A Religion of TIme

Parshat Bo is a familiar one to many of us – it contains a recounting of the last three plagues before Pharaoh finally tells the Israelites to leave Egypt immediately.  But there’s an interesting insertion between the ninth and tenth plagues. 

We read: “The LORD said to Moses and Aaron in the land of Egypt: This month shall mark for you the beginning of the months; it shall be the first of the months of the year for you.” (12:1-2). And then, even before the Israelites leave Egypt, the mitzvot associated with the observance of Passover are given. The narrative of the Exodus resumes at 12:21, with Moses instructing them how to prepare for the final plague: the death of the first-born of all Egyptian families.

Upon rereading these verses (12:1-20), several questions came to mind:  Why is the first mitzvah/commandment given the one that deals with the calendar and marking time? Why is this considered the “first month of the year for you” – what about Rosh Hashanah? Why are the mitzvot/commandments about how to observe Passover given before the event occurs?

On the surface, the response to the first question is very pragmatic:  in order to celebrate the exodus on the fifteenth of the month, one needs to know when the month begins.  But perhaps the establishment of a unique calendar including human responsibility for keeping time (declaring the new month after witnesses testify their viewing the moon at the Sanhedrin) is less a technical command and more a spiritual gift.

Rabbi Ari Kahn from Aish added another dimension to the discussion by saying, “Rav Yosef Dov Soloveitchik, z’l, explained why this commandment was given here, and now. The Jews in Egypt were slaves, and therefore lacked a sense of time. They needed to acquire a sense of time in order to be truly liberated, transformed from objects to independent people.”

It is our ability to delineate time which gives us both the freedom AND the responsibility to carve out meaningful lives for ourselves.  

All joking about “Jewish time” aside, Jewish time is an interesting phenomenon: it’s both fixed and flexible.  It’s fixed in that it’s based on the cycles of the moon – the waxing and waning that occurs every month on a predictable pattern.  We know when Sukkot, Purim and Pesach are approaching, by the moon’s increasing fullness.  We know when Rosh Hashanah, a new year, is here – just as we see the new moon.  Chanukah’s end is announced by the sighting of the new moon, as well (plus one!).

It’s flexible in that the days begin and end at different times, depending on the season and the latitude at which one lives. And we must acknowledge that it’s just plain confusing to have our days begin at sundown the night before- confusing only because we spend much of our lives removed from the natural world in which we live.  Our lunar calendar also needs to be flexible so that our cherished marking of the harvest festivals, dependent on the solar cycle, will fall on the appropriate seasons. And so we get that quaint phenomenon of needing to ask if Passover is "early or late" each year.

Why is this considered the “first month of the year for you”? Our tradition lists four different “new years” – that of the civil year, the religious year, the beginning of the tax (tithing) year, and that of the trees.  A number of commentators make the distinction between Rosh Hashanah as the celebration of creation, which applies to all; while Passover is the celebration of OUR liberation (think of the difference between January 1st and July 4th for Americans).

Finally, why are such detailed instructions given for observing an event which hasn’t even occurred yet? A number of commentators make the point that the Israelites don’t automatically become a free people when they leave the land of Egypt.

Rabbi Lucy F.H. Dinner, in the Women’s Torah Commentary, reminds us that “To be truly free, individuals need faith in their identity as a free people and in their own unquestioned autonomy.  As much as liberation is about release from forced servitude, it is also about the psychological and spiritual strength required to act according to one’s own will.” Liberation then requires individuals to “act as if” they are liberated – even if they don’t quite feel it.

The great modern philosopher Abraham Joshua Heschel reminded us that Judaism is a religion of time, aiming at the sanctification of time.  It may be a fair contrast to note that the Egyptian civilization enslaved people to build storehouses, royal cities, and perhaps some pyramids.  It was a kingdom of sacred places.  The new Israelite nation had to escape the boundaries of space created by human technology and architecture, and learn to use what Heschel called "the architecture of time" in which to build lasting "palaces in time" like Shabbat and the festivals.

