Good morning and l’shana tova.
I feel honored to speak with you today, on such a deep day of reflection.
I was asked to talk about my story with Kehilla, and our current opportunity to create a new narrative through our planning process.
Working on this talk, I’ve had an experience similar to Jacob wrestling with the angel - struggling long and hard with many intellectually compelling ideas. And then, as dawn was breaking, I asked for a blessing. A wonderful angel friend blessed me and told me to turn back and start with my own story, and connect that to our communal story later on. And so I will begin.
I think of myself as a pretty typical Kehilla member, part of an interfaith Jewish-Buddhist lesbian family.
Also typical of some Kehilla members, I was raised culturally jewish, had never been part of a synagogue, and knew no hebrew or prayers. I joined Kehilla because I wanted my son to go to Hebrew school here, and I liked Kehilla’s politics and values. I also felt Kehilla was a place that welcomed diversity of all kinds, including in our beliefs about God and Judaism, and that I would feel more at home here than I might anywhere else. I became involved in the Education committee, and then the B’nai mitzvah committee. When my son Daniel started studying for his bar mitzvah 3 years ago, I was ready to take the plunge and begin studying myself. And there began my transformation.
I decided to study with Daniel’s teacher Alaiya Aguilar. I learned the aleph-bet (through making yoga poses out of each letter), and then how to read and begin to understand Hebrew. I began learning prayers. The first one I studied was the Veahavta. I translated it so I would know what each word meant. And then I began to sing it over and over so I could memorize it. One winter day, up in the Sierras, I was waiting for Daniel and his friends to get their skis, and it was taking forever! I became quite agitated, and decided to calm myself down by practicing the Veahavta as I walked back and forth on a path in the snow. I remember it so clearly - all of a sudden I was not just reciting the Veahavta - I was praying! I had never understood what prayer was - and here it just snuck up on me when I wasn’t looking! I can’t even describe to you how I knew this was prayer - I just felt a connection between me and the universe, as if my words traveled from my mouth to my heart, and then out from my heart, and back again. I could not yet talk about God- but I knew this had to do with God-ness, whatever that was! I began to cry, and I did not know why.
I also began to study Torah. The last time I remembered reading the torah, I was 14, stuck somewhere at my camp in the Berkshires in the rain, where there was nothing to read but a tattered copy of the "old Testament." Now I became fascinated, and loved the process of working with Daniel on his d’rash. Then I learned how to chant Torah. I studied more prayers, and began to understand the service. I bought a prayer book, as well as countless other books on Judaism. At the Saturday morning service, I could sing along with most of it, and even read much of the Hebrew! I loved bar and bat mitzvahs so much that I started going to them as often as I could - whether I knew the child and family or not.
I was changing dramatically - and I was on a Jewish path!
And that was only the beginning. I decided to study for my own bat mitzvah (as part of a group of kehilla adults). And my spiritual journey unfolded. This spring, I discovered the practice of blessing. I remember one of my first meetings with Elizheva, the school rosh, when I was getting ready to teach 5th grade Hebrew school last year, and she wanted us to do a blessing before we ate. I felt really shy and uncomfortable, and didn’t know what to say. This spring, I began studying again with Alaiya in preparation for my bat mitzvah, and decided I wanted to learn and practice blessings. One day, I decided to try a morning blessing practice while riding my bicycle to work. It seemed more appropriate and fun to use Hebrew, so I started out with the traditional beginning- but in the feminine, At brucha Shechina, eloheinu ruach ha-olam, asher natan lanu (who has given us) - and then would fill in words I knew in hebrew for things I wanted to bless. I blessed hashamyim, the heavens, and the mitzvot, and the trees, and my family and friends, and love and beauty and my bicycle. I started to weep - my heart was overflowing, and I was in communication with something greater than myself. Somehow I was talking with the spirit of the universe! I was profoundly moved - not sad, not happy, just full and connected and in awe. I could not understand it at all!
I am just now beginning to explore what these practices of prayer and blessing are about for me - and why they are so powerful. And one thing I have discovered is that they are about not-knowing, not-understanding - not being rational. This is all a mystery.
