Category Archives: Jewish Themes

The Holiness of Barbie Redux

Prologue

I mentioned last time that A LOT has been going on during my sabbatical from writing. One of those things is a reconnection and reaffiliation with my Jewish faith. Expect more writing to come on Jewish themes, but in the meantime, I wanted to post something I wrote about 15 years ago. It is an essay inspired by an experience at a Shabbat morning service and it was published in the quarterly magazine of the US Conservative Judaism movement. It is by far my most read piece since that magazine went out to about a quarter of a million homes. Since it is no longer available on the USCJ’s website, I wanted to repost here (and a few of you have asked me to do so over the years). Without further ado, then, the essay exactly as written, with a short epilogue:

The Holiness of Barbie

I have a confession. I sometimes feel as if I am faking it as a Jew.

Born into a Jewish family, I feel inferior to converted Jews. They know so much more about being Jewish than I do! Why didn’t I study more? Why don’t I study more now? Have I questioned enough? Am I just going through the motions and habits from childhood? These questions have been dogging me for the last three years. Then, one Shabbat morning a few months ago, a little girl and her Barbie doll taught me a lesson I’ll never forget about what it really means to be born and raised Jewish.

To understand my uncertainty, you need to understand my personal Jewish history. I was raised in a traditional Jewish home (somewhere between Conservative and Orthodox) and had a bat mitzvah at 13. Along with most of my classmates, I drifted slowly away from my formal Jewish upbringing when I went off to college. I never stopped identifying as Jewish but my observance of the traditions faded as I moved away from home and started my life as an independent adult. In another entirely unremarkable twist, I began drifting back toward religious observance in my mid-40s when I began to attend open high holiday services with the local Reconstructionist congregation. It accelerated when I broke up with my longtime Christian partner. I like to think that I suddenly felt free to explore my spirituality, but that’s not fair. The reality was that as I struck out on my own again, I needed a sense of community.

I rationalize my lack of Jewish knowledge by looking at chronology. Coming of age in a traditional shul as a girl in the late 1960s/early 1970s, I wasn’t given the same training as my male counterparts. At least, that’s what I tell myself. My bat mitzvah was a Friday night service and my role was limited to a few key prayers, a lot of responsive English reading, and chanting the haftarah. I remember the boys studying and studying for their bar mitzvahs. Their Shabbat morning event involved a lot more than just chanting the haftarah. They led every aspect of the service, including reading from the Torah. I remember that mixture of relief (that I didn’t have to learn so much) mixed with a bit of jealousy (that I didn’t get to learn so much). I have a distinct memory of one of my male friends whispering every word of the Amidah as he prayed next to me one Shabbat morning. I only pretended to read while I waited for everyone to start sitting down so I could sit, too. What I really wanted, though, was to know every word like he did.

My return to shul began when a colleague from work died and I attended the memorial service. Something just felt right about the place. A few years later, when the congregation moved to a beautiful new building on my side of the valley, I took that as a sign. “If Beth El was the right place for my friend, it just might be the right place for me.” I started going to Shabbat services at the beginning of the summer and paid up my membership in time to get a ticket for the high holidays. I soaked in the sense of community from day one. The feel of the sanctuary was overwhelming. I felt hugged and loved by the familiarity of the ritual of the service. It was probably a year before I could get through a service without crying at some point. Most of the time it was the Shema that got me. (It still does.) Often, it’s Etz Hayim, particularly when I’m up at the ark, standing so close to the Torah and surrounded by the congregation’s voice echoing in prayer.

I found, though, that it had been so long since I had prayed at Shabbat services that I had forgotten the flow of the service. As I began to attend services regularly, I realized that I never had known what the service really meant. Oh, the prayers were familiar. The tunes were pretty much the same. I remembered the basic sections of the service. But I didn’t understand it. When I was a kid, I didn’t really care, but as an adult, it didn’t feel right to just be there.