We send our children off to conquer the world with a list of instructions and reminders about those events and activities which are important to us and, hopefully in time, to them as well. We adults who manage home and office schedules, the balance between work and rest, know how critical time management is to our success.  And we can see how time challenged people find it difficult to prepare for, and celebrate with calm and joy, holiday and life cycle events. So we can surely appreciate the tradition that notes that the Israelites leave Egypt with a prescription for how to cope with time for physical and spiritual success in whatever circumstances they find themselves.  It is a gift worthy of study and transmission to our children and grandchildren.

Published by the Washington Jewish Week, January 2, 2014

May His Memory Be For a Blessing

Gregory Tyrone Walton 

His funeral was held today.

Gregory grew up in the District, attended DC Public Schools and studied Business Management at Federal City College.  As many of our generation did, he joined the Peace Corps, where he learned masonry.

I met him three years ago, when we opened Gan Shalom, the Jewish Cooperative Preschool, supported by the Hill Havurah, on Capitol Hill in the District.  We rent space in a rowhouse (aka "town house") owned by the Capitol Hill Seventh Day Adventist Church.  Gregory was a member of the Church, took care of their grounds and did custodial work for them.  He became our custodian, too... and in the three years we worked together, my respect for him increased on a regular basis. 

Gregory was unique. 

To quote a friend of his: 

• Gregory was humble, thoughtful and kind.
• Gregory had a beautiful singing voice.
• Gregory could speak French with an awesome French accent.
• Gregory asked questions when he didn't know something,  and introduced himself if he didn't know someone (or their dog).
• He never had a bad word to say about anyone and had a smile for EVERYONE.

When I first met him, I didn't quite know what to make of Gregory - this incredible bundle of energy, who smiled non-stop, greeted people by name, asked about each of my family members by name, and ended his conversations with a "God bless you, Mary."  I learned to ask about his family in return, and he always responded, "They're doing well, Praise the Lord.  And thank you for asking."  

This last year was more difficult for him.  He was having some health problems, which he chose not to discuss.  A number of us were worried, but we respected his right to privacy. This spring, he unexpectedly went into the hospital.  Upon discharge, he called me to let me know that he wouldn't be able to work for us any longer because of his health problems.  He apologized for inconveniencing us. 

Gregory died last Wednesday. 

I've been thinking a lot about the impact he had on my life, on our students' lives, on their families' lives, on the neighborhoods and the communities he interacted with.  In the shadow of the Capitol, where power and influence often make themselves known, Gregory was truly unique. Today, I stopped my busy-ness to reflect on that uniqueness.  

Here's what I realized: 

Gregory was one of the few truly happy people I've known.  His "Praise the Lord"s echoed the joy he found in every-day life: in cleaning, and mowing, and walking his dogs, riding his bike, and greeting the people who passed by. 

Many of us hold a bit of ourselves in reserve. We learn to hide behind the mask we wear in public.  Gregory wore no mask.  He was genuine - the same person no matter what the setting was. 

He taught me to slow down - his sincere questions about how my family members were doing, which needed to be addressed before we could "talk business" made me realize that, yes, it really is all about relationships.  And so I learned to listen when he talked, so that I could reciprocate the lovingkindness he demonstrated. 

His attention to detail was shown in the way he salted and sanded the icy metal steps of the rowhouse - without ever being asked - so we all could climb the steps safely in our erratic Washington winters.  He noticed when the entry-way throw rug was dirty and - without being asked - saw that it was washed and returned. 

In this day of politically-correct language, Gregory was an unabashed, absolutely joy-filled Christian, who proclaimed his faith on a regular basis.  And yet, his acceptance of our Jewish beliefs and practices was unequivocal.  

I learned a lot about Gregory today from a number of people in the filled-Church service - but we all seemed to agree on how our lives had been changed dramatically - for the good - by this humble man who encountered everyone as if he could see the spark of the Divine in them.  

And I was reminded by something a friend wrote in my yearbook from Edgewood High School in Madison, Wisconsin, when I was a sophomore: 

Our lives are shaped by those who love us... by those who refuse to love us.

May his memory be for a blessing.