I cannot really grasp what God is. I have been reading books about God, the history of god, how different wisdom traditions view god, and it is all very interesting to me - but the concept of God, I have, in my beginner’s way, concluded - is un-knowable! This is a fascinating place to be in for someone who likes to understand things. It is a humbling experience, but also a really cool one - to be entering a world that I can experience, but not comprehend. I feel like my life is richer, deeper, and that the world is both more intimate and larger.
I cry a lot more, and I think more about how I can be a better person.
This summer, at the Jewish renewal retreat center Elat Chayim, I learned a new practice that has been powerful for me - and I have begun to move from just doing the practices myself to wanting to share them with others. I actually talked about this practice at my bat mitzvah. This Hassidic teaching asks us to imagine the letters of God’s name - yud hey vav hey - written vertically [I will use a visual aid] superimposed on ourselves, and on every person we see.
(try this yourself right now) I have been practicing this quite a bit - when I feel judgmental, critical, angry, or afraid. This practice is especially hard (and useful) to do in our own families. With my partner Kitsy, who often loses her keys, I have been using it when I am about to criticize her for the umpteenth time, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I recall the god-ness in her and keep my mouth shut! I also use it with my son, Daniel, when I walk into his room and see his clothes scattered all over the floor; some of my frustration actually melts away as I see the letters swaying over his being.
After my bat mitzvah, many people told me how much they liked this idea, that they have been practicing it themselves, and how it is working!
Of course, I have been pleased to hear that. And I am intrigued by the idea of how we can share our "best practices" and help each other - but without being missionaries.
Now I want to back up and tell you a wonderful Hassidic story.
There was once a monastery that had fallen upon hard times. Once a great order, all its branch houses were lost, and now there were only 5 monks left in the mother house - all over 70 years in age.
In the deep woods surrounding the monastery, a rabbi from a nearby town had a little hut for retreat and reflection. One day, the distraught Abbot, or head monk, agonizing over the imminent death of his order, decided he would visit the rabbi and see if he could offer some advice.
The rabbi welcomed the Abbot at his hut. But when the abbot explained the purpose of his visit, the rabbi could only commiserate with him. The old abbot and the old rabbi wept together, they read parts of the Torah together, and spoke of deep things. As the abbot got ready to leave, he said to the rabbi "Is there no piece of advice you can give me to help save my dying order?"
"No, I am sorry," the rabbi responded. "The only thing I can tell you is that the Messiah (the one who will bring peace to the world) is one of you."
When the abbot returned to the monastery, he told the monks that the rabbi wasn’t able to help them, but that he did say something cryptic - that the Messiah is one of us. He told the monks, "I don’t know what he meant."
In the months that followed, the monks pondered this and wondered whether there was any possible significance to the rabbi’s words. The messiah is one of us? Could he have possibly meant one of the monks here at the monastery? Do you suppose he meant the abbot? Yes, if he meant anyone, he probably meant Father abbot. On the other hand, he may have meant Brother Thomas. Certainly brother thomas is a holy man. Certainly he could not have meant brother Eldred! Eldred gets crotchety at times, But come to think of it, even though he is a thorn in our sides, when you look back on it, Eldred is virtually always right. Maybe the rabbi did mean brother Eldred.? Of course the rabbi didn’t mean me- I’m just an ordinary person - yet supposing he did - suppose I am the messiah. Oh god not me!
As they contemplated in this manner, the old monks began to treat each other (and themselves) with extraordinary respect, on the off chance that one of them might be the messiah.
Now because the forest surrounding the monastery was quite beautiful, people still occasionally came to visit to picnic, wander the paths, and even now and then go into the chapel.
As they did so, they sensed this aura of extraordinary respect that now began to surround the 5 old monks, and seemed to radiate out from them and permeate the atmosphere of the place. Hardly knowing why, people began to come back to the monastery more frequently to picnic, to play, to pray. They began to bring their friends to show them this special place. And their friends brought friends.
