Poetry: The Soul and Its Maker p.2 Leap of Faith (Editorial) Amala Levinep.3 Searching, Eleanor Siegel p.5 Oh God ! ..., Rabbi Maurice A. Salth p.6 The Unprovable Truth, Rabbi Michael S. Friedman p.8 The Raccoon Ate Our Challah, Joanna Stone Herman p.9 The Sleeping Soul, Eric Levine p.10 Making Loss Matter, Rabbi David Wolpe p.12 Tranquility, Melinda Gould Konopko p.14 Living Faith, (A Tribute to Rabbi Jack Stern) p. 16 Faith in The Shadows, Harold Bronheim p.18 Lifelines, Jennifer Gardner Trulson p.20 Speaking of Faith, Steve Klausner p.22

Fa l l 2 0 1 1 T H I S I S S U E : FA I T H

Faith is a deeply

personal experience, yet it binds

all of us together.

My faith is but one small link in a chain

that reaches back to the

dawn of time, and forward, to the future

of all mankind.Faith in The Shadow

Harold Bronheim Page 19

Ner Tamid, Central Synagogue

Leap of Faith

EDITORIALPOETRY

2 3

Amala Levine

Why do we hesitate to speak of faith? Presum-ably we join a religious institution because we believe, and we regard our clergy, at least in

part, as purveyors of faith, who explain why and what we should believe. These assumptions were notably tested when we decided to explore the topic in this issue of HaShiur that, not coincidentally, reaches the congrega-tion in time for the High Holy Days, the most introspec-tive, moving period in the Jewish calendar. ‘Faith’ was a real challenge to get off the ground yet, once airborne, it soared. The reflections, essays and memoirs assembled here attest to the vibrancy of faith in our community but, in their diversity, they also highlight the complexity, uncertainty and soul searching as an inextricable part. Rabbi Salth deftly captures the predicament with his title: “Oh God! Why God? Thank God! Where Are you God? God!”—indicating how much we wrestle with faith, just like Jacob with the angel. He was renamed Israel and we are his descendants, by birth or by choice. We waver between doubt and affirmation because faith is fickle and God is elusive or palpably present. How do we know? How do we speak about something so person-al, so fragile and yet so true? Isn’t it an oxymoron to call faith an “unprovable truth,” as Rabbi Friedman does? A truth, by definition, should have clear proof. But faith does not; it exists or not—depending on our experience, our mood, our needs. Sometimes we have to give God a “time-out,” as Jennifer Gardner Trulson did after the death of her husband on 9/11. Yet she found comfort and strength in the Jewish traditions and ritual in which she had been embedded since childhood. These, she concludes, are the tools that God has provided; if we choose to accept them, they become our life lines. Not only do they help us heal but they also constitute our quintessential Jewishness, as Rabbi Friedman shows. What really matters, he argues, is not whether the Exodus was historically true, but that each year at Passover we ritually recommit ourselves to the fundamental values and principles of Judaism. That is an act of faith. In that sense, faith is not so much a matter of grappling with abstract definitions of God as it is the concrete, lived expression of a cultural, religious and genealogical identity—our bedrock. Joanna Stone Her-man poignantly describes the deep joy of submerging in the waters of the mikveh with her little twins. Judaism fills in the dots, connecting her own spiritual and ethical

values to the Torah, and her family to the community at large. Even in the shadow of Auschwitz, faith in these inter-human links and in tikkun olam are still possible, as Harold Bronheim concludes in the haunting recollection of his family’s history. And Melinda Gould Konopko’s mother, after learning she had incurable cancer, ap-proached death with such tranquility and grace that she set an example of faith in the continuity of life—if not individually, then collectively as a legacy. There are times however, when such lived dem-onstrations of faith are joined by the awareness of God as near and real, when a nebulous, ephemeral concept turns into tangible experience. Then the ‘unprovable’ becomes truth from which intuitional faith is born. Such an encounter with God defines the turning point in our contemporary fiction, “The Sleeping Soul,” but it is also characteristic of prophetic visions like Ezekiel’s and the psalms praising the unwavering Presence of God. God simply is—an undisputable fact. For most of us, it is not as uncomplicated and direct. Rabbi Jack Stern, who will be much missed this Yom Kippur, cautions that faith is a hypothesis, an un-provable postulate, and he calls us “gamblers” wagering a bet. But, he says, if we decide to take the chance, to commit ourselves to Adonai heart and soul, then we can’t lose. In that spirit we continue our journey, searching as Eleanor Siegel still does, after more than 50 years of active engagement with Judaism, what it means to have faith. For her and for us it is, as she writes, “a wonderful and exciting experience.”

Bow down before God, my preciousThinking soul, and make haste to Worship Him with reverence. NightAnd day I think only of your everlastingWorld. Why should you chase afterVanity and emptiness? As long as youLive, you are akin to the living God: justAs He is invisible, so are you. SinceYour Creator is pure and flawless, knowThat you too are pure and perfect. TheMighty One upholds the heavens onHis arm, as you uphold the mute body.My soul, let your songs come beforeYour Rock, who does not lay your formIn the dust. My innermost heart, blessYour Rock always, whose name isPraised by everything that has breath.

Solomon Ibn Gabriol

Solomon Ibn Gabriol (1021- c. 1055) was born in Malaga and lived mostly in Saragossa. He was one of the greatest Hebrew poets of all time, composing both liturgical and secular poems about nature and love. But his personal poems, like the one above, are the most original and complex, depicting the struggles of his soul torn between society and God.

The Soul AND ITS MAKER

Ben Shahn, from “The Alphabet of Creation” Correction: “Communities of Textual Studies,” HaShiur, Spring 2011, page 18: We apologize for the erroneous attribution of the creation of Talmud study classes at Central Synagogue. The program was instituted by Rabbi Sheldon Zimmerman in April 1979, during his tenure as senior rabbi.

Jacob wrestling with the Angel. Petrus Bible, 1372

54ESSAY

Searching Eleanor Siegel

Jewish values require action. Yet, today, with children of their own, synagogue and Jewish life play an important part in their lives. When we moved from Long Island to Newton, Massachusetts, we became active in the new syna-gogue. There I studied and stated my commitment to Judaism by becoming an adult bat mitzvah. I still pray, no matter how strongly I feel about personal re-sponsibility and that God is within, rather than a puppet master. I say a prayer every time before driving the car: “God, please keep me/us safe and whole. Let me do no harm or see any harm done.” I do not say this prayer because I believe God is watching only me but because it makes me feel stronger and more focused. Today, Art and I are in the middle of a two-year Melton course of Jewish study, which began with learning more about the Torah. The course was a gift from our children for our 50th anniversary, because they know how strongly we feel about learning, about Judaism and Israel. We have taken them to Israel twice. Art and I have gone also with my sister and brother-in-law, as well as with Rabbi Rubinstein during the second intifada. As my journey towards faith continues, I discover more about Judaism, more about spiritu-ality and more about myself. It is a wonderful and exciting experience.

Eleanor Siegel, a NYC writer, has been a member of Central Synagogue for more than 15 years.

This memory helped me ac-knowledge that I was Jewish too. But did that mean I also

believed in God? What did I know about Judaism? Did I actually care about Judaism? And why was my struggle so difficult if I grew up in a Jewish home? My mother was raised in an Orthodox home and, while my grandparents were alive, we went to their shul, where men and women sat apart. My father grew up in a more secular Jewish home. His grandparents had emigrated from Russia to England at a time when Jews behaved almost like Marranos, adopting English culture and tradi-tions, even celebrating Christmas. In England, new immigrants did not want to be different. My mother and her family came to the United States from Lithuania in 1929. To her, appearing more American was appealing and, once my parents married, they decided to give us Christmas gifts; they wanted to fit in, something they had in common with many Jewish families. But we never had a Christmas tree.

