact that we’re human and that, sometimes, other approaches might work.

I recently was invited to an outdoor neighbourhood get-together. My partner wanted to nix it at first as it went without saying that every gathering is risky these days due to COVID. Yet, everyone kept the rules and safety in mind from the first. The organizers scanned everyone’s vaccination status – open to vaccinated people and their kids only. The party was outside. Masks and social distancing were required.

This was our first in-person party since March 2020 and I felt apprehensive. Oddly, the entire encounter reminded me of the rabbis’ need for order and Honi the Circle Maker. Most, if not all, of those attending the gathering lived in houses built long ago and the conversations in many cases revolved around old home repair and refurbishment.

As I kept track of my twins, who played in the snow, climbed into a tree house, checked out the river bank, chased a dog and checked out fire pits, I eased into and out of conversations where I heard so much about how we can informally help each other out. Offers of tools, assistance on projects or just commiserating about weird past renovation discoveries floated through the air. I also heard people sharing stories about loved ones, catching up, and meeting new babies.

Honi worked under adverse weather conditions. It was a drought, and then it was a flood, and he still stood in that self-made circle. It’s not an exaggeration to say that a safe COVID-era get-together in December in Winnipeg is also not ideal. It was -8°C when we arrived at the party, -11°C when we left two hours later. A front came through, so the winds meant it felt colder. We were bundled up and still enjoyed ourselves. That said, I won’t lie, I couldn’t feel my toes and my husband slipped on ice on our way back to our car. We were extremely grateful to go home and enjoy central heat as the temperature dropped below -20°C and the wind chill fell to -32°C. Our kids fell into bed with exhaustion that night.

Rabbis (and neighbours) know that magic can be made sometimes by people who aren’t completely paralyzed by the rules but use them to make change. We broke our “long fast” when it came to parties and joined together with others for a social event. It felt just like when it rains and breaks a drought.

As we well know, sometimes it’s way too much rain or too much unpredictability. I wouldn’t want to always rely on Honi for rainfall or on pop-up neighbourhood gatherings to fix all our socializing or old house repair needs. However, there’s something rich and meaningful in those snippets and exchanges. There’s a bit of hope, magic and discovery as we make connections in person, with people who share our interests.

The rabbis marked victories, milestones, holidays, weather and lifecycle events with prescribed rituals that took lots of preparation and work. To some extent, this saved Judaism after the fall of the Temple and made it work for thousands of years. Meanwhile, they lived in a time when magic, soothsayers, idols and false prophets existed, too. Our lives dangle somewhere in between. There was magic in that first social gathering, the friendliness and possibility. It accompanied the knowledge that the people at that party, who choose these older Victorian or Craftsman homes, are comrades in a way. They physically do a lot of the hard restoration work, too.

As we dangle between 2021 and 2022, here’s hoping that your secular new year is both one of safety within the rules and a bit of magic, too.