Parashat Bo- Rosh Chodesh & Happy New Years

Hachodesh hazeh lakhem rosh chodashim rishon hu lakhem l’chodshei hashanah.

This month will be for you the beginning of the first month for you of the months of the year. (Shemot 12:2)

Just a short time ago we celebrated the start of 2015. New Year’s Eve is also known as Saint Sylvester’s Day. Pope Sylvester served from December 31, 314 – December 31, 335. January 1 is marked liturgically as a feast celebrating the circumcision of Jesus. Pope Gregory chose it as the start of the year when he created the calendar used by most of the world today. Romans dedicated New Year’s Day to Janus, the two-faced god of gates who can look forward and back, and the one from whom we get the name of the first month, January.

Because of its beginnings in pagan, and later Catholic religion, many Jews choose to wish people a “Happy secular new year,” or skip any sort of wishes. They buy into the “Happy holidays” greeting adopted to deal with the December dilemma. How to greet people at this time of year is a discussion that graces out kitchen table every year. Rav Sean is a big proponent of living our lives according to the Jewish calendar. I agree. My year goes from September to September, (mostly) according to the Jewish calendar. My week runs from Shabbat to Shabbat. I also like to celebrate the new secular year. I generally say, “Happy 2015,” or whatever the year is, but I am also okay with “Happy New Year.” I like celebrations, big and small. Our secular New Year’s celebrations are low-key. We’re homebodies. We watch a movie, or two. We eat more than we should. We stay up late. I celebrate every birthday. I don’t care if the world knows how old I am. It’s better than the alternative. I want parties for every holiday. I’d celebrate Wednesdays if I could figure out how.

Rosh Hodesh marks the monthly passage of time. It’s a day that is special to women. According to legend, women refused to take part in the incident of the golden calf. For this, they merited a reward. They were given Rosh Hodesh as a day free from labour. The connection of the moon and our lunar calendar to women is also noted. I look forward to adding Hallel to celebrate on those days. I can be found singing the psalms out loud. I will admit to not being a great davener of Shacharit. I get through it. I am not a morning person, and it takes much of my concentration to focus any time before 9:30 AM. But Rosh Hodesh is different. Rosh Hodesh pulls me from my rote repetition of t’fillot to sing aloud. I celebrate the passage of time each Shabbat, each Rosh Hodesh, each holiday, and each new year. Anne Shirley, in Anne of Green Gables, by L.M. Montgomery, said, “tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it.” It’s a great reason to celebrate.

Conversations at the Rabbis Table January 19, 2015

I am often amazed at the range of conversation at our table. Tonight was a textbook example of an evening that produces this amazement.

Dinner was almost on the table when Sean walked in the door with the kids. The conversation began with our younger son asking questions about the hour by which one must recite the Shema and the Amidah. He's studying this topic in Talmud class. Each student was supposed to go home; explain the topic to two people, and get their opinions. It's a pretty straight forward topic in the Talmud, and Sean and I gave the simple answer as it appears. Of course he skipped the explanation. With two rabbis as parents, he felt he could get away with it. We discussed times when we (admittedly mostly Sean) got up early or stayed up before going to bed in order to recite our t'fillot on time. It seemed like maybe this evening would be one of those esoteric evenings that sometimes happen. Oh no, it was not to be. Somewhere between the table and the microwave (to heat a taco shell) a wrestling match broke out. I'm not really sure if it could be called wrestling, since it moved from the kitchen to the foyer.  Eventually it moved to the stairs, which serves as home base, so everything had to stop. Then there were discussions about anxiety and stress and the medical causes of it. But once again we veered away from the intellectual, and the lyrics of the Arrogant Worms entered the conversation. For Hanukah we attended an Arrogant Worms concert, and our home has become all Arrogant Worms all the time.  In fact, as I type this "I Am Cow" is playing.  We are all singing along.  We harmonize very nicely. If you don't know it, check it out. Earlier we were singing "Yoga Pants." I think the family favourite is "Carrot Juice is Murder."