As I thought how my family had influenced me, I had to acknowledge how deep an impres-sion my maternal grandparents had made on me. They always celebrat-ed Chanukah, and all grandchildren received shalachmanos, an amount of

money, solemnly delivered in a dish with a white cover. When we were 13, we received a silver dollar and we knew we had achieved a mile-stone. Passover was always a huge and wonderful family event with ten aunts, many uncles and cousins. These events created a sense of Jewish identity, but they did not touch the deepest parts of Judaism such as God and Jewish values. In that search, I was on my own. How can you research the existence of God? I could read many books of what others were thinking but I wanted to form my own opinion. When I prayed, was God pulling the strings only for me? Did God make some people well and let others die? To me, this did not make sense. Too many things happen that are just simply inexplicable; I could not hold God responsible for evil or injustice. In time, I came to believe that God was within me. Thinking about God in this way, I would not depend upon Him to solve my problems, no matter how serious they were. The synagogue was an im-portant part of the search for God. While Art and I were raising our three children and I was wrestling with faith, we helped found the Dix Hills Jewish Center. One afternoon, upon returning home with the chil-dren after Hebrew School, I grew tired of hearing their complaints about having to attend. I took them into the dining room and pointed at the unfurnished room. Then I asked firmly, “Do you want to know why it is empty? It is because we choose to spend our money on the synagogue, that’s what we believe is important.” I don’t think they remember that particular moment when I was teaching them that

THE SEARCH for faith is a process that begins with many questions. For me the journey began by denying both God and Judaism. When you are young, this is easy to do. However, when our first child was born, I felt I had to understand why I had made those choices. What did I really be-lieve? Could we celebrate both Christmas and Chanukah? Could we have a Christmas tree in our home? Since I didn’t believe in Jesus Christ and the tree was a symbol of Christ, the answer to that question was easy. I also remembered my mother’s friend coming to our home after World War II, and her description of the horrors she had endured during the Holocaust, just because she was Jewish. The Nazis didn’t care whether or not you had embraced Christianity with all your heart; they still killed you for being Jewish. Hiding your Jewishness was useless.

Edward Hopper, “Sun in An Empty Room”

I took them into the din-ing room and pointed at the unfurnished room. Then I asked firmly, “Do you want to know why it is empty?”

How can you research the existence of God?

■

Rabbi Maurice A. Salth

6 7REFLECTIONS

Oh God!

Why God? Thank God! WhereAre You God?God!

the Divine and Its mysterious ways. Wrestling, for us, is as foundational as the praise we lavish on God. Sometimes our thoughts about faith and God are steady and unwaver-ing for long periods, while at other times in our lives we doubt God in the morning and praise Adonai by sunset, or vice versa. This is our lot as humans—we struggle with God. Ten years ago, on September 11, 2001, I stood with my rabbinical school fellows and our professors on the corner of Fourth and Mercer Street, staring in disbelief at the thick black smoke billowing from the tops of the World Trade Center towers. When news came of the col-lapse of the buildings, our teacher, Rabbi Norman Cohen, invited those gathered into the chapel of the He-brew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion. He and the other fac-ulty did as best they could to update us on what they knew, and advised us how to get home safely. Rabbi Cohen also taught us then that, in times of crisis, the Jewish people always have looked to the words of the Psalms. ”We read psalms,” Rabbi Daniel Polish teaches, “because they help us confront the pains and challenges that are a part of every human life… psalms help us overcome our problems and bear the burdens that life places on all of us.” And so it was on Septem-ber 11. When we, individually and communally, were facing one of, if not the most tragic and chaotic day in our lives, we felt strengthened by the honest and moving words of the psalms. We listened to these ancient words in the safety of our simple chapel; we took a deep breath, and then each of us went on our way.

THE PSALMS are a collection of 150 poetic pieces that are part of the Hebrew Bible. Dating back as far as 586 BCE, these poems contain questions, and sometime answers, to some of the deepest questions humanity has ever asked about God.

must I walk in gloom oppressed by my enemy? Crushing my bones, my foes revile me, taunting me always with ‘where is your God?’” And the author of Psalm 74:1 writes: “Why, Oh God, do you forever reject us? “

How many of us have asked questions such as these? They are not intellectual inquiries, but existential, soulful searches. More than 2,000 years ago it was acceptable to ask such direct, chal-lenging questions of God, and it is still appropriate for us to ask them today. For me, hidden in these words and other psalms is the question: Is there a God? Because, if there is a God, why am I and others suffering so? The author of Psalm 42 diplomatically places the question of God’s existence into the mouth of his enemy who is asking, “Where is your God?” But to me it is not the enemy alone questioning God’s reality. It is the author himself. Such questioning, though chuzpadik, audacious in Yiddish, has been part of the Jewish experience for millennia. Just where is this God that is supposed to be merciful and gracious, endlessly patient, loving, and true? We Jews are not dense. We know the God we speak of in prayer sometimes seems to be miss-ing. After all, we are Israel, the ones who, by the definition of the word Israel, wrestle with the question of

cares on my mind, grief in my heart all day? How long will my enemy have the upper hand?” Psalm 22:2-3 cries out: “My God, my God, why have you aban-doned me; why so far from deliv-

ering me and from my anguished roaring? My God, I cry by day – You answer not; by night and have no respite.” “Why have you forgotten me?” Psalm 42 questions. “Why

The Hebrew name for this book is Tehillim, which means praises. Many of these poems

do affirm and praise God, many also describe faith in God, but I find most remarkable those pieces where faith is not a given. What interests me most is when our ancestors speak to God or about God, and wonder, complain, cry for help, or lament. These psalms reflect the timeless experience of all of us, living as Jews in an unsure world, trying to understand God, how God works in the universe or even questioning the existence of God altogether. Every Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur our liturgy expresses little doubt that God exists. The prayers recited during these holi-days contain no questions about God or faith—both are taken as certain. Throughout High Holy Day prayers we call God Avinu, our Father, and Malkeinu, our King, and we say Chatanuh, we have sinned against You. I find power and com-fort in these appellations, metaphors and pleas to God for forgiveness; these prayers hold deep meaning for me. Yes, I do like the majesty and import of the machzor, the High Holy Day prayer book, but I also am deeply grateful that our tradition has holy texts, such as the Psalms, that question God and faith in God. Is there a God? And if so, where are You? Psalm 13 contains words that are often integrated into the Mi Shebeirach prayer for healing at our Shabbat evening services. Psalm 13:2-4 asks: “How long, O God, will you ignore me forever? How long will you hide Your face from me? How long will I have William Blake, “Job Confessing his Presumption

to God who Answers from the Whirlwind”

...in times of crisis, the Jewish people always have looked to the words of the Psalms.

■

8

gist who has investigated the story of the Exodus, with very few excep-tions, agrees that the way the Bible describes the Exodus is not the way it happened, if it happened at all.”

The subsequent wail of anguish created a shock wave that echoed throughout the Jewish world. There were many who could not believe that such a prominent rabbi in the Conservative movement had uttered those words. Even though most of Wolpe’s congregants would not have claimed to believe that the Torah is the literal word of God, they nonetheless had faith that its most central and dramatic narrative was essentially histori-cally accurate. Some therefore felt as if the last remaining leg of their faith was being snatched out from under them. This was a story they believed in. If we were never slaves in Egypt, and if there was no Exodus,

then why observe Passover? Why have a seder? And if we do not have faith in the historical accuracy of the Torah, why bother observing it at all? Even Maimonides was not at all concerned with the accuracy of the Torah. His faith lay in the simple utilitarian value of the Torah. “The entire Torah has only two purposes: to help us develop to become better human beings, and to teach us es-sential truths about life.” (Guide to the Perplexed, 3:27) He lived by the Torah because it proved to have ben-efit in his life and the life of others. As Rabbi Wolpe writes, “The Torah is not a book we turn to for historical accuracy, but rather for truth.” One of our Confirmation students said recently, “Sometimes it is good to have faith, because it can be used as a source of strength. It is comforting to not always have to prove something to believe in it.” The purpose of a seder, therefore, is not to re-enact a historical event. The purpose of the seder is to use a well-known narrative to re-orient us to the most fundamental of our principles: that we understand the bitterness of oppression, and that we therefore have a responsibility to bring freedom and redemption to the world. The same could be said of a great many Jewish rituals – that they orient us toward our most important values. The shofar calls us to awaken from our complacency and become better people. The sukkah reminds us of the fragility of life and urges us to appreciate our blessings. The Shabbat candles underscore our responsibility to bring light to the dark corners of our world. In these unprovable truths, we have faith.

