My husband, a Reform rabbi, is retiring after 25 years as senior rabbi of Temple Sinai in Washington. Upon the occasion of his retirement (!), the synagogue’s chapter of Women of Reform Judaism invited me to speak for Sisterhood Shabbat. Here is what I said:
When Sisterhood graciously invited me to speak tonight – and I thank you all for this opportunity – it was pretty clear to me that this week’s Torah portion, Emor, part of the Holiness Code, as it is called, has special relevance for me this Shabbat.
This is because Emor spells out certain rules for the priest and his relationship to his family. And it emphasizes that the community’s expectations for the priest are expectations for his family as well. Significantly, it demonstrates that there are two standards: one for the priest and his family, and a different one for everyone else in the community. The punishment for a priest’s daughter who loses her virginity before marriage is a fiery death, because she brings dishonor on the priest. The conventional death for a woman who commits a sexual indiscretion is just plain old stoning.
The priesthood ended when the Temple was destroyed, and rabbis became our teachers and community leaders. A vestige of the special role of priests, however, was and is that rabbis are viewed – and view themselves – as “symbolic exemplars,” in the words of psychologist and rabbi, Jack Bloom, in his 2002 book, The Rabbi as Symbolic Exemplar: By the Power Invested in Me.
As leaders, they retain some semblance of specialness – holiness – if you will.
Most Jews, whether they are affiliated with a congregation or not – unless they are totally hostile to Judaism and the Jewish community – respect rabbis (or at least they should). Most rabbis, in turn, conduct themselves in ways that earn the respect of the community (or at least they should).
This isn’t something I thought much about as I was growing up, and I never thought about rabbis’ families, until I was part of one. Shortly before I married Fred 36 years ago, we attended a rabbis’ meeting in Atlanta, where the only activities for rabbis’ wives were shopping and a tea and tour of Atlanta.
It was 1973. My former roommate, Sally Priesand, had been ordained but was not married. There were no other women rabbis. It was a million years ago!
Dissatisfied with what I perceived to be a stereotyped program, I urged the Central Conference of American Rabbis to introduce substantive options. In true organizational fashion, the rabbis said, “You want it? You do it.” Fortunately, the sympathetic executive vice president of the CCAR, the late Rabbi Joe Glaser, gave me a little budget and some clerical help.
I surveyed the wives; the results were enthusiastic, and we were off! The first program included Dr. Helen Glueck, a renowned research physician – incidentally married to the president of Hebrew Union College – who talked about Jewish genetic diseases.
It also included several panels of wives speaking frankly about issues that troubled them: from congregants’ unrealistic expectations to rabbis’ lack of time off. We had tapped a deep and overflowing well, and rabbis skipped their own sessions and came to ours.
Wisely, the CCAR established a Task Force on Rabbinic Family Relationships, a hotline, and other resources to help rabbis and their families deal with what so many clearly felt were heavy burdens.
Society evolved, and the Jewish community evolved. It took a longer time and a lot more pain than I can reflect in these few minutes. Most strikingly, as more women entered the rabbinate and the cantorate, the emphasis shifted in many ways. The women rabbis made more of a point of carving out time for their families, and their husbands made it clear they were not going to be judged by the same standards as were rabbis’ wives.
The effect was that finally most congregants became more sensitive to the demands on both female and male rabbis, and in most situations, the concept of judging a rabbi by the behavior of the rabbi’s spouse – or partner – or children – became verboten.
Despite the dramatic changes that women rabbis brought to the profession and the congregations, however, I must report to you that rabbis and their families continue to feel external and internal pressure.
The pressure remains because over the centuries, what has not changed is that we – you and I – set high standards for rabbis, and rabbis set high standards for themselves. Some people want them to be God, or at least God-like. (Some rabbis think they are God, but I would not have married – or reared – one of those!)
We want rabbis to be able to heal us when we are sick, forgive us when we make a terrible error, save our marriage, reconcile us with our children. Though we know on some level they cannot perform miracles, we are disappointed when they do not.
We want them to be without blemish, like the priests in Emor. When a rabbi is less than honest, or deceptive, or engages in behaviors that are ethically or morally wrong – or even a little sketchy – we feel ashamed and betrayed. The stain on them justifiably feels like a stain on us.
There are other expectations, however, that are less dramatic and perhaps a little more common. Let me give you an example.
A couple of years after we moved to Washington, when David was about 7 years old, I took him and two friends to a children’s play at Glen Echo on a Saturday morning and afterward, to lunch at McDonald’s. While I was sitting there having lunch with the children, a woman from our neighborhood came in. “The rebbetzin is eating at McDonald’s on Shabbat!” she announced to the entire restaurant.