And then it happened that some of the younger men who visited started to talk with the old monks. After a while, one asked if he could join them. Then another. And another.
So within a few years the monastery had once again become a thriving order, and thanks to the rabbi’s gift, a vibrant center of light and spirituality in the realm.
There are so many interpretations and teachings in this story! One that calls to me is that the rabbi does not tell the abbot what to do - what practices they should follow - he just suggests they consider that each of them might be the messiah - a person deserving of the utmost respect. And so it happens, by see-ing the god-ness in themselves and each other, the community becomes more holy, and others are drawn towards it. The community is renewed.
We also have an opportunity for renewal at kehilla. As we celebrate Kehilla’s 18th birthday, we are engaged in a strategic planning process in which we are reviewing our past, considering our present and imagining our future.
As Kehilla became more important to me, providing a home in which I could grow and explore, find fellow-travelers, and daven, I wanted to give back to Kehilla. - So, a year ago, I volunteered to help with the strategic planning process. Strategic planning is an opportunity to "practice what we preach" - to bring our spiritual values into an organizational endeavor.
Could we bring our best selves to meetings, and learn together in a spirit of inquiry and love?
As we began, and were getting ready for the first community meeting, I suggested to our planning group that we ask people to do a deep listening practice - without arguing or trying to persuade others of our own point of view. Some people told me, "we can't do that - it’s not Jewish!" Our planning group decided to challenge that narrative we have about ourselves - that Jews can lean towards being noisy, argumentative, and that we talk more than we listen. We asked people at the community meeting to take a leap of faith - and they did beautifully! Since that first meeting, we have developed the phrase "passionate ideas held lightly" as our mantra. This respectful listening process has continued in all our meetings and focus groups - so I believe we have already expanded our narrative. Mazel tov to us all on this one!
Now we are about to enter a new phase in our planning process - moving from deep listening to deep dialogue. In deep dialogue, we look beneath our own assumptions, and as we consider our differences, and try to decide between 2 opposing choices, we look for the third way. In the practice of the third way, we expand our vision from looking at our own individual needs, and begin to think about our community as a whole. We go for "both/and," instead of "either/or." I’m sure everyone here has had "third way" experiences with groups, and certainly in intimate relationships - which are a third way practice by definition!
I’d like to share an example of the third way practice from our adult b’nai mitzvah group.
As 6 strong-minded people, we of course had many different wishes for what our service would be like. Some of us were worried that the service would not be as each of us individually wanted, and we didn’t know how we were going to work this out. For example, I advocated for lots of dancing and movement - which was not too popular in the group. We all wanted too many songs - and had to cut, so some of our individual favorites did not make it. At our early meetings, I went home wondering if I should have my own bat mitzvah so I could chant as much torah and haftorah as I liked! Along the way, we each expressed the things that were most important to us, and a spirit developed among us, a desire to make something beautiful and meaningful for the whole group, and that we would find a way for each person to have their heart’s desire. We began to look at the whole picture and we softened around our passionate needs. We ended up with a service that was richer and deeper, that in fact we could not have had by ourselves. We had the joy of doing it together, And we forged a bond we will always have.
I believe we can engage in this same practice in our planning process.
I think we can follow in the footsteps of the monks, who saw the god-ness in each other. We can create a community that honors each person in our uniqueness, and make a place where everyone, along with our ideas, feels welcomed and valued, and where we can all contribute to our community. We may need to go through a time of both "stretching" and "not-knowing," and stay open to letting the third way find us.
Now, this is a tall order, and I am reminded again of the story of Jacob wrestling with the angel. Building and living in community is a blessing, and it is also a struggle - and we often need to do some wrestling with ideas, with ourselves, with others, with God.
As Carl Jung reminds us, "conflict, like fire, has 2 aspects - it burns and gives light." May we be blessed with this light in our strategic planning and in our communal lives!
And may we all have Kehilla as a source of inspiration, a sacred community, a place where we can deepen, and bring our energy outward as well, for tikkun olam, healing the world.
Thank you and shalom.