The story is told that some Jews chanted a particularly poignant line in Hebrew as

they were being marched to the gas chambers. They knew the terrible fate that awaited them. Yet they launched what might be called a rebellion of faith, proclaiming, Ani ma’amin b’emunah shleimah bevi’at haMashiach. “I believe with full faith in the coming of the Mes-siah.” For them, the concept of mes-siah represented a world repaired, restored and redeemed. This was their rebellion of faith against their tormentors. Even in a world gone completely dark, they nonethe-less believed with full faith that a brighter day lay ahead—if not for them, then for others who would come after. Faith implies that there is something to have faith in. So it was traumatic to some that, just before Passover in 2001, Rabbi David Wolpe of Sinai Temple in Los Angeles gave a sermon in which he challenged the historical truth of the Exodus story as related in the Torah. He said, “Virtually every modern archaeolo-

The Unprovable Truth Rabbi Michael S. Friedman

REFLECTIONS

Marc Chagall, “Exodus”

Jewish rituals orient us toward our most important values.

ESSAY

Joanna Stone Herman

9

Friday, May 6, 2011 was a special day. It was my birthday, it was Shabbat, and my three year-

old twin daughters and I had just become Jewish the day before. That afternoon, I was reminded of the importance of my faith while being robbed in Central Park by a raccoon. Becoming a Jew has been a decades-long process. My father is Jewish, my mother is a lapsed Catholic and I was brought up “nothing,” which turned me into a perpetual seeker of “something.” I wanted a relationship with God, but had no idea how to develop one. I felt culturally Jewish, but had no connection to the Jewish religion. I had spirituality but I did not have a faith.

When I first met my hus-band, it was clear his Jewish identity was very important to him. I agreed to learn more about Judaism and together we signed up for Derech Torah classes at the 92nd Street Y. Eventually, I began to work with Rabbi Jan Uhrbach, a brilliant, in-spiring rabbi from the Conservative Synagogue of the Hamptons, who patiently helped me sort through my feelings about everything from Jesus Christ to the New Age writer Louise Hay.* Growing up, I had been given strong values and a vague sense of spirituality. Judaism has helped me fill in the missing pieces

and taught me what it means to have a faith. It has connected me to a history, thousands of years old, filled with traditions and customs that now serve as the foundation for my spiritual life. Judaism also has given me a community, a diverse group of people who disagree more often than they agree, but who relish these disagreements because they value different viewpoints and continual learning. However, they unanimously agree in one area—their core values. It turns out these are the same core values I was taught as a child—including love, respect, forgiveness, and peace. My choice to become a Jew was ar-guably less significant than our de-cision to raise our daughters in the Jewish faith. We would like Juda-ism to provide the foundation upon which our daughters can build, as they each develop their own moral compass. We hope they will follow halachic laws and traditions to help keep them connected to God. We also would like them to live in the spirit of Jewish laws and to be role models for tikkun olam, striving to

make the world a better place and inspiring others to do the same. The final step towards conversion is the mikveh. After my own submersion in the ritual bath, I had to put my three-year old twin daughters underwater, which was not the easiest process. They cried and coughed and gave me looks as if to say they would never forgive me. But by the time we were sway-ing back and forth to the Shehechey-anu, their smiles had returned. And shortly after we left the mikveh, they told us they wanted to “go back under water and become Jewish again!” In fact, they had actually become Jewish again. This Conser-vative conversion with their mom was their second time in the mikveh. Shortly after their birth, they had been part of a beautiful Reform conversion led by Rabbi Maurice Salth together with Rabbi Michael Friedman. On May 6, the day after my conversion, my husband and I were walking through Central Park, pushing our enormous tandem stroller, the largest on the market that seems to have the same effect as Hummer limos on city streets—everyone gets out of our way when they see us coming. Our girls were

The Raccoon Ate Our Challah

I wanted a relationship with God, but had no idea how to develop one.

continued on page 15

*Central Synagogue’s conversion program and Introduction for those exploring Judaism began last September under the direction of Rabbi Lisa Rubin.■

Eric Levine

10

The Sleeping Soul

FICTION

11

I was smart and good-looking, accomplished at sports and top of the class in all my studies. So

success came easily. Scholarships to Yale, then Harvard Business School—graduating with full hon-ors—gave me the entrée to the most prestigious Wall Street firms. But getting in was only the start. How to reach the top, as a socially uncon-nected woman, was the challenge. Yet I was determined to make it, no matter what it took. I worked hard at attracting new business, seizing every opportunity, making my pres-ence felt. My reputation grew, and with it came rapid promotion and the accompanying financial rewards. I was on my way up the corporate ladder. Then came the phone call. I was busy at the time and would normally not have taken the call, particularly not from some-one I didn’t know. Yet for some uncanny reason I told my assistant to put it through. The caller had a deep, cultured voice with an at-tractive, slightly foreign accent. He explained that he was involved in tracing family genealogies and that my name had come up as part of a particularly interesting family history. Could we meet? He didn’t press for an answer, just left me his name and office number. His name, Bernat Ojeda, suggested a Spanish connection.

aback. Having lost my mother when I was small, then abandoned by my father, I had no idea about my fam-ily background. All this was certain-ly possible though difficult for me to take in. “Are you sure about this?” I asked awkwardly. “I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t,” “Does this mean I’m Jew-ish?” I asked. “You have Jewish blood and have inherited a most distinguished Jewish pedigree. Whether you want to be Jewish is up to you. And that’s why I’m here—to help you make the choice. ” He went on to tell me more about his work and the satisfaction it gave him. He said he was taking a small group to Majorca, with similar chuetas connections to mine, to reunite them with their Jewish past and invited me to join them. Sensing my diffidence, he got up to go. His departure opened up a suppressed longing for family connection and the deeply buried pain of my orphaned childhood. It made for a quick decision to join the trip. A few weeks later I found myself in Palma, Majorca as part of a small congenial group from differ-ent countries led by Bernat Orjeda. The morning after our arrival, we heard a lecture on the Island his-tory of the Jewish communities, given by a young Israeli rabbi with a Bronx accent. Around noon, we walked to Gomila Plaza and stood in the burning heat on the very spot of the ‘bonfire of the Jews’. As the rabbi intoned a special 15th century Kaddish, a strange tingling sensation overcame me. The unfamiliar words of the prayer kept resonating in my

see from where I’m pointing that the line from his grandfather contin-ues unbroken, always through the matrilineal line, down to this very day. And here you will see, “point-ing again to the family tree, “your maternal grandmother, who, accord-ing to the records we have managed to access, lived in Palma as part of the chuetas community until her death just a few years ago. This, my dear Angela, is your family tree!” I was completely taken

King Pedro IV when he conquered the Baleriac Isles in 1343. Hasdai Crescas was the grandfather of R. Hasdai Crescas, one of our greatest Jewish rabbis of the late 15th centu-ry, author of the famous philosophi-cal treatise, Or Adonai, Light of the Lord. And that,” he said, pausing for emphasis, “is where you come in.” “Although Rabbi Crescas’ son died as a martyr in the anti-Jewish riots in Barcelona, you will