“Everybody has to eat somewhere,” I said.
The fact that she, a Conservative Jew, was at McDonald’s on Shabbat was not the issue for her, of course. She clearly expected our family to be different – more observant and holier, perhaps – than hers.
Early in our marriage, I recognized that I would need to find a way to navigate this “holiness gap.”
How do you live a daily life that is exemplary in the significant ways while ensuring that you and your spouse and your family are seen as normal human beings, accessible and approachable and worthy of being good friends?
Some say it cannot be done, but I’ve always believed it can, and Fred and I have been so fortunate to have Essie and the late Gene Lipman as our own examples and predecessors.
First and foremost, it requires a thick skin and a sense of humor.
I also believe that Emor begins to show us a way to bridge this “holiness gap.”
In his Introduction to Leviticus in our Plaut Torah Commentary, Bernard Bamberger comments on the evolution of the role of the priests in Leviticus and in Deuteronomy. Originally, priestly obligations and responsibilities – sacrifices and sanctifying – that is, giving a blessing – were entirely in the hands of the priests.
The Torah, however, is aimed at everyone: the priestly laws are not “professional secrets.” Rather, carrying out the responsibilities incumbent upon priests is an obligation of all the people. While some of God’s instructions in Emor are directed to Aaron, others are directed to all the Israelites.
Explains Bamberger, “The concept of a complete Torah, which all may study who have the will to do so, expresses a new democratic spirit (644).”
The Torah tells us, Bamberger says, and Emor emphasizes, that we are all capable of holiness; we are all responsible for meeting the same high standards – making the same ethical and moral choices – that once were exclusively the obligation of the priests.
A message of Emor, then, is that every individual has the potential to be holy. One attains holiness not by birth – as the priests did – but by engaging in acts of personal and social righteousness. Each of us has the power to be exemplary Jews and human beings and to engage in holy acts.
In other words: we can be the kind of people that we hope and want and expect our rabbis to be:
• We can be students of Torah, not necessarily experts but seekers of meaning and value in our texts.
• We can build a better world by giving ourselves, and our time, to individuals and programs that need us.
• We can always speak positively and never harshly of one another. We can be patient with those who tax our patience, who interrupt us, who cut us off, who don’t listen.
• We can forgive those who find fault with us.
• We can look for and find the good in every person; approach all with an open mind and an open heart and respond to all with compassion.
• We can focus on people’s talents and strengths and help them utilize their abilities for the good of the community.
• We can appreciate the work that people do and the risks they take on our behalf, and show our appreciation.
• We can help others heal by being present for them in times of illness, in times of loss, in times of terror and the darkest nights of the soul.
• We can lead by encouraging and helping others to join us on our sacred journey.
If we can fulfill these mitzvot, as we expect our rabbis and our cantors and their families to fulfill them, then we can bless one another. AMEN.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Reflections on Argentina and its Jews
Part I
One day before the beginning of the blizzards of 2010, we returned from three weeks in Argentina, our first encounter with South America; in fact, we had never been anywhere south of the U.S. border.
Jews have been in Argentina in significant numbers at least since the 1850s. Prior to that, some Sephardic Jews – including Conversos (secret Jews) – had come from Spain. The great influx of European Jews began around 1860, when huge numbers made their way from the Pale of Settlement to various ports around the world. Today, the estimates of Jews in all of Argentina range from 150,000- 200,000, or even as high as 250,000, but most agree that all but about 20,000 live in Buenos Aires. There is no religious census in Argentina as there is in some European countries.
The oldest congregation in the country, La Congregación Israelita de la República Argentina, is affiliated with the World Union for Progressive Judaism [WUPJ] (www.judaica.org.ar/sitio/sitio.html). We attended Services there on two Shabbat evenings. Centrally located, its grand building is featured in every guidebook and includes a small but interesting museum recounting the history of the Jews in Argentina, including more than 800 early settlers who became gauchos (cowboys) and established ranches throughout the countryside where many still farm the fertile land and raise . . . Argentine beef!
The congregation has two rabbis, a cantor, and a very full program of activities, from a large religious school to social action initiatives to holiday celebrations. The Shabbat prayerbook of La Congregación Israelita carries the logo of the WUPJ, and its Shabbat Service includes Debbie Friedman’s arrangement of “Mi Shebeirach,” as well as many other liturgical settings familiar to U.S. synagogue attendees.