And so a Journey Ends

Today I retired from my job as the founding Director/Teacher at Gan Shalom Cooperative Preschool in Washington, DC – the latest in my career as a Jewish educator and/or administrator at several Jewish institutions in the greater Washington DC area.

I fell into Jewish education almost as an accident. 

Over twenty years ago, after thoughtful consideration and a great deal of angst, we made the decision to remove our children from the religious school they were enrolled in.  I would homeschool them in Judaism while we searched for a school that would be a better fit for all of us.  It was springtime, right after Purim, and I scrambled to pull materials together for the rest of the academic year. I discovered the Teacher Resource Center at what was then called the Board of Jewish Education and began my week each Monday morning by looking through their files and planning my lessons. 

We discovered, my children and I, that some kids learn best by doing, some by seeing, and some by hearing.  But the most important thing we learned is that learning has to be relevant.

The Director of the Library/Resource Center was helpful and encouraging and I was grateful for both.  As a convert to Judaism, I was all too aware of my limitations. 

A couple of months after our homeschool venture began, she offered me a job as a teacher in the religious school she was directing.  Ultimately I decided to accept the challenge.

Thus, my journey as a formal Jewish educator began.

Many of the published materials then available were extremely dated in focus and content.  I began to generate my own materials for my classes – keeping in mind always those critical lessons my children  taught me:  not all kids learn the same and learning has to be relevant.

Fast-forward twenty-three years:  I've taught all ages from preschoolers to adults, directed two religious schools, founded a preschool, written curriculum, and presented staff development workshops locally, regionally, and nationally.  I established my own Jewish educational consulting business. I've planned, coordinated, and facilitated several regional programs for students and for teachers.

My journey as a Jewish educator may have been an accident – or it may have been b’shert (meant to be).  I still haven’t decided!

As I turned sixty in January, I began to take stock.  My commute had become more onerous in the last couple of years.  I could get down on the floor to play with my students, but found it increasingly difficult to get back up again! The prospect of expanding the school filled me with fatigue instead of excitement and creativity.  I began wonder if “it was time:” time to step aside; to focus on personal goals instead of professional ones.

When I thought about it, I realized I've been working since I was sixteen:  fast food, food service, clerical worker, administrative assistant, social worker, preschool teacher, religious school teacher, administrator, and consultant.  As many of us do, I've juggled those responsibilities along with my roles as full-time mom, and community volunteer. 

I began to wonder what it would be like to slow down.  It was frightening:  so much of who we are is often defined by what we do.

I talked with people whose opinions I value; I read books on transitions and self-definition; and I began to look at alternative ways of self-definition. 

And so, today I retired.  I will no longer have the day-in, day-out responsibility for running a Jewish educational institution, with all that is entailed.

Monday, a new journey begins. 

Passages in the Wilderness

This week's Torah portion is Parashat Chukkat  Numbers  19:1-22.1

Passages in the Wilderness

This week’s parashah – Chukkat -  includes a wealth of materials.  We read of the story of the red heifer; the disappearance of the well which accompanied the Israelites on their journey; Moses’ striking the rock for water to pour forth; and the story of successful military battles.  There is also an introduction to the transition of leadership from the generations of Israelites who left Egypt to those who arrived in the Promised Land.

In Chapter 20:1 we read, “The Israelites arrived in a body at the wilderness of Zin on the first new moon, and the people stayed at Kadesh.  Miriam died there and was buried there.”

Shortly thereafter (Chapter 20:22-29), Aaron dies.  We read that the Eternal tells Moses and Aaron that Aaron will be “gathered to his kin” for disobeying His command by striking the rock for water.  The sequence is described:  Moses and Aaron will ascend Mount Hor; Aaron will be stripped of his vestments which will then be worn by Aaron’s son Eleazar; Aaron will die.  When Moses and Eleazar descended from Mount Hor, “the whole community knew that Aaron had breathed his last.  All the house of Israel bewailed Aaron thirty days.”


And so the transition to a new generation of leadership begins.

When we study Torah, we are encouraged to notice what is NOT said, as well as what IS said.  In this single chapter, there appears to me to be a significant silence.  