I began to question how I was able to identify so strongly as a Jew if I never lived in or kept a kosher home, never was shomer shabbos, and didn’t even know the prayers! How could I consider myself a real Jew when all I did was follow along, sing familiar tunes, and know when to stand up and when to sit down? I was embarrassed at my lack of scholarship and understanding; I felt like a fraud. Even now, do I mimic more than I understand? I began to read the commentary and translations; I began to think about the flow of the service; I began to understand what the prayers meant and why we said them. But as I learned more, my discomfort grew. Did I learn this as a child and just forget it? Or was I just never taught this?

Enter that little girl and her Barbie doll. I’ve been a member of the synagogue for almost three years now and I am a regular on Shabbat. Services were in the chapel that morning. Services were a little more crowded than usual as the winter weather was giving way to early spring and the prospect of getting up and out to services became more palatable. I was asked to carry the Torah that morning, my favorite honor. I can’t help but hug the Torah while I sing the Shema. I always walk slowly through the congregation, making sure everyone has the chance to approach the Torah, to honor and bless it. I had rounded the corner at the back of the chapel, carrying the Torah back to the ark, and was slowly running the gantlet down the center aisle. With the full house, the pathway quickly narrowed as people crowded into the aisle. The smiling faces closed in. I turned to the left, turned to the right. I waited as the outstretched hands, shielded by tallitot and prayer books, reached out to connect with the Torah.

About halfway down the aisle, I saw her. She was no more than three years old and had been coming to services ever since she was an infant. She stood slightly behind her father’s leg, one hand clutching his pants behind the knee, the other clutching Barbie. As her father stepped into the aisle to make room for others to reach the Torah, she stepped with him and was almost directly in front of me. There were people all around us, so many that it felt like it was just the two of us. I looked down at her from around the Torah’s mantle. She looked up at me, clear blue eyes through brown curls. She first looked back and forth between me and the Torah. We were surrounded by song as the cantor and congregation chanted. Then she looked up at her father, then at the others all leaning in around us before she caught my eyes again. They were all reaching to the Torah’s mantle. She wasn’t wearing a tallis. She wasn’t carrying a prayer book. So she reached up with her doll, touched Barbie to the Torah’s mantle, and then kissed Barbie’s head. Everyone smiled.

And right then, right at that very moment, as we laughed and my heart just flooded with that absolute joy I felt with the Torah in my arms and surrounded by this community. Right then, I understood the incredible blessings of my Jewish childhood. This little child understood something very simple: That beautiful object that woman is carrying, it is holy and special. I shouldn’t touch it directly. But I have to bless it. I’ll use Barbie. That was all she knew, yet that is all we ever need to know. The purity of holiness, the safety of community, the blessed nature of the Shabbat service. The scholarship will come later, just as it has for me. I look forward the day a decade from now when I will watch that little girl be called to the Torah as a bat mitzvah. I will follow her as she leads the service and listen as she reads from the Torah and chants the haftarah. But she learned what she really needed to know those Shabbat mornings, clinging to her father’s leg and blessing the Torah with Barbie.

I learned those lessons, too, even though I don’t remember them. They are within the tears that well up still when I close my eyes and recite the Shema. They are there when I walk into the shul on Shabbat, take a deep breath, and feel peace. What a gift, those lessons from my Jewish childhood! What a gift, the holiness of Barbie.

Epilogue

I did, indeed, attend this young girl’s Bat Mitzvah. I had long since moved to the Philly suburbs and the Rabbi reached out, asking if he could use the essay in his comments to her that day. I decided to drive up and attend. Imagine my surprise when the Rabbi read almost the entire essay to her as the majority of his remarks! I listened through tears as he read the essay exactly as I heard it in my head as I was writing—same emphasis, same intonation. I have never felt so heard nor so validated. I am still extremely proud of this piece of work. This “little girl” is now spending a gap year in Israel before she matriculates to college. Tempus fugit.

“W” is for Welcoming

We are on the home stretch of our year-long Abecedarium, patient readers!  I must admit, I’m a bit amazed at how I’ve been able to pull this off thus far.  I was a bit worried about letters, like Q and V, that seem to have limited use, but finding words to support a theme has been surprisingly easy.  In fact, most of the time I am noodling over several words that start with the letter of the day.  Bring it on, X, Y, and Z!