In the late 1950s, the congregation invited Conservative Rabbi Marshall T. Meyer from the U.S. to serve the congregation. In addition to revitalizing his own congregation and spinning off others in suburban Buenos Aires, he established a seminary that prepares community leaders – rabbis, cantors, educators – for all of Central and South America. A social justice activist who worked against the “Dirty War” and tried to save many of the Disappeared, Meyer eventually returned to the U.S. and became the guiding spirit and spiritual leader of B’nai Jeshurun on the Upper West Side of New York, today’s thriving “BJ.”
Two other sites that many Jewish travelers to Buenos Aires typically visit are AMIA, the Asociación Mutual Israelita Argentina; and the former site of the Israeli Embassy, now a memorial park.
AMIA is a multi-purpose center for the Jewish community. In July 1994, a truck loaded with explosives drove into the building. The building was destroyed, 85 people died, and more 300 were injured. A new building erected on the same site is highly secure, with the familiar Jersey barricades outside, guards, double walls and metal detectors. Tourists must be cleared in advance of a visit, usually with a group, to view the exhibits and artwork in the building. On the street, 85 trees planted on several blocks through the neighborhood of Once, the equivalent of New York’s Lower East Side in its hey-day, are reminders of each of the dead.
No one ever has been convicted of the bombing of AMIA, nor has anyone been held responsible for the 1992 bombing of the Israeli Embassy in Buenos Aires, when 29 people died and more than 240 were wounded, most of them children in a nearby Catholic school.
While they particularly affected the Jewish community, these two incidents occupy a significant place in recent Argentine history. Members of the Jewish community with whom we spoke do not regard them as examples of anti-Semitism directly targeting them but rather as manifestations of larger international issues being played out in a country where – for many complicated political and historical reasons – justice may never be fully served.
While there have been no convictions, these cases are not closed but very much alive. Many see the two bombings as reprises of the Dirty War, which continues to echo throughout the society. While we were in Argentina, President Cristina Fernández de Kirchner implied that the adopted children of the owners of Argentina’s largest media group, critics of Kirchner and her husband (the previous president of Argentina), may have been stolen from their families. Jews were disproportionately represented among the victims of the Dirty War, an issue that Nathan Englander dealt with in The Ministry of Special Cases.
At the Museo de la Shoá, many aspects of Argentina’s complicated history vis à vis its Jewish citizens are highlighted. Jews played an important role in helping the young country develop its great wealth, and they were well-respected and participated fully. While Peron had Nazi sympathies and at the least allowed – if not encouraged – Nazis to settle in Argentina, he also established diplomatic relations with Israel in 1949. Subsequent presidents – following the Dirty War – had good relations with the Jewish community. President Saul Menem ordered the release of files that revealed Argentina’s role in harboring Nazis, a move that some see as the trigger for the bombings in 1992 and 1994.
Part II
Shortly before we traveled to Argentina, we were delighted to discover that Madi, whom we’ve known for many years, lives in Buenos Aires, and owns BA Cultural Concierge (baculturalconcierge.com). Among other treats, Madi arranged for us to spend a half day with Elvira, an Argentinean Jew whose family originally came from Syria. Elvira offers Jewish tours with a socially responsible focus and helps visitors find volunteer community service opportunities and internships (andatravel.com.ar/en/responsible-trips-around-argentina).
Elvira, whose parents operate a children’s clothing store in Once, took us to the synagogue her grandparents had founded and to kosher bakeries, and she pointed out the only kosher McDonald’s outside Israel. Most importantly, she arranged for us to meet with Betina Rosental, who works with the Refuot Community Medicine Bank of the Fundación Tzedaká (www.tzedaka.org.ar/en/). Fundación Tzedaká was founded in 1991 to serve the neediest members of the Jewish community.
Elvira explained that from the earliest days of the Jewish community in Argentina, in the 1880s, until the 1990s, when Argentina’s economy began to collapse, Argentine Jews had sent millions of dollars overseas to communities in Palestine, Israel, and elsewhere. After nearly a century, became the recipients of aid from other countries, as about 50,000 people slipped out of the middle class and below the poverty line.
The Medicine Bank, one of the Fundación’s many initiatives, provides prescription and over-the-counter medications to these Jews who live below the poverty line. While medical care in Argentina is provided by the state, medications are not. Pharmaceutical companies and doctors contribute medications, and the Bank collects and purchases others; through a network of professional social workers, pharmacists, and dozens of volunteers, prescriptions are filled and delivered throughout the country both for chronic conditions and emergency care. The model program is being copied by the local Catholic community on a more limited basis; it has been copied by the Jewish community in Uruguay, and shortly after our visit, a major international foundation was arriving to study the initiative with the possibility of replicating it even more widely.
The Fundación is housed in one of many Jewish community centers throughout Buenos Aires. Elvira explained that these are the real social centers for the Jewish communities, with fitness centers; lectures and concerts like the one we had attended at AMIA; and dances, sports teams, camping programs and Zionist activities for children and young adults.