I think if someone tried to follow our conversations as an observer, he'd get whiplash.

Signing off to "Jesus' Brother Bob." Erev tov.

Vaera- Lo Alecha Hamlacha Ligmor: You are not obligated to finish the work

Lakhein emor livnei-Yisrael “Ani Adonai v’hotzeiti etkhem mitachat sivlot Mitzrayim v’hitzalti etkhem mei’avodatam v’ga’alti etkhem bizroa n’tuyah uvishpatim g’dolim.”

Therefore, say to the children of Israel, “I am Adonai, and I will bring you out from under the burdens of Egypt, and I will deliver you from their bondage, and I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and with great judgments. (Shemot 6:6)

“There is still so much more work to do.” This is the sentence with which I ended last week’s drash. Here it is- the outstretched arm. The arm Rav Kook, saw as a move towards the future.

Anokhi asiti et-ha’aretz, et-ha’adam v’et-ha’b’heimah asher al-p’nei ha’aretz, bkhochi hagadol, uvi’z’ro’i ha’n’tuyah; u’n’tatiha, la’asher yashir b’einav. “I have made the earth, the human, and the beast that is upon the face of the earth, by my great power, and by my outstretched arm, and I gave it to the one who was right in my eyes.” (Jeremiah 27:5) For Jeremiah, the outstretched arm is the creative force.

Midrash teaches that Pharaoh’s daughter stretched out her arm to bring in the basket in which baby Moshe was placed. The outstretched arm is a saving force.

The National Center for Jewish Healing, which is a North American program from the Jewish Board of Family and Child services, calls its journal The Outstretched Arm.

Psalm 136:12 says B’yad chazakah, uvizroa ntuyah: ki l’olam chasdo; with a strong hand and an outstretched arm: for God’s mercy endures forever.

Just as Rav Kook taught, an outstretched arm is unrealized potential. It is the creative hand of the artist, of the chef. It is the comforting arm of a parent or a guardian. It is the arm of a doctor, a nurse, a counselor, all who help in health and healing. It is the arm of anyone in our lives who might comfort us. This is the arm of a teacher or a friend. It is the arm of a carpenter, and electrician, a tradesperson. It is the outstretched arm of a child, filled with potential. It is the symbol of the future.

Pirkei Avot (2:21) teaches, "You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to desist from it." That outstretched arm is the symbol of the start. We must be part of it, to stretch out our arms and get our hands dirty.

Shades of Green

Today is Tuesday. Today Sean & I went shopping. We bought two large bunches of bananas. They are on sale at Yummy Market for .49/pound. This is not notable. What is notable is the fact that I purchased three large bunches of bananas on Friday.

Bananas in my home are frustrating. I like bananas. So do all the members of my family. I like my bananas ripe, that is to say, yellow with just a few brown spots, or more than a few. Sean likes his bananas green. I don't mean yellow with a little green. Does he not realize that if you have to cut the banana with a knife it's not meant to be eaten yet?! Sean will eat bananas from fully green to yellow, in every shade of green. He will eat them everyday. Bananas are rarely allowed to ripen in our home anymore. It makes it near impossible for me to get a banana. I try. I buy ever increasing amounts of bananas in the vague hope that I will someday be able to get just one ripe, yellow banana, beyond its shades of green.

Having One's Rabbinate Thrust Upon You

Sean and I have long discussed how interesting it would be to have both of us write or speak on the same topic. Anyone who's seen one of us teach with the other in the room will know how we tend to interrupt each other. We generally agree on topics, but come to them from very different points of view.  In the end we decided explore how our individual rabbinates have evolved over our almost twenty years out of the Seminary. After you enjoy this, go to Sean's Blog for his point of view.