5th century, maybe sooner, there has been a presence of Jews on the Ba-learic island of Majorca. For many centuries they prospered and were even protected by the Spanish kings who ruled over the island. But there were also periods, especially during the times of the Inquisition, when the Jews were persecuted, robbed of their civil rights, and forced to convert to Christianity or face death by burning at the stake. “Early in the 14th century, the position of the Jewish commu-nity began to deteriorate, first under the rule of James II, then under his son, Sancho I. Anti-Jewish riots broke out after several Jews were accused of murdering a Christian child. Then, under the influence of the Bishop of Majorca, Sancho ordered the confiscation of the majestic synagogue of Palma and its conversion into a church. As late as 1691, 37 Jews, men and women, who had been forced to convert but had continued to practice their religion secretly, were burned alive in Gomila Plaza in the infamous ‘bonfire of the Jews.’ Yet, against all odds, converts to Christianity who maintained their Jewish practices in secret, continued to live in Majorca to this very day. They are called chu-etas. They were forced to live apart and only marry other chuetas. This went on until very recently.” “So what’s this got to do with me?” I again asked impatiently. “That’s what I’m coming to,” he replied with an engaging smile, turning his attention to the genealogical tree and pointing towards its head. “Here you will see the name of Hasdai Crescas, who together with Maestre Eleazar Ibn Ardut, was part of the retinue of

Although in the midst of a complex international merger, I was too intrigued by the thought of trac-ing my origins to ignore the call. So I arranged to meet him the next day at my office. Bernat Ojeda was a hand-some man, rather aristocratic look-ing with a dark Mediterranean skin. He was older than I had imagined but had a warm sympathetic smile. He unrolled the scroll of an exten-sive genealogical tree on the confer-ence table as he began to speak.

“You’ll be wondering who I am, “he said, “and why I wanted to see you. Let me explain. I work for an organization called Shavei Israel. We are dedicated to finding the remnants of Jewish families who centuries ago were forced to convert to Catholicism in order to escape death but who secretly maintained their Jewish traditions …” “But what’s that got to do with me?” I interrupted. “Grant me a little patience,” he said. “It’s a long story but I will try and make it short. Ever since the Continued on page 13

I was on my way up the corporate ladder. Then came the phone call.

RELIGION was never part of my upbringing. Coming from a broken home in a working-class district, it held no attraction. I was three when my mother died. Abandoned by my father, I ended up in an orphanage. Breaking out to improve my life was all I cared about.

NON FICTION

12

Rabbi David WolpeMaking Loss Matter

Wielded as a spiritual sword, a blade of grass is a lever sturdy enough to pry open the gate of holiness.

13

It is the same message one gets from Utopian novels where drugs or strict social control offer

the same blissful emptiness. The hero is the one who will not settle for the pleasure that blocks out the drama and struggle and pain of life. Without pain there is no music, art, literature. Similarly, almost no sci-ence or technology would exist be-cause needs and pains are so closely related that to be without pain is to virtually be without need. You miss someone you love, you seek shelter from the elements, medicine for an ailment, relief from boredom in a novel or a movie, an expression of the angst in your soul that only mu-sic can give, a need to express what is bottled up inside you, a religious rite to bind up the wounds of your loss, a pillow for your tired head, and food for your empty stomach. Dealing with pain and express-ing joy together create civilization. Perhaps God ought to have created a painless world, but it could not be with human beings. Our souls are our unique endowment. Struggle is the leaven-ing element of life. Through it we rise. We yearn for God in a world spun out of control, and yet we doubt the reality of God. In the seed of our doubting there can be

unbearable to be divorced from You for so long.” I did not become a rabbi be-cause I believe. I became a rabbi be-cause I committed my life to never giving up searching and yearning for God. I am a rabbi because there is in me, as there is in you, a child, a child that knows that somewhere we are not alone; that this world is bathed in miracles; and that for every pain there is beauty, for every loss there is love, and for every waste there is wonder. I continue to seek God be-cause I know this is the human task I seek, because in that search there is life, and light, and meaning, and even joy. There is indeed joy in faith, and joy in the quest for faith. The world often cooperates if we see in it the beauty that awaits. Sanctity dwells in everything that exists. Wielded as a spiritual sword, a blade of grass is a lever sturdy enough to pry open the gate of holi-ness. Faith is not only an ear-nest search, it is a dance. One who believes in the ultimate goodness of the universe will not necessar-ily be happy, but joy is deeper than happiness. Joy does not obviate loss. When we lose faith, we have a chance to pull ourselves higher, and often the rung that we can grasp is the rung of joy.

From Making Loss Matter by Rabbi David Wolpe, copyright © 1999. Used by permission of Riverhead Books, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

the platform on which we build a deeper, sturdier faith. But every time I speak about finding one’s way back to God, I hear that same voice of the child in the orphanage saying, “My mommy told me never to let go of his hand,” the voice of the one who says, “What about me? What about the world that I was born into only to suffer?” and I know that it’s not allowed to be easy. There are people who have told that they never doubted their faith in God no matter what they faced. I envy that cer-tainty. It is not mine. For me it is a struggle, and in some ways I cannot keep faith with that child if I don’t struggle, if I don’t wonder, if I don’t doubt, if I don’t pray, not only to ask of God but to find God.

In an editorial that Elie Wiesel wrote in the New York Times about his encounter with God some fifty years after the end of the Holocaust, he wrote, “‘What about my faith in You, master of the universe?’ I now realize that I never lost it, not even over there during the darkest hours of my life.” Wiesel closed his beautiful meditation as follows: “As we Jews now enter the High Holidays again preparing ourselves to pray for a year of peace and happiness for our people and all people, let us make up, master of the universe, in spite of everything that has happened, yes in spite, let us make up for the child in me, it is

found faith. But the faith we find there is different from faith as we usually conceive of it. We think of the doubter as lost, but equally the believer can be lost—lost in impreg-nable pieties of one kind or another. Faith is not a fortress. We are not locked into it. I do not believe as I did ten years ago, and I hope I do not believe today as I will ten years from now. My faith has be-come more honest as I have grown. But it is not easy.

Losing faith is a universal experience. Things we loved are not as we believed them to be. Bitter from losing, we can become skepti-cal. If we can admit our disillu-sion and believe it is not the end of the search, we can move forward. My advice to people who have lost faith is not to lose faith in faith. Don’t believe that because faith is sometimes hard it has fled forever. Have faith in the searching. Loss is

WHEN I WAS a child, I used to watch “Star Trek.” Many of the plots were repetitive. They land on a planet where there is no pain, but also no growth, the crew has to decide—should they stay there and be in a state of innocent bliss forever, or leave and brave the turbulence of life? Of course, they always brave the turbulence—otherwise there is no episode for next week. But the underlying message is more serious.

ears, infusing me, no longer alien. As the Kaddish ended, I wandered off to clear my head. In a matter of moments I found myself standing in front of the magnificent entrance to the church that once had been the Great Synagogue. I knew I had been there before. On an impulse I pushed the heavy, wood-en door open and entered. Only a distant altar light broke the vast darkness of the space. The words of the Kaddish kept reverberating inside me. Suddenly the space was filled by an intense burst of bril-liant light and a profound silence. I sensed an overpowering Presence. I fell to my knees, then prostrated myself on the cold stone floor. I was weeping, but they were tears of joy. From deep within, words came tum-bling forth, words I had never heard before, words I did not know, yet words that were part of me, Hebrew words, the words of the Sh’mah. That trip changed my life in so many ways. I had encountered God; I had retrieved my ancient faith; I had discovered my roots. After a year of study I for-mally converted to Judaism and am now enrolled in Theologi-cal Seminary, training to become a rabbi. I am supported in these endeavors by my beloved husband, Bernat Ojeda.