Synagogues in Buenos Aires do not have dues-paying members. Families pay school fees to the private Jewish day schools that are affiliated with the synagogues. Synagogue budgets depend on charges for b’nai mitzvot and weddings, plus High Holy Day “appeals.” Funerals are handled through AMIA.
Our tour with Elvira ended at the Catedral Metropolitana de Buenos Aires, the main Catholic church directly across from the Plaza de Mayo, where some relatives of the Disappeared still walk every Thursday. (The original mothers’ group has been replaced by people with other agendas, which caused a schism among the founders; the Thursday we were there, signs focused on the dangers of drugs.)
The cathedral contains the first memorial to Jewish victims of the Holocaust erected in a Catholic church, according to its designers, and also marks the bombings of the Israel Embassy in Buenos Aires and AMIA. Located on the wall in the side chapel of the Virgin of Lujan, it is next to the tomb of the late cardinal of Argentina, Antonio Quarracino. Cardinal Quarracino commissioned and arranged for the mural but died before its dedication. The mural contains torn and partially burned pages of Jewish books rescued from concentration camps, ghettoes, the Embassy of Israel, and AMIA. We found it very moving. Elvira explained that she ends her Jewish tours there because she wants visitors to return home with the understanding that the Jews of Argentina have lived side-by-side with non-Jews in peace and safety for more than 100 years.
One day before the beginning of the blizzards of 2010, we returned from three weeks in Argentina, our first encounter with South America; in fact, we had never been anywhere south of the U.S. border.
Jews have been in Argentina in significant numbers at least since the 1850s. Prior to that, some Sephardic Jews – including Conversos (secret Jews) – had come from Spain. The great influx of European Jews began around 1860, when huge numbers made their way from the Pale of Settlement to various ports around the world. Today, the estimates of Jews in all of Argentina range from 150,000- 200,000, or even as high as 250,000, but most agree that all but about 20,000 live in Buenos Aires. There is no religious census in Argentina as there is in some European countries.
The oldest congregation in the country, La Congregación Israelita de la República Argentina, is affiliated with the World Union for Progressive Judaism [WUPJ] (www.judaica.org.ar/sitio/sitio.html). We attended Services there on two Shabbat evenings. Centrally located, its grand building is featured in every guidebook and includes a small but interesting museum recounting the history of the Jews in Argentina, including more than 800 early settlers who became gauchos (cowboys) and established ranches throughout the countryside where many still farm the fertile land and raise . . . Argentine beef!
The congregation has two rabbis, a cantor, and a very full program of activities, from a large religious school to social action initiatives to holiday celebrations. The Shabbat prayerbook of La Congregación Israelita carries the logo of the WUPJ, and its Shabbat Service includes Debbie Friedman’s arrangement of “Mi Shebeirach,” as well as many other liturgical settings familiar to U.S. synagogue attendees.
In the late 1950s, the congregation invited Conservative Rabbi Marshall T. Meyer from the U.S. to serve the congregation. In addition to revitalizing his own congregation and spinning off others in suburban Buenos Aires, he established a seminary that prepares community leaders – rabbis, cantors, educators – for all of Central and South America. A social justice activist who worked against the “Dirty War” and tried to save many of the Disappeared, Meyer eventually returned to the U.S. and became the guiding spirit and spiritual leader of B’nai Jeshurun on the Upper West Side of New York, today’s thriving “BJ.”
Two other sites that many Jewish travelers to Buenos Aires typically visit are AMIA, the Asociación Mutual Israelita Argentina; and the former site of the Israeli Embassy, now a memorial park.
AMIA is a multi-purpose center for the Jewish community. In July 1994, a truck loaded with explosives drove into the building. The building was destroyed, 85 people died, and more 300 were injured. A new building erected on the same site is highly secure, with the familiar Jersey barricades outside, guards, double walls and metal detectors. Tourists must be cleared in advance of a visit, usually with a group, to view the exhibits and artwork in the building. On the street, 85 trees planted on several blocks through the neighborhood of Once, the equivalent of New York’s Lower East Side in its hey-day, are reminders of each of the dead.
No one ever has been convicted of the bombing of AMIA, nor has anyone been held responsible for the 1992 bombing of the Israeli Embassy in Buenos Aires, when 29 people died and more than 240 were wounded, most of them children in a nearby Catholic school.
While they particularly affected the Jewish community, these two incidents occupy a significant place in recent Argentine history. Members of the Jewish community with whom we spoke do not regard them as examples of anti-Semitism directly targeting them but rather as manifestations of larger international issues being played out in a country where – for many complicated political and historical reasons – justice may never be fully served.