Miriam died. There is no explanation of why she died or under what circumstances her death occurred, contrary to the later explanation given for Aaron's death.  There is no mention of mourning her, unlike the grief expressed upon Aaron’s death.   When Miriam dies, Miriam's Well disappears and the Israelites complain that they are dying of thirst.

And so I wonder:  were there no tears recorded for Miriam because her death was the first of the leaders' deaths? Or was it because it was easier to focus on the loss of that which she brought (Miriam's Well) than it was to focus on the loss of Miriam herself? Much of our own grief focuses on loss as it impacts on us -- "who will listen to me?", "who will rejoice in my good news?", "how will I keep on going?"

The Women's Torah Commentary suggests the following:  Perhaps they were so stunned by the loss of Miriam that they [the Israelites] were unable to express their grief directly.  Instead, they cried out against Moses and Aaron, projecting and transferring their grief onto Miriam's brothers.  Or perhaps they did not react to Miriam's death in such a way that would give comfort to her brothers.  They seem to care only that there was no water, and acted as if Miriam's death were unimportant.  We can imagine that Moses and Aaron were deeply shaken by the loss of their sister, and this may have been the reason that Moses reacted with such anger toward the people when he struck the rock, instead of speaking to it, as God has commanded.  In grief mixed with rage -- such a normal reaction -- Moses lashed out at the rock to produce what Miriam could have produced with only her presence.  (p 300)

As Moses' big sister, Miriam helped raise him: she protected him and watched over him.  Moses may have felt that he lost not "just" a sister, but a surrogate mother.  Did the Israelites (as a community) also see her as a surrogate mother?

For Moses and Aaron, Miriam's death makes all too real their own mortality -- in a way that the death of a parent or friend can't.  Someone who grew up in their home, someone of their generation, someone who shares their collective memories and growing-up experiences in a way that even a "best friend" can't -- if she has died, so too will they. For all that they have managed to accomplish, they are vulnerable.

And ultimately, after the mourning period, what do we have left?  We have our memories and the legacy that gets transmitted from generation to generation.  That legacy sometimes comes from the generation that knew the loved one… and sometimes from generations which follow. 

When I think of Miriam, I think of courage and joy.  That’s due in large measure to the song “Miriam’s Well” by songwriter and singer, Debbie Friedman, of blessed memory.  Debbie took a few lines from Exodus, heard what wasn’t said, and provided many of us with a new vision of the character of one of the pivotal women in our history. Without Miriam, Moses would probably not have survived. Or, if he had survived, would not have been linked to his heritage.

And that’s Miriam’s legacy:  nurturer, supporter, and joyfilled celebrator.  

Questions to consider:1.  What legacies have been transmitted to you by your family? How are they transmitted?2.  What is the legacy of various communities to which you belong?3.  What would you like your legacy to be?  What actions are you taking to ensure that legacy will be transmitted?

Mary F. Meyerson is the founder of Morah Mary Consulting, LLC.

You are How You Act

Parashat Va-y’hi  Genesis 47:28-50:26

This week’s parshah – Va-y’hi – contains the culmination of the stories of Jacob/Israel and his sons. 

As Jacob is on his death bed, Joseph visits his father.  Accompanying Joseph are his two sons, Manasseh and Ephraim.  Israel adopts them and, in doing so, elevates them to full status as heads of the tribes of Israel, thus ensuring that the land of Israel will be divided among twelve tribes. As he prepares to bless Manasseh and Ephraim, something interesting happens.

Noticing Joseph’s sons, Israel asked, “Who are these?” And Joseph said to his father, “They are my sons, whom God has given me here.” (48:9-10)

Didn’t Israel just adopt them?  How is it possible that he didn’t recognize them?  Some commentators suggest that he didn’t recognize his grandsons, because they were indistinguishable from other Egyptian youth. 

Joseph had married a wife named Asenath, daughter of Poti-phera, who was the priest of On – an Egyptian god. As a man of significance to the Pharaoh, it’s not surprising that both he and his sons “looked” Egyptian. 

Tradition has it that Manasseh and Ephraim reassured their Grandfather about their connection to the Israelites by reciting the Sh’ma and thus affirming their belief in the same God as their ancestors. 