The historical references in this story are factually accurate; the rest is fiction.

The Sleeping Soul continued from p. 11

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Eric Levine is a transnational corporate lawyer and a founding principle of Millennia Capital Partners, an investment advisory firm.

14ESSAY

Tranquility

On Friday night, September 18, 2009, I sat in the sanctuary of Central Synagogue. It was

the beginning of Rosh HaShanah and also the day I learned my mother, Karolyn Gould, had lung cancer. My family would have to wait until Mon-day to learn the stage of her illness. I was overwhelmed by the contrast of the beauty of the sanctuary and the heaviness in my heart. I could barely breathe as I faced the magnitude of the question—who shall live and who shall die. I was keenly aware of its timeliness. As I sat there, I prayed. I prayed for the cancer to be treatable. I prayed my mother would not have to endure extreme suffering. I prayed my father could function while the love of his life was ill. It is an understatement to say my moth-er did not like to discuss anything unpleasant. She was a “glass 9/10th full” sort of woman. I prayed she would allow her family to face her illness together. The good news is that people can surprise us. When, on Monday, my mother was given her diagnosis, she declared she was not afraid of death. She announced to all her loved ones that she wanted to make it perfectly clear she had had a great life. After all, she had been married to a man who absolutely adored her for more than 50 years. She had four healthy, married children. She had nine grandchildren and friendships that spanned her whole life. She also had a pioneering career in the non-profit sector, giving her the comfort-ing knowledge she would leave the world a little better off. It was her job now to show those she loved how not to be afraid of death, how

to face the end of life with grace. My mother declared her ill-ness and approaching death should not be viewed as a tragedy. While she was profoundly sad she would not see her grandchildren grow into adulthood or be there to celebrate their weddings, she still knew she was lucky. She quoted Erik Erik-

son, explaining she had reached what Erikson called “integrity”—a state of wholeness. At the time, my mother’s attitude seemed a profound depar-ture from the woman who did not like to discuss negative issues. Over time though, I came to realize that her faith in the process of life was exactly why she was able to be so magnificently positive in the face of death. During the 18 months of her illness, no topic was off limits. Never defensive, all questions could

My mother taught faith by example, not by stand-ing on a soapbox.

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Melinda Gould Konopko

She was a “glass 9/10th full” sort of woman.

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THE RACOON ATE OUR CHALLAH continued from p. 9

be asked and would be honestly answered. She wanted treatment only as long as it allowed her to live her life well. When told it would no longer help, she wanted it stopped. Although my mother sometimes cried, didn’t want to have cancer, didn’t want to limit her activities, she never felt sorry for herself. She continued to plan and have visits until just a few weeks before her death. She had more than 150 visi-tors after her diagnosis. She con-tinued attending her beloved book club of four decades, until a month before she died; two weeks later, the current book selection was on her bedside table. She was the defini-tion of an optimist. In January 2011, my mother wanted to see her oncologist whom she treasured and trusted, one last time. She wanted to know exactly how much time he thought she had left because she had to plan. He didn’t want to answer. Ultimately, he said a month, maybe two or even three. She was determined to attend her 80th birthday celebration on February 20th. Her doctor gently shook his head, he wasn’t so sure. But, just three weeks before her death, my mother did celebrate her birthday gloriously with her family and a few of her closest friends. As we waited at the oncolo-gist’s office for her appointment, my mother and I had a great conversa-tion, despite her profound physical weakness. I asked her again why she wasn’t afraid of dying. She reiterated that her life was full; she was over-

joyed the key relationships in her life had been so enriched during her ill-ness. She was sure the end would be gentle, and certain she would watch over all of us after her death. In the cab on the way home, she decided we should discuss her funeral, from funeral home options to what my kids might wear. Later, 10 days before her death, we dis-cussed the shiva—what tablecloth to use, the menu, and she asked me to serve lemonade and mojitos because they would be refreshing—remind-ing me that no topic was off limits. As we approached my par-ents’ apartment building that day in January, she turned to me and said, “So, we have no unresolved issues, we’re good?” “Yes, Mom, no unresolved issues. We are good.” She was pleased. My mother taught faith by example, not by standing on a soap-box. She taught us to believe in the inherent goodness of people. She taught faith in the process of life, by taking problems one step at a time, to be open to life’s possibilities and to act with good intentions, then good would come of it, even though it may not be apparent at first. Her favorite quote, “No speculation with insufficient information,” so personified her that I printed it in on the napkins for the shiva. My mother’s faith was grounded in positive thinking and her belief that one can adapt to anything. During her illness and in death, she demonstrated this faith in all its glory. By her example she taught us how to live and die with grace and contentment.

Melinda Gould Konopko is a founder of PlumParty.com, an entertainment and celebrations company.

walking next to the stroller and our challah had been carefully placed underneath the stroller, to be un-covered later as part of our weekly Shabbat celebration—our first as a formally Jewish family. A raccoon ambled onto our path, an unusual sight for a sunny day in the park. The girls were fasci-nated; he seemed to look right at us. The raccoon knew exactly what he wanted and walked straight towards us. Worried he would get too close to our girls, we pulled them away from the stroller. The determined animal then put his whole head into the stroller and began eating our challah. A large crowd soon gathered, pointing and snapping pictures. “The raccoon is eating our challah,” the girls shouted with de-light. “Last week I saw him eating a bagel,” said an older woman. At which point my husband asked, “Do you think the raccoon is Jewish?” We chatted with others in the crowd about this ‘only in New York City’ moment, the clearly Jewish tastes of the raccoon and our need to hurry back to Fairway for another challah. By the time the park ranger chased the raccoon away, I was reminded how special it is to be Jewish, to be part of a culture that has shared traditions for thousands of years, and to be part of a community where so many share the same faith—maybe even a raccoon.

Joanna Stone Herman is a media executive who has written for many publications, including Newsweek, The Washington Post and The Wall Street Journal. She has recently completed her first novel.

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IN MEMORIAM

16

Living Faith

Born in Cincinnatti in 1926, Rabbi Jack Stern witnessed first-hand the living nature

of faith as Reform Judaism has changed over the decades; in turn, his life became the expression of an unwavering faith and commitment to Judaism. His own words best describe that evolutionary journey. Rabbi Jack Stern did not become a bar mitzvah, which today would strike us as odd, but at the time, “to stake their claim in America, the Re-form pioneers divested themselves of any tradition that might separate them from the mainstream of their now-expanded world, discarding whatever smacked of the old life in the ghetto…They embraced their new identity with passion precisely because they saw themselves as Jew-ish bearers of a grand message to the world…that there is one God who represents what is ethically good and right and who requires human beings to live their lives accordingly. It was a message of personal morali-ty, person to person: do not cheat, do not exploit, do not lie, do not abuse. It was a message of social moral-ity: transform God’s shabby world

Divine presence, if that connection does not prod the question, ‘and now what does that God call upon me to do outside my inner self as a moral member of a moral Jewish people,’ then, by Jewish definition, it is bogus spirituality. So too, if a seeker of community does not reach out to some other isolated person, to the larger Jewish community and

to the human community at large, then, by Jewish definition, it is less than authentic community. And with tradition, with all its possibili-ties of warmth and beauty: if the only outcome is a warm and fuzzy feeling, without the moral urgency of our traditional covenant between God and Israel, without the Jewish moral passion of the early Reform-ers, then we have forfeited outright to celebrate the New Age of Reform Judaism.”