Finding the right word that begins with W has been an interesting challenge over these last two weeks.  I began pondering about the power of Words in general and Writing in particular, but that’s not the theme.  (I have a feeling that will drive my essay on my five-year blog-iversary, which we’ll reach right after this Abecedarium is complete.)  Nor is Wisdom, although I always try to sprinkle in a little bit about that as well.  No, today’s essay is going to focus on thoughts around Welcoming.

Part of what had me thinking about this theme is the on-going journey of socializing our new kitten, Baxter, with his reluctant older “sister” Bridget.  We’ve had Baxter almost a month now, and we’ve come a long way.  The day we brought him home, Bridget reacted with a “What fresh hell is THIS?!” look followed by a hiss and growl and running away.  Baxter, for his part, dove under a couch, not to be seen again for 12 hours.  I, of course, had had visions of Bridget falling in love with this adorable little kitten, letting her maternal instincts allow her to welcome him.  Instead, she has reacted to every stage of this socialization process with confusion/anger/standoffishness complete with strange growls that should not come out of any earthly creature and bared teeth that give me nightmares.  Little by little, her stance has softened.  She has begun to come running (well, slinking) to play along with Baxter with the feather-on-a-stick toy that she’s ignored up until now.  Bridget has consented to being in the same room with him, including somewhat relaxing on one lap while Baxter does the same on another.  (This is why you never should have more pets than available laps.)  Then, this morning, there was an amazing breakthrough.

We have discussed Bridget’s deep-seated food insecurity issues before.  Because of this, I have been really careful around feeding time.  I was afraid that if Baxter dared to come over to her food bowl that she would rip him to shreds.  He, of course, snuck over to her bowl and dug into her food, which apparently tastes way better than kitten food.  So, over the last couple of days, he has steadfastly REFUSED to eat his canned kitten food.  (I, as the paranoid hypochondriac, immediately decided that there is something fatally wrong with him.)  This morning, he again refused to eat his food and before I could react (I hadn’t had any coffee yet), he went over and stuck his head into her bowl WHILE SHE WAS EATING.  My heart caught in my throat, waiting for the attack.  But she LET him!  She actually backed away and let him eat her food.  No growl nor hiss.  I was stunned.  In her own way, she HAS accepted him and, in fact, I think she understands that he’s a kitten and needs to eat.  Her hissing and growling had clearly become just performative and that act clinched it.  She has finally welcomed him, although I expect her to continue to play the annoyed big sister for a while.  She does have an image to maintain after all.

I have also been thinking about Welcoming in the context of putting oneself in a new social situation.  My Mom made the decision last February to move to a different senior living facility.  She knew no one at this new place and even with a newcomer “buddy system,” she was often left to fend for herself at meal times.  Do you remember the stress of the cafeteria in grade school or high school?  It’s not a whole lot different as adults.  I am so proud of how my Mom handled this situation!  She opened herself up to the kind of rejection and discomfort we all dread, irrespective of how uncomfortable she herself was in the situation.  Over the months, she has developed a circle of friends and tells me stories regularly of how she welcomes new people who are looking for a place to sit.  People were kind and welcoming to her; she has been paying it forward.  

With everything going on in Israel these days, I have felt myself pulled back to more active participation in Judaism—particularly the need for a Jewish community.  The activation barrier, though, to attending a new shul for the first time has been prohibitive.  Religious institutions can be clic-y places and finding one in which you feel comfortable can be a difficult trial-and-error.  I had pushed through the discomfort when I lived in the Lehigh Valley and found a wonderful home at Temple Beth El.  I needed to push through that discomfort again, here. 