While there have been no convictions, these cases are not closed but very much alive. Many see the two bombings as reprises of the Dirty War, which continues to echo throughout the society. While we were in Argentina, President Cristina Fernández de Kirchner implied that the adopted children of the owners of Argentina’s largest media group, critics of Kirchner and her husband (the previous president of Argentina), may have been stolen from their families. Jews were disproportionately represented among the victims of the Dirty War, an issue that Nathan Englander dealt with in The Ministry of Special Cases.
At the Museo de la Shoá, many aspects of Argentina’s complicated history vis à vis its Jewish citizens are highlighted. Jews played an important role in helping the young country develop its great wealth, and they were well-respected and participated fully. While Peron had Nazi sympathies and at the least allowed – if not encouraged – Nazis to settle in Argentina, he also established diplomatic relations with Israel in 1949. Subsequent presidents – following the Dirty War – had good relations with the Jewish community. President Saul Menem ordered the release of files that revealed Argentina’s role in harboring Nazis, a move that some see as the trigger for the bombings in 1992 and 1994.
Part II
Shortly before we traveled to Argentina, we were delighted to discover that Madi, whom we’ve known for many years, lives in Buenos Aires, and owns BA Cultural Concierge (baculturalconcierge.com). Among other treats, Madi arranged for us to spend a half day with Elvira, an Argentinean Jew whose family originally came from Syria. Elvira offers Jewish tours with a socially responsible focus and helps visitors find volunteer community service opportunities and internships (andatravel.com.ar/en/responsible-trips-around-argentina).
Elvira, whose parents operate a children’s clothing store in Once, took us to the synagogue her grandparents had founded and to kosher bakeries, and she pointed out the only kosher McDonald’s outside Israel. Most importantly, she arranged for us to meet with Betina Rosental, who works with the Refuot Community Medicine Bank of the Fundación Tzedaká (www.tzedaka.org.ar/en/). Fundación Tzedaká was founded in 1991 to serve the neediest members of the Jewish community.
Elvira explained that from the earliest days of the Jewish community in Argentina, in the 1880s, until the 1990s, when Argentina’s economy began to collapse, Argentine Jews had sent millions of dollars overseas to communities in Palestine, Israel, and elsewhere. After nearly a century, became the recipients of aid from other countries, as about 50,000 people slipped out of the middle class and below the poverty line.
The Medicine Bank, one of the Fundación’s many initiatives, provides prescription and over-the-counter medications to these Jews who live below the poverty line. While medical care in Argentina is provided by the state, medications are not. Pharmaceutical companies and doctors contribute medications, and the Bank collects and purchases others; through a network of professional social workers, pharmacists, and dozens of volunteers, prescriptions are filled and delivered throughout the country both for chronic conditions and emergency care. The model program is being copied by the local Catholic community on a more limited basis; it has been copied by the Jewish community in Uruguay, and shortly after our visit, a major international foundation was arriving to study the initiative with the possibility of replicating it even more widely.
The Fundación is housed in one of many Jewish community centers throughout Buenos Aires. Elvira explained that these are the real social centers for the Jewish communities, with fitness centers; lectures and concerts like the one we had attended at AMIA; and dances, sports teams, camping programs and Zionist activities for children and young adults.
Synagogues in Buenos Aires do not have dues-paying members. Families pay school fees to the private Jewish day schools that are affiliated with the synagogues. Synagogue budgets depend on charges for b’nai mitzvot and weddings, plus High Holy Day “appeals.” Funerals are handled through AMIA.
Our tour with Elvira ended at the Catedral Metropolitana de Buenos Aires, the main Catholic church directly across from the Plaza de Mayo, where some relatives of the Disappeared still walk every Thursday. (The original mothers’ group has been replaced by people with other agendas, which caused a schism among the founders; the Thursday we were there, signs focused on the dangers of drugs.)
The cathedral contains the first memorial to Jewish victims of the Holocaust erected in a Catholic church, according to its designers, and also marks the bombings of the Israel Embassy in Buenos Aires and AMIA. Located on the wall in the side chapel of the Virgin of Lujan, it is next to the tomb of the late cardinal of Argentina, Antonio Quarracino. Cardinal Quarracino commissioned and arranged for the mural but died before its dedication. The mural contains torn and partially burned pages of Jewish books rescued from concentration camps, ghettoes, the Embassy of Israel, and AMIA. We found it very moving. Elvira explained that she ends her Jewish tours there because she wants visitors to return home with the understanding that the Jews of Argentina have lived side-by-side with non-Jews in peace and safety for more than 100 years.
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