into God’s moral world, a world in which the weak and the poor are protected and unoppressed…The most effective way to carry out their mission was for the Jewish people to begin with itself…by providing the model of personal and social moral-ity and thus becoming ‘a light onto the nations.’”2 In the 1970s and 80s Rabbi Stern witnessed a new generation of Jews, born after the Holocaust, that “ushered us into a New Age of Reform Judaism, an age marked by a banner with three insignia: spirituality, community and tradi-tion…This New Age offers powerful reason for our celebration. By mak-ing Reform Judaism more personal, joyful and jewishly authentic, New Age Judaism has opened the door to new possibilities, and infused new vigor into the expected. Yes, it’s time to rejoice—but it’s also a time for caution…With all the promise of the personal, Judaism should not become totally personal, totally consumed with ‘me.’ “When it comes to spirituality, however personally the spiritual self may connect to the

HOW SHOULD we mourn a rabbi whose wise words have guided our reflec-tions on Jewish faith for a decade of Yom Kippur afternoons? Rabbi Stern himself points the way. “First,” he writes, “we may weep [but] only if we do not weep too long,… only if we don’t indulge ourselves in the luxury of grief until it deprives us of courage and even the wish for recovery. The second way to mourn is to be silent: to behold the mystery of love, to recall a shared moment, to remember a word or a glance… [and] the third way is to sing: to sing a hymn to life…to sing the song our beloved no longer has a chance to sing: we aspire to their qualities of spirit, we take up their tasks as they would have shouldered them.”1

A Tribute to Rabbi Jack Stern*

“Judaism has always been receptive to differ-ent ideas of God…God is, says Judaism, but no one knows what He is like.”

17

“It cannot be absolutely proven…But this must also be said for the record: that the atheist is no less a gambler than the believer, ex-cept that the atheist is betting on the other side, [but] they are both taking a chance. If a human being should decide to take the chance and say ’Adonai! Lord,’ the only authen-tic decision can be with his whole being, because only a total human being can listen to the drumbeat of history, of life and death. Only a total human being can perceive him-self to be standing in the presence of God…Let him stand in awe and wonder before the Mystery, and let the Mystery and the Presence speak to him of his life, his tomorrow, his task in the world.”3 When he was five years old, Rabbi Jack Stern contracted a life-threatening infection in his right hip that led to three surgeries and a long, slow recovery. Through this adversity, “I learned early on to make the best of what starts out as not so good. It’s not just the power of positive thinking, but the power of positive acting.”4 In that he set an example at Westchester Reform Temple, where he served as reli-gious leader for 36 years and for us

at Central Synagogue during all the Yom Kippur afternoons when he re-minded us that all our actions, good and bad, are inscribed in the Book of Life. “There we see emblazoned on each page a name, a date of birth and the story of a life… Some pages are ripely full—a harvest gleaned of years of love… Whether the angel of death comes sooner or later, it is always too soon. There is always a task still unfinished—one more song to be sung. “5

Now it is up to us to con-tinue Rabbi Stern’s song of faith and right action, taking up the tasks of life as he would have shouldered them. He once recalled the highest compliment he ever received as a rabbi: ‘You make us think we are better than we are, and that makes us try to be better.”6 Let us rise to the challenge.

Rabbi Stern never ceased to grapple with the fundamental question of faith, especially since he acknowledged that “Judaism has always been receptive to different ideas of God…God is, says Judaism, but no one knows what He is like.” How then, he asked, can we have faith in what is essentially a mys-tery? He answered without equivo-cation and great courage: “Faith is a hypothesis that all of the jumbled pieces of life, all of the sunlight and all of the storm clouds, the living and the dying…all are of a piece, joined together by a thread of mean-ing, by a Presence that calls us to live our lives with meaning, with justice, with mercy, and with feeling.

Donatello, “Singers”

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1 Stern, Rabbi Jack, “How to Mourn,” in For Those Bereaved, Austin. H. Kutscher, ed.2 Stern, Rabbi Jack, this and the following quotation are taken from “Observations of a Rabbi who never became a bar mitzvah.” (1997)www.synagogue3000.org3 Stern, Rabbi Jack, The Right Not To Remain Silent. Living Morally in a Complex World. iUniverse, 20064 Stern, Rabbi Jack, “Still Trying to Be a Mensch.” Reform Judaism Magazine, 20065 Stern, Rabbi Jack, “How to Mourn.”6 Stern, “Still Trying to Be a Mensch.”

* Tribute compiled by the Editor.

18ESSAY

Faith in The Shadows

My father’s older brother—my namesake—was regu-larly beaten and ultimately

killed by drunken Kapos because of his height and superior intelligence. My mother is a tattooed Auschwitz survivor, who escaped Eichmann’s death sentence by slipping out of the left line leading to the gas chamber. There would be many more such terrifying selections, until her liberation six months later. Her parents—my grandparents—arrived on the same train, but they were marched and harassed right up to the doors of the gas chamber. They soon went up in the smoke and ash that rained down continuously on those awaiting their fate. Growing up, I had no fam-ily beyond my immediate house-hold. When I think of faith, I think of my obligation to my ancestors whom I have never known. Like most survivors, because of the pain and guilt of memory, my parents seldom spoke with me about their lost families. Not until my mid-fifties did I learn that my father had a set of twin sisters. I so firmly hold

onto my identity as a Jew to keep faith with a family I have never seen. My only close relatives, aside from my own family, are all Israelis and the children of the few siblings that also survived. I was raised in traditional Eastern European fashion and at-tended yeshiva until age 18. Having so few male role models at home, I looked for righteousness in my rab-bis. Unfortunately, and I say so with deep regret, I too often encountered ignorance and hypocrisy. Although there is no one to blame, in my school, I did not find a Judaism

THERE HAS never been a time that I have not known of the Holocaust. Both my parents are survivors. At 17, my father was taken from his family in Poland, where they lived in the village of Frysztak, about 60 miles east of Kra-kow. For three terrifying years my father made a “grand tour” of Germany and Poland as a slave, from the fall of 1942 until his liberation, after a 14-day Death March, by the retreating Nazis in the spring of 1945.

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Harold Bronheim

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tians so long ago. They are not the ones who need feel responsible for, or carry that ancient wound—my wound—in their hearts. But, it is the kindness and caring of “others” like the members of St. Peter’s that support my faith, just as the love of my own family does. Martin Luther King Jr. once said: “The arc of his-tory is long and it bends slowly to justice.” I sincerely believe it does. Faith is a deeply personal experi-ence, yet it binds all of us together. My faith is but one small link in a chain that reaches back to the dawn of time, and forward, to the future of all mankind. On the day my father and the other young men of his village were selected and driven away from their homes, the remaining Jews of the village, all 800 souls, were marched 10 kilometers down the road to a distant wood, where they were shot. I imagine that, like my maternal grandfather in the gas chamber, my paternal grandfather in the forest, in the final moment, wrapped his arms around his wife and daughters in an instinctual last grasp to save them from the hail of bullets, trying to protect them with his own body. I keep faith with the shadow of that thought, too.

Dr. Harold Bronheim is a clinical professor of medicine & psychiatry and member of the Medical Board at Mt Sinai Hospital. He is a psychotherapist with a specialty of the medically ill. He and his family live in NYC. His parents are retired and live in Brooklyn.

were named and educated here, became bat mitzvah here, and soon my younger daughter is to be confirmed here. God will-ing, they will all marry here. A father can surely hope! Although my grandpar-ents, rooted in the world of the shetl, could

never imagine me now, I know they would recognize the Sh’ma recited at services. They would be honored to be called up for an aliyah. They might be perplexed by the Reform liturgy and the music, but they cer-tainly would recognize the ancient call of the shofar. If I could meet them, I would reassure them of the everlasting endurance of the Jew-ish people and their transmission of moral law through the millen-nia. I have faith in tikkun olam and the ethical humanism of the Jewish people; after all, we have grown up together with our neighbors—the rest of mankind. But I would reas-sure my uncertain grandparents that we can guarantee only one genera-tion at a time. When I attended the inter-faith Yom HaShoah Remembrance service at Saint Peter’s Church, I was deeply moved by the sincerity of our Christian neighbors. The ser-vice was so loving, and the congre-gants were so kind. I was touched that they felt a responsibility for the crimes committed by other Chris-

worth living for—let alone dying for. The experience of death and loss has always cast a shadow over my life, as it would in any child from whom a loved one was taken. Despite my doubts about religious forms, my identity as a Jew is un-shakeable, as was my intent to raise only a Jewish family. Nevertheless, I fell in love with a wonderful Irish Catholic woman who had gone to parochial school. (It’s a common story and not an especially surpris-ing one.)