Trish went with me to Friday night services at Temple Sinai a couple of weeks ago.  The attendance on Friday nights is generally lower than Saturday morning and I paradoxically find that easier.  Trish, of course, made friends quickly and easily with the people there.  It’s one of the aspects of her personality that I admire most.  She is an easy conversationalist whereas I am not.  She connects with people extraordinarily well.  Yesterday, I went alone to Shabbat morning services.  A few of the people we had met before were there and recognized me.  (Of course, they asked where Trish was and looked a bit disappointed that she wasn’t with me.  I tried not to take it personally.)  Striking up new conversations is hard for me.  It was always a struggle at work events, too.  Once I got to know people, conversation would flow more easily but those first encounters were difficult.  However, this first time went well enough that I’m encouraged to go back again and work at recreating the community that I miss so much.

This was also a lesson to me on the importance of being welcoming myself.  The essence of being welcoming is being non-judgmental and “people curious”.  Bonnie and Mike made me feel part of the Temple Sinai community right away.  Cheryl patiently asked me questions about myself during the Kiddush and shared a lot about herself even though I was too uncomfortable to ask good questions of her.  Everyone knew I was “new” and they were kind.  I have a hard time being welcoming to others because I have a hard time striking up conversation with people I don’t know.  (Well, even with people I DO know.  Writing is not really a problem.  Talking can be.)  I am trying to embody some of the lessons I’ve written about and the best way to do that is to remember what it’s like to be on the receiving end of needing to be “seen”.  These days, with all the division and dehumanizing going on in our polarized society, making the effort to be welcoming and seeing those around you as unique humans is more important than ever.  This week was another good reminder of that for me.

“U” is for Uncharted

This essay is posting a few days late for a number of reasons.  First, my editor has a head cold and I refuse to put a piece of writing in front of her when she can’t edit clearly (or fairly).  Yes, that is a lame excuse.  Second, we had house guests this weekend, which is when I usually write polish my essays.  This is also a lame excuse since I could have written during the week or after they left midday Sunday.  So, the REAL reason this essay is late is that I’ve just felt very “un” lately.  Unsettled.  Unmoored.  Out of my routine.  Not in control.  Then I watched a TV show that titled that particular episode Uncharted and I knew I had my title.  I felt like I’ve been navigating uncharted waters, as it were.  And I just couldn’t write.  I’ll admit that I’m only marginally comfortable with this essay as it is.  I’ve just been all over the place.

I’m sure you got a hint of the disruption I was navigating in the previous essay entitled Time.  Let me tell you what else was wrapped around losing our beloved Beau.  First, I had traveled to Atlanta for my Dad’s yahrzeit (the anniversary of his passing).  I do not travel “well” anymore so that trip alone left me out of sorts.  My sister came back with me for a visit and we all had to deal with our trauma over Beau’s illness and decision to let him go.  Then we drove to Rhode Island for the family wedding that was beautiful and joyous and exhausting.  (We don’t handle six hour drives like we used to, either.)  After that emotionally draining visit (I hope Wendy will come back), my sister went home on Tuesday and I promptly came down with a wicked head cold.  Trish nursed me for the next, oh, five days (which basically involves getting me won ton soup, listening to me complain, and generally leaving me alone).  For good measure, I bit my tongue, so I had a huge painful ulcer, AND badly burned the roof of my mouth on hot soup.  I was a pleasure. Our house guests came the following weekend and we had a blast!  We hosted a Happy Hour on Friday that included two of Trish’s siblings and their spouses; we ate and drank and watched football and baseball with our friends; and, had a final group brunch on Sunday before they headed home.  As they drove away, Trish surrendered to the head cold and here we are.  It has been several weeks of ups and downs to the extreme.  I have emotional whiplash that has left me both drained and disoriented.