There's a story told around the Seminary about a conversation that occurred in an elevator with one of the Seminary's professors. There was once a rabbinical student who was not the top of his class. He wasn't even the middle. It's not that he didn't have the skills. He was somewhat of a goof-off, and he squeaked by. Every day this student would ride the Brush elevator with this professor. They never spoke. (While greatly respected, he was also a object of awe by most students.) In his final year, as graduation approached, this student suddenly realized he would soon bear the title of Rabbi and the responsibility that goes with it. Plucking up his courage in the elevator one day, the student fearfully asked, "Professor, I'm about to graduate. My congregants will look to me to have the answers. Why should they listen to me?" The professor, pulling himself up straight to his full (very short) height, stared down this goof-off off a student, and said, "BECAUSE YOU'RE THE RABBI!"

Whether this ever occurred or not, this is a story that resonates with every rabbi-to-be. Although, like with any profession, a piece of paper gives us the title, it's years of experience that really do make the difference. We all come out of school filled with facts, but little real wisdom. Of course, at times the rabbinate is thrust upon us. What makes us real rabbis is what we do in those moments.

My first moment came in my first year as a rabbi. After graduation, my home congregation had honoured me at the annual JTS fundraiser. I still have the tzedakah box they gave me. It's in my living room, next to the couch. I was humbled by the honour, thinking, "They could have had a great professor, but they chose me. Wow." That wasn't the moment. The moment came six months later. I was at a Torah Fund talk being done by a friend, a classmate of Sean's. The room was filled with older women, three JTS students, and one rabbi- me. About half-way through the program a woman said, "I have a question for the lady rabbi." Lady rabbi, I was the ONLY rabbi. It was a moment of realization that it wasn't enough to have a diploma. I had to become RABBI Jennifer Gorman.

Another moment came 5 years later. I had been hired as the rabbi of a day school. The president of the school was uncomfortable with the idea of a woman rabbi. He had the job title changed, so I became a resource instead of the Rabbi in Residence. But it didn't end there. At curriculum night he introduced the faculty, support staff, and administration. Somehow he forgot to introduce me. When a question came up that should have been directed to me, he directed it to an administrator. I jumped in, introducing myself and answering the question. The next day, when he was in the school, I asked to speak with him. Asking him to follow me to my office, I walked around my desk, speaking from my place of power. I told him, in no uncertain terms, that he had slighted and embarrassed me the previous night, and that I would not stand for such disrespect again. By the time he left my office I was shaking, but I never let him see me sweat. That was the day I learned, like Esther in the Megillah, to wear my rabbinate as a garment, visible to the world.

A third moment was our move to Toronto. It was a wonderful choice to come here, but I was the first female Conservative rabbi in Ontario and east. Once again I was breaking down doors. I was changing attitudes towards what is traditional Conservative Judaism. Here I have been confronted with both old and new issues. I was again the lady rabbi. I was a the only woman in our RA region, and served (for a longer than normal term) as its president. I was invited to speak in congregations where I cannot even open the ark. I have been challenged by practices where I am excluded, practices that were supposed regional policy, but were never put in writing.

I never wanted to be the stand on a soapbox reformer. And yet, it was thrust upon me. It's only now, in hindsight, that I have realized that, by just being true to myself I, not so much broke through, but calmly opened doors and removed walls. Without ever meaning to I have lived a life of firsts.