I was unfamiliar with Reform observance but my wife sought counsel and found comfort in the clergy at Central Synagogue. That was 28 years ago. We have been members of Central Synagogue ever since. Both my daughters

When I think of faith, I think of my obligation to my ancestors whom I have never known.

Lifelines

MEMOIR

20

There were times I thought I would remain comatose for the rest of my life. But my

children needed a competent parent, not the terrified shell of a mother I was becoming. That drove me to find ways to cope. To be honest, pursuing a relationship with God was not one of them.

I have always been deeply Jewish, but not necessarily obser-vant. I grew up in a closely knit Jewish community in Massachu-setts, where my grandfather helped establish the local JCC, and my father was president of our syna-gogue. I went to Hebrew school, became a bat mitzvah and was confirmed. Once Doug and I were married and had a family, Juda-ism became increasingly essential in our busy New York lives. We became involved with the JCC on the Upper West Side and our kids went to a synagogue nursery school, where Doug and I would alternate as “Shabbat parents” and attend Chanukah and Purim parties. We hosted Passover, always attended

I didn’t want to blame God for Doug’s loss or rail against the universe, but I also wasn’t ready to let Him off the hook entirely. I didn’t have the answers, and until I did, I decided to do what most mothers do when confronted with an unruly child. I put God on a “time-out,” until we could both cool off.

WHEN MY HUSBAND, Doug Gardner, died in the attacks on the World Trade Center on Septem-ber 11, I was a thirty-five year old mother of two small children, Michael and Julia. Doug’s sudden death terrified me; I lurched from over-whelming anxiety to despair, to helplessness.

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Jennifer Gardner Trulson

adhering to them. Though I was still reject-ing God and vowing that I’d never again attend a synagogue service, I still had to face the question of how I was going to raise my children. They were tiny then, but as they grew older I knew I couldn’t impose my issues with faith onto them. Again, that Jewish DNA kicked in. It was my responsibility as a Jewish parent that my kids attend Hebrew school and explore their heritage. I found a way to embrace Judaism as an elegant construct to teach morality, ethics and the Gold-en Rule. I wanted to pass onto my kids what I’d always enjoyed about the intellectual aspect of Judaism – that our religion encouraged ques-tions and debate. We are supposed to delve into text, abstract from it and grapple to find meaning. I felt this was a safe way for me to impart Judaism to Michael and Julia. As Michael was preparing for his bar mitzvah in 2009 (Julia becomes a bat mitzvah at Cen-tral Synagogue in December), he showed me his Torah portion and the prayers he’d have to recite. I helped him learn the words of the aliyot, and gradually the synapses in my brain started to fire again. Memories of my own Hebrew school days returned, and I found them surprisingly soothing. They had occurred long before I knew Doug and the tragedy that followed. I was able to remember a relation-ship with Judaism that had noth-ing to do with 9/11. It was during Michael’s bar mitzvah preparations that I started to find my way back. I didn’t just want to go through the motions; I wanted to be present and

ciating reminder of loss. Almost every service, even today, feels like a funeral. What made matters worse was that Doug was killed a week be-fore the High Holy Days. It is why I seethe every time someone says, “Everything happens for a reason.” What reason would God have to rip Doug away from his children in such a heinous manner? How could my ethical, philanthropic, deeply loving husband not be inscribed in the Book of Life? I forced myself not to ask the question, “Why him?” because I’d also have to ask, “Why not him?” I had to believe Doug’s death wasn’t predestined. If God existed at all, I reasoned, He gave us free will, and my husband was sim-ply in the deadly path of the terror-ists exercising theirs. Accordingly, I turned away from religion and focused on just making it through an hour at a time. Being Jewish, however, is in the DNA. In times of crisis, we inexorably return to familiar aspects of our upbringing, even if we think we’re rejecting everything we once believed. Ritual provides comfort. Since we held Doug’s memorial service five days after the attacks, shiva occurred first. Friends and family gently commandeered our apartment and sustained us for the interminable days following the attacks. They pulled me out of the house for walks where I’d run into people on the sidewalk who’d stop to sympathize and remind me that I was still part of the community. I mumbled the mourner’s Kaddish every day like a mantra I didn’t understand, but felt compelled to recite. Jewish traditions governing death helped me cope even though I wasn’t consciously aware I was

High Holy Days services and hung a mezuzah on our door. Though we weren’t going to keep a kosher household or go to synagogue every week, we were committed to bring-ing Judaism into our home. It was important to create ritual and tradi-tion for the kids and bring them up in the Jewish faith, to know their history and their community, and to find their place in it.

The Jewish tenets of tzeda-kah and tikkun olam strongly inform the way I try to live. I subscribe to the idea that, if God gave us this world and declared it good, we are entrusted to take care of it and of each other. Though I didn’t always adhere to the prescribed words we were expected to say in synagogue when in prayer, what moved me about the act of praying was wel-coming the moment of meditation, when one could stop, become quiet and recognize that which connects us to each other. For me, faith was connected to being a part of some-thing larger—whether it’s the com-munity, the world or one’s percep-tion of God’s love. After 9/11, I pushed God away and lost the ability to pray. What comfort was I going to get there? Silence and introspection were my enemies; no good came from being alone with my thoughts. I must have gone to dozens of fu-nerals, wakes, shivas and memorial services in the weeks and months following the attacks. The sheer numbers broke me and stepping into a synagogue became an excru- Continued on page 24

For me, if God is anywhere, He is in the healing.

Ilan Wolff, World Trade Towers, 1990

Speaking of Faith

22

BOOK REVIEW

On April 8, 1966, the cover of TIME famously posed this question in lurid red type on

a black background: “Is God Dead? In the following decades, religion has become not a lesser, but larger influence on daily life. In Speaking of Faith. Why Religion Matters—and How to Talk About It, Krista Tipett explores the ways the growing rifts between fundamentalism and secular humanism, liberalism and orthodoxy, militant Islam and the moderate Judeo-Christian West have replaced the East-West Cold War conflicts of the 20th century. Rising above the din, the quiet sensitivity of Krista Tippett, herself an unapologetic believer and the granddaughter of a Southern Baptist minister, brings a welcome measure of understanding and enlightenment to those who seek to quantify and understand the elusive phenomenon we call faith. Based on her public radio program of the same name, Speaking of Faith is a compilation of insights and ideas gleaned from the author’s first-person encounters with such leading thinkers as Nobel Laureate Elie Wiesel, religious historian Karen Armstrong and Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh. She recounts the conversations that opened up her imagination, and illustrates ways of speaking about faith that “defuse the usual minefields.” A teacher who never resorts to preaching, Tippett manages to compress a huge and perplexing subject into 275 refreshing and read-able pages. At its heart, her book attempts to provide some thoughtful answers to what the author believes are the key spiritual issues prevalent today: When did this international

darkness as well as the light of hu-man experience.” Drawing on her personal experiences, Tippett recalls, “When I came back to read the biblical text after many years away, I began to love the Hebrew Bible fiercely for the fact that it tells life like it is. It has no fairy-tale heroes, only flawed, flamboyant human beings as prone to confusion as to righ-teousness.” In Chapter 4, she turns to an exploration of the spiritual heart and theology of Islam, and grapples with the question asked more and more frequently: Where

conversation about religion begin? Why does spirituality suddenly seem to be everywhere? How can faith be both so fervent and so dangerous? “I’m drawn to the contours and depths of what I call ‘the vast middle’—left, right, and center, between the poles of compet-ing certainties that have hijacked our national discourse,” she writes. “In the vast middle, faith is as much about questions as it is about answers. It is possible to be a be-liever and a listener at the same time, to be both fervent and searching, to honor the truth of one’s own convictions and the mystery of the convictions of others.” The book, in only six chapters, starts by looking back at the Book of Genesis. From a purely Jewish perspective, Chapters 1 and 3, which delve into the life of the patriarch Jacob, shed a good deal of light on what the writers may have had in mind. As an article of faith, Tippett believes that, “The Bible...is not a catalogue of absolutes, as its cham-pions sometimes imply. Nor is it a document of fantasy, as its critics charge. It is an ancient record of an ongoing encounter with God in the