What I’m also struggling mightily with right now is Hamas’ indiscriminate, brutal, violent slaying of over 1400 Israelis.  I will say right up front that I am not balanced on this one.  No, I do not revel in the fate of civilians caught up in this mess and I will not defend every single action of Israel but nothing can compare to the brutality of those murders.  This is not a new conflict, of course.  If you want a good primer on the history of conquest of the land we call Israel, read Michener’s The Source.  But you don’t need a historical novel to know that Jews have been hated and hunted for millennia.  As a Jew, I have been educated since I was a young child on one very sad fact:  every few generations, Jews face an existential threat.  It’s happened like clockwork for thousands of years.  Those old enough to have experienced the horrors of the Holocaust, or who have direct connection to those who did, know this well.  Those young enough to be removed from that history see only what fits into their current experience.  But these are still uncharted waters.  Things are different this time.  We have real time information, much of it highly graphic, that shows the inhumanity of war.  We are also subject to enormous amounts of mis- and disinformation.  The weapons available are frightening and the ability to coordinate across different factions could lead to devastating outcomes.  I don’t know what is going to happen.  This very much feels like an existential crisis for Israel and I’m frightened.  This is all keeping me off balance.

Over the course of pontificating in these essays over the last almost five years, I’ve waxed philosophical about my ability to finally live in the present.  I apparently was a little too proud of that, because reality smacked me in the face over the last few weeks.  I was right back to living for the next opportunity to exhale, just like I had almost my entire adult life.  I couldn’t control what was happening around me and I had precious little ability (Strength? Focus? Desire?) to control my own reactions and outlook.  I stopped working out.  I stopped writing.  I stopped meditating.  I feel like I stopped breathing.  It was a humbling reminder that it’s easy to talk about calmly living in the present when everything is going smoothly yet a different exercise all together when you are lurching from one unexpected blow to another.

As I was thinking about this essay, I kept coming back to this theme of being in uncharted waters.  Mostly, that concept carries negative connotations—thoughts of dangers known and unknown; thoughts of lack of control; fears of what might happen next.  It got me thinking about my work years, particularly the last decade, which was one long uncharted journey.  When I started my career, I thought the world was run by competent, mature people and I found that intimidating.  As I gained experience, I realized that the world was run by people just like me, and I got scared!  Did I have the mental clarity to lead well?  Now, I realize that the world is run by people generally less capable than I am and it just pisses me off.

Like most people, I learned to develop mental and emotional shortcuts to navigate stressors:  a situation would arise that had elements that were familiar to me and I would apply a solution that had worked in the past.  Sometimes this worked brilliantly; sometimes it failed spectacularly.  Over time, I realized that while shortcuts had their value, EVERY situation is unique.  The trick, when you have a shortcut you want to apply, is to ask yourself, “What is different this time?”  I will admit that I did not embrace this thinking until very late in my career.  In fact, I believe it is what got me fired since the people above me did not want to think about what might be different.  They just wanted to do the same thing they’d done in the past and assume the same outcome.  I wanted to do something different but couldn’t find the right way to convince others to follow that pathway.

I’ve written before about my obsession with assumptions.  Assuming that the same solution will work in a different situation—or that a solution that previously failed will not work now—can get you in trouble fast.  Most people are not sufficient students of history to know what’s different this time around.  It gets you in trouble in relationships, in business, and most certainly in global politics.  No matter how confident you are that you’ve “been there, done that,” know that you must take a moment to ask “what’s different now?”  It may bring you clarity or it may take you in a totally different direction.  I can’t tell you what will happen in Israel or what the “right” path forward is.  All I can see is that it’s different this time and we can’t jump to conclusions.  Similarly, while I know I have certainly been through my share of trying times, I need to take a breath and move through these times intentionally.

So, finding myself in uncharted waters again, I’m asking myself, “What is different this time?”  I’m not so much embracing the chaos as challenging myself to not give into it.  I’m starting by going to back to what I control and what I don’t.  I’m letting myself feel but trying hard not to just react.  I’m taking more deep breaths.  I’m not allowing myself to let the days slip by while I wait for things to get better.  And I’m writing again.  We’ll see what comes next.