• I was the first Shabbat morning bat mitzvah at my synagogue. (Actually it was a whole weekend, with a 'traditional' Friday night bat mitzvah and a repeat of the haftarah on Shabbat.) It took 20 years before I had an aliyah at Merrick Jewish Centre. My first was after my daughter was born.
• I was the first woman at my synagogue and in my USY region to decide to wear tallit and tefillin.  I later found out that one family of four daughters discussed me regularly (and positively) at their Shabbat table. One Shabbat morning a little boy, maybe 4 years old, looked up at me in my tallit, and said, "You're not a boy!" His father was mortified. I, however, just smiled; knelt down, and confirmed his statement. "No, I'm not a boy. Boys have to wear tallitot, but girls are allowed to wear them too." He smiled, and skipped away. Now, Merrick Jewish Centre is filled with women wearing tallitot. 
• I joined a rabbinical school class that was 1/4 women. In two years this ratio would rise to 1:2. Even in that group I was different. I chose the separate seating minyan in the Stein Chapel at JTS, challenging the idea of where women rabbis belonged and how women rabbis would act.
• While not the first, Sean & I were one of the early rabbinic couples. Going into the military, I challenged the image of what a chaplain's wife should be. I was clergy in my own right; educated more than most, and available to step in when needed.
• I was the first woman rabbi to serve as Rabbi in Residence at the Brandeis School on Long Island and the first to teach at USDS in Toronto, giving students and faculty their first introduction to the idea that women can be rabbis and wear tallit and tefillin. 
• I was the first Conservative woman rabbi in Ontario, to work at a Conservative synagogue in eastern Canada, and to speak at synagogues in Toronto, Montreal, Ottawa, and London, opening people's eyes and minds to the idea that women can be traditional, halakhic, and rabbis.
• I was the first woman to serve on the Executive of the Canadian Region of the Rabbinical Assembly.
• While not the first, I am one of the few women at Ramah and in USY who wear tallit and tefillin. I am one of the rabbis who recites Kaddish for the camp. I am the only woman rabbi so many of these kids will ever see, but I open doors by just being there.

There are also the moments that hurt.

• That first statement, "I have a question for the lady rabbi." Was "lady rabbi" somehow different than rabbi. After all, I was the only rabbi in the room. It's funny, but really not.
• After answering a question for a congregant, as I turned away he said, "She's very good. It's a shame she's a woman. She'd make a great rabbi." I'd been a rabbi for seven years at that time.
• There was the congregation which I visited that stressed to me "We're fully egalitarian," but then added "We'd never hire a woman rabbi." Oddly, the person was trying to stress, with pride, their so-called equal stance. Why even tell me that? I wasn't looking for a job.
• After confronting the school president about slighting me, my job was eliminated for the next year. It was the only legal way they could fire me. They had no cause. I still have the letters from parents and school board members urging me to sue after they'd heard him say, "We're only keeping Rabbi Gorman until we can hire a male rabbi."

And there are moments of pride.

• At a conference in honor of the 20th anniversary of Conservative Women's Ordination, I lunched with two women, one older and one younger. The older colleague had been a teacher of the younger. The younger spoke of how she'd never have gone into the rabbinate if it hadn't been for the other as a role model. In that moment I realized the importance of simple presence.
• There was the moment a colleague made reference to women rabbis as a passing fad. It was the only time I ever felt slighted by a colleague. Since he wasn't someone I fully respect, it was easy to shrug off. The real embarrassment came from my other colleagues around the table who were horrified. I thank them to this day.
• At my final convention while working for Eastern Canadian Region of USY, my USYers and my staff presented me with gifts and speeches. The gifts ranged from practical to silly. The speeches, however, spoke to how important my presence had been in opening their hearts, their eyes, and their minds to Judaism and to the idea of women as rabbis. The most touching came from one of my most right-wing USYers. He's studying to be a teacher and an Orthodox rabbi, but I will always be one of his rabbis. I couldn't ask for a better legacy than that.

Each rabbi's rabbinate takes on a life of its own. It's rarely what you expect when you leave seminary. I expected to be a hospital chaplain. Instead I've touched so many different areas, and, through that, so many more people than I'd ever have thought. It's amazing to be part of a moment that makes you that individual's rabbi. Once there, you're there forever, even if you never see him/her again. I'm in a good place. I can look forward to many more years in the rabbinate, but I am also at an age where I an confident in who I am, where I've been, and where I am now. I have nothing to prove to anyone. That in itself is satisfying.