So Israel bestows his blessing on each of them. I’ve often wondered whether he blessed his young, assimilated grandsons out of conviction that they would continue to practice Jewish life…. or out of a deep hope that they would.

The issue of assimilation, then, is one that appears throughout our people’s story.  Grandparents often wonder whether their grandchildren will continue to be Jewish.  But what exactly does “be Jewish” mean? 

When I converted to Judaism, over thirty years ago, I often felt that there was an invisible-to-me-but-apparent-to-everyone-else neon sign flashing over my head that proclaimed, “Not born Jewish.”  I was sure that others could tell – by my appearance, by my lack of Hebrew, by my uncertainty about whether to stand or sit during services – that I wasn’t “really” Jewish.  It took a long time for that “neon sign” to disappear from my consciousness.

What I’ve come to understand in the last 30 years is that what’s more important than appearance is my behavior.  Are my actions Jewish? Do they exemplify Jewish values? Do those values have a significant role in my decision-making?  And – no less critical – have I explicitly articulated those values to my children and to my students? 

·         We make a donation to tzedakah on days of celebration, because that’s what Jews do:  remember those who are less fortunate. 

·         As we step outside in the morning, we take a moment to say “Thank you” to the Eternal, because that’s what Jews do: notice and appreciate the blessings in the world around us.

·         We acknowledge the individual on the street, because that’s what Jews do: recognize that each of us is created in the image of our Creator.

·         We stop smoking, lose weight and/or [begin to] exercise regularly, because that’s what Jews do: take care of our bodies.

·         As we travel through life, when we spot injustice, we speak out, because that is what Jews do: continue in the footsteps of the prophets, telling truth to power and giving voice to the vulnerable.

Several years ago, I came across the following unsigned comment on the URJ’s Torah Talk web page for this week’s parshah: 

“Our legacy, impact, and ability to improve the world are only as strong as the values we transmit to our children.  We cannot ensure that our children will honor our memory, but it is up to us, like Joseph, to honor them by linking them with their past, and by giving them the responsibility and the trust to recreate and to reform Judaism in their own image.”  

Like Joseph, we stand between our parents and our children.  The stories we tell, the customs we integrate into our lives, the behaviors that are an integral part of the fabric of our lives – all are significant aspects of the transmission of Jewish identity l’dor v’dor  (from generation to generation).

Like Jacob, our influence may have to be exerted over multiple generations.  Today we may have to grandparent our third generation if family systems, economic pressure, and the distractions of popular culture inhibit the role of parents to enculturate their children on their own.

With this parshah, we end the book of Beresheit (Genesis).  As is our custom upon completion of a book of the Torah, we say “Hazak! Hazak! V’Nithazek! (Be strong! Be strong! And may you be strengthened!)”

And by the mindful choices we all make, am Israel (the Jewish people) will be strengthened.

Questions for discussion:

1)  Do you frequently find yourself making judgments about people based on their appearance?

2)  If people look at your behavior, will they see actions guided by Jewish practice and belief?

3)  What will your legacy be – for your children, your students, and your community?

Mary F. Meyerson is the founder of Morah Mary Consulting, LLC and the director of Gan Shalom Cooperative Preschool in Washington, DC.
 

Published by the Washington Jewish Week, December 27, 2012

The REAL Questions We Should Be Asking

Many religious schools I know are struggling to retain teens as part of their educational programs, once they pass the bar- or bat-mitzvah milestone.

They’re trying

• more content
• less content
• more frequent meetings
• less frequent meetings
• retreats in lieu of some classes
• retreats in addition to class
• to give “credit” for volunteer work, youth group activities
• to make programs more rigorous
• to make programs more “social”
• making meals part of the program (If you feed them, they will come!)
  

What I seldom hear is a discussion articulating the relevance of the program offerings.

We talk about what teens will learn. We spend a great deal of time deciding who will teach them. We seriously consider methodology. We evaluate the structure in an attempt to meet their scheduling constraints. "Who, what, where and when" - that's our focus.

But, do we tell them why it’s important to learn what we want them to know? Do we specify the connection to their daily lives?