Original 1966 Time magazine cover

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Steve Klausner

do the moderate, non-violent voices of the faithful fit in? Tippett answers by quoting the Egyptian-American scholar Leila Ahmed and her at-tempt to move beyond the folds of the traditional Islamic garments the hijab and the burqa: “When people think about Muslim women, they think of the image of Saudi Arabia and Afghanistan. Why is it that 90% of the Muslim world does not wear any of this stuff? Why is it that I have never yet been asked by a journalist, ‘Why is it that Islam has produced seven women prime min-isters or heads of state and Europe only two or three?’” Of all the voices, living and dead, that spring from the pages, the words of Albert Einstein impressed me the most. He once famously observed that, “Science without religion is lame. Religion without science is blind.” The man whose most famous discoveries dwell on things no human being can see provides an interesting context for believers and non-believers alike. He writes, “It was the experience of mystery that engendered religion. A knowledge of the existence of something we cannot penetrate, of the manifesta-tions of the profoundest reason and the most radiant beauty—it is this knowledge and this emotion that constitute the truly religious atti-tude. In this sense, and in this alone, I am a deeply religious man.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Krista Tippett is a broadcaster, journalist, and author. She is best known for creating and hosting the public radio program Being (for-

CRITICAl ACClAIM fORSpeaking of faiTh

“In a day where religion—or rather arguments over religion—divide us into ever more entrenched and frustrated camps, Krista Tippett is exactly the measured, balanced commentator we need.”-Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love

“An authentic and original place in the great debate of our time.” -Yossi Klein Halevi, author of At the Entrance to the Garden of Eden

“At a time when professional con-trarians like Sam Harris and Chris-topher Hitchens take the meaning and mystery out of religion, Krista Tippett is a welcome voice of literate faith.”-The Dallas Morning News

“It’s one thinking person’s open door to faith in the 21st century.”-St. Louis Post Dispatch

“As Tippett takes on issues from the science-and-religion debates to the future of progressive Islam, she shows herself to possess the same ‘imaginative intellectual approach’ that she admires in some of her subjects.”-Publishers Weekly

merly Speaking of Faith), distributed and produced by American Public Media. The program is currently broadcast on more than 200 public radio stations in the United States and globally via NPR Worldwide, its website and its podcast. The granddaughter of a Southern Baptist Minister, Tippett studied history at Brown Univer-sity, graduating in 1983. In 1984, she went to then-divided Berlin as a stringer for the New York Times, also working as a freelance foreign cor-respondent for Newsweek, the BBC and Die Zeit. Tippett received a Master’s of Divinity from Yale in 1994. While conducting a global oral-history project, she developed the “first per-son” approach that characterizes her radio program. It became a monthly series in 2001 and a weekly national program in 2003. Her book, Speaking of Faith. Why Religion—Matters and How to Talk about It, was published by Viking, 2007.

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Steve Klausner is an advertising copy writer, an award-winning screenwriter and long-time member of Central Synagogue.

LEADERSHIP

President Kenneth H. Heitner Vice-Presidents Samuel Lindenbaum Carol Ostrow Frederic Poses Stephanie Stiefel Treasurer Seth Berger Secretary Peter Jakes

Board of Trustees Alan M. AdesEllen CogutDavid B. EdelsonEdith FassbergJanet H. FellemanJeremy FieldingJohn A. GoliebMichael GouldMarni GutkinJay MandelbaumJuiana MayClaudia MorseValerie PeltierAbigail PogrebinLaura J. RothschildPhillip M. SatowMindy SchneiderWendy SiegelEmily Steinman Kent SwigMarc WeingartenJeffrey WilksJonathan Youngwood

Honorary TrusteesLester BreidenbachDr. J. Lester Gabrilove

Honorary PresidentsMartin I. KleinHoward F. SharfsteinMichael J. WeinbergerAlfred D. Youngwood

ClergyRabbi Peter J. RubinsteinCantor Angela Warnick BuchdahlRabbi Michael S. FriedmanRabbi Maurice A. SalthCantor Elizabeth K. Sacks

Senior StaffSenior Director Livia D. Thompson, FTADirector of Development Daniel A. NadelmannDirector of Learning & Engagement Dr. Brigitte Sion

HASHIUR A Journal of Ideas is published twice a year by Central Synagogue 123 East 55th Street, New York, NY 10022-3502

Editorial Committee: Rabbi Maurice A. Salth, Amala and Eric Levine, Steve Klausner, Danielle Freni, Rudi Wolff

Editor: Amala LevineDesigner and Picture Editor: Rudi WolffProduction Editor: Danielle Freni

PICTURE CREDITS

Cover: Photograph, Richard Lobellp 2 Drawing, Ben Shahn, The Alphabet of Creation 1954,p 3 Illumination, 1372, Petrus Comestor Historia, France, p 4 Edward Hopper, 1936. Courtesy, Museum of Fine Arts, Bostonp 6-7 William Blake, colored etching, Courtesy, National Gallery of Scotlandp 8 Marc Chagall, etching. Bible Seriesp 9 Raccoon collage, R. Wolffp 11 Church on Majorca, source unknown p 12 Macrophoto, grass, photographer unknown p 14 Glass, photograph R. Wolffp 17 Rabbi Jack Stern, Courtesy, Westchester Reform Temple Singers, Donatello, Rome, photograph R. Wolffp 18 Shadows, photograph A. Katanap 19 Freight car, photographer unknownp 20 From ‘Tower Series’ pinhole photograph, Ilan Wolffp 23 Microphone, source unknown

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No material may be used without prior written permission from Central Synagogue.

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Letters to the Editor please emaileditorhashiur@censyn.org

Lifelines continued from page 21

fully participate in his simchah. By the time of Michael’s bar mitzvah service, I had been remar-ried for four years. My husband, Derek Trulson, isn’t Jewish, but he and his side of the family com-pletely immersed themselves in the moment. It was everything that day should be; a moving and joy-ous family milestone. What really struck me was that synagogue once again felt safe. I was afraid that Mi-chael’s service would crush me; that Doug’s loss would be too palpable to endure. Of course, I acutely felt Doug’s absence, but I also knew that we were exactly where we needed to be. And nothing about this day felt like a funeral—it was an unmitigated celebration. For me, if God is any-where, He is in the healing. I think a significant lesson I learned from 9/11 is that God provides the tools to navigate through the maelstrom, but it’s up to us to find them. The answers aren’t going to come as thunderbolts; they require our choosing to accept a lifeline, in whatever form, when it appears. God and I might still be working through our “time-out,” but at least we’ve found a comfortable space in which to coexist.

Jennifer Gardner Trulson is the author of Where You Left Me. (Gallery, 2011)

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