Forgiveness

I had an essay almost ready to go for today, but after thinking over the last several days that post just wouldn’t fit my mood.  That essay is more of a cranky rant—and I promise you will get to enjoy it soon—but today, on the second day of Rosh Hashanah, a cranky rant is just not appropriate.  I traveled into Central Pennsylvania with a few good friends this week to view the elk as they move into their mating season.  They are very active and thus visible this time of year, and what a majestic sight they are!  They are large long legged animals and the males have huge racks of antlers.  And they bugle to attract their mates.  It’s a haunting sound, particularly as it carries over misty hills at dawn.  We rented a cabin, brought our own food and lived without internet or TV for a couple of peaceful days.  And peaceful days have been a rarity lately.

We also, frankly, were escaping.  We’ve all been cooped up for months and spent too much of that time watching news, scrolling social media, taking sides and passing judgement.  And while we were escaping to a rural area, yard signs constantly reminded us of the current political climate.  I’m tired of feeling angry and afraid.  I’m tired of judging and being judged.  And I don’t like how I have contributed to all of this anger, fear and judgement myself.  So, I had a lot of time to think and talk things over with dear friends.  And as we move into the holiest time of year for Jews, I have begun my annual introspection with an honesty and searching that I’ve never had before.

I’m unaffiliated with any synagogue right now but even if I was a member somewhere services would be on line.  Not the same.  I always need the rhythm of the service to get into that zone.  That is my soak time, when I let my mind wander over whatever it needed to wander through but that I did not give it permission to do.  I have thought about the deep need I have for those services, yet one thing I have not been able to get out of my mind these last few days is the tradition of Tasklikh.  I will admit, I have not been a regular participant in this tradition.  It happens after the morning service of Rosh Hashanah, after I’ve already been in shul for 5-6 hours.  But the tradition is short and simple and today I just needed to do it.

Late morning, Trish and I grabbed a couple of pieces of bread, my High Holiday Mahzor (prayer book) and went in search of a flowing body of water.  This was not as easy a task as I thought it would be since most of the “streams” around our home are really for storm runoff and we haven’t had rain in a while.  But my trusty wife, who has lived in this area most of her adult life, knew where to go.  After reading some opening passages to set the tone, we each grabbed a piece of bread and went to the water’s edge.  With each piece of bread I tore off and tossed into the water, I asked forgiveness for some thing I had done or thought or said over the last year.  There is always a lot to think about.  After some closing readings and a little time for introspection, we drove home in silence.  I kept coming back, in my mind, to the thought that whatever I was asking forgiveness for always seemed to come back to the same thing:  Forgive me for not thinking and acting from love.

When I consider the extreme divisiveness in our country right now and when I hear all the hate and anger, what I really see is fear and hurt.  I believe that the vast majority of us in this country want the same thing.  We want peace, safety and prosperity.  Where we differ is in the methodologies used to attain these goals and, in some cases, who gets to participate in reaching those goals.  I honestly do not believe that the “opposing” party is trying to destroy this country!  And I sure don’t want those from that party thinking that is goal of the party I align with.  But that is the rhetoric that is being used and weaponized by both sides, driving us to fear and hate “the other”.  I don’t want to do that anymore.  I refuse to believe that people who put up yard signs supporting the candidate that I don’t support are evil.  I believe that they are fundamentally good people, who want what I want out of life.  Most of them do not want to harm other people or see them harmed.  They either are unaware of how the policies that they agree with harm other people (particularly those who are already disadvantaged) or they’ve been led to believe that harm will only come to those who deserve it.  Yes, there are some truly bad and hateful people out there, but I refuse to believe that they make up the majority of the electorate.  I am going to choose to think and act from love.  For my sanity, I must.  It doesn’t mean I won’t act.  I will for sure vote; I am volunteering as a poll worker; I am constantly researching, looking for facts, doing my best to make sure I am not blind to important impacts. 

I have a lot of work to do.  Tashlikh did not serve to absolve me of my sins but rather to reinforce awareness and to recommit me to do better every day.  There is so much pain in this world!  It breaks my heart!  I am committed to not letting that pain devolve into fear and hatred within myself.  As I navigate the High Holy Days this year, as I ask those in my life to forgive me for any sin I have committed against them no matter how inadvertent, I will be building my strength reserves for the weeks and months to