My friend and colleague, Marc Kay, challenges us: “So what?” Why does what we are teaching matter? What's the relevance?

We may have (in our own minds) an answer to that question, BUT do we share that insight with our students?

I remember asking Mr. McNaughton, in advanced algebra (back in the dark ages), why we needed to learn how to operate a slide rule. “At some point,” he assured us, “we’d need to be able to do complex calculations and this was the most accurate way to do them.”

(Does anyone out there even remember a slide rule? Or how to use it?)

Hopefully, the knowledge, values and experiences we’re trying to get our teens to grapple with have relevance for them in their lives TODAY, as well as in the future.

"So what" should be the first question we ask, not the last.

Empowering Teens

There's a delicate dance we do, when we work with teens who will end up working under the direction of classroom teachers (...or group leaders...or coaches... or...).

Our goal is to help them be assistant teachers, capable of acting on their own initiative to teach, modify, intervene, support and encourage.

The challenge? None of the teachers has the same style, the same pacing, the same needs for assistance. Some teachers want their aides to step in without being told what to do or how to handle a given situation. Some want their aides NOT to intervene (because the teacher may have “spoken” to the student a few moments ago, because the teacher has a need to control the classroom interactions, because the aide has overruled the teacher’s instructions previously, because…)

The challenge? For many of our aides, especially the younger ones, this is the first “job” they will have, regardless of whether they are paid or volunteer. They haven’t yet learned things like showing up on time; turning iPods and cell phones off; how distracting their whispering can be in the back of the classroom while the teacher is trying to teach….

The challenge? The age disparity between the aides and the students they’re working with is often not very wide, again especially for our younger aides. Each one will handle this challenge a little differently: some will try to assert their authority in counter-productive ways; others will try to befriend the students they’re working with; still others will refuse to engage with the students because they’re uncertain and don’t even know how to phrase the question: “How do you want me to handle things?”

The challenge? Teachers are often rehired because they’re “good” with the age student they’re teaching. Their madrich/aide is several years older than their students – and is often at an age the teachers are uncomfortable with. Quite simply: they may not know how to talk to teens!

The challenge? Other than routine administrative tasks (photocopying, delivering materials to the office, setting up for snack), teachers don’t know how to use their aides effectively. Many of them seldom provide their aide with specific instructions: “Please listen to their practice reading. Each student should read three sentences accurately. You may help them by correcting their pronunciation after they’ve made an attempt. If you do, then have the student read the word/phrase/sentence that they stumbled on three times accurately. This will help them practice it correctly and aid in fluency.” Instead, we say, “Listen to them read.”

The challenge? Our aides don’t often know how what they’re doing fits into the big picture – how does it relate to the rest of the lesson? Last week’s lesson? Next week’s material? And let’s not even mention “assessment” – a good many of our teachers have difficulty with assessment and consequently can’t guide their aides in this direction.

Overcoming Challenges

One of the most important paths to overcoming some of these challenges is professional development. Many communities I work with are cognizant of the need for madrichim/aide training. Training is critical and a good facilitator can help the teens address a number of these challenges, and more!

But an equally critical component is professional development for the teachers. Through workshops, classroom observations, and mentors, teachers can be guided in ways to improve their communications with their aides, incorporate the aides in their planning, and determine whether their expectations are realistic and appropriate.

Reflective practice for both teachers and madrichim/aides can help each gain insight into their own actions, responses, and expectations – and help make changes for future situations.

Directors AND teachers need to be willing to invest the time and energy in developing these bonds with the teens in their program.

The Payoff

• Teens who continue to remain involved in Jewish education.
• Teens who model the “coolness factor” of remaining involved, post bar- or bat-mitzvah.
• Extra hands, eyes, ears, and hearts to help educate the next generation of students.
• One-on-one assistance for the student who’s floundering.
• Feedback for teachers who truly don’t “have eyes in the back of their heads.”
• An entrance into the world of Jewish communal work for our teens.
• Beginning training for the next generation of teachers.

Classroom aides/madrichim can make a critical different in "reaching and teaching" our students - if we provide training, encouragement, meaningful evaluations for both teens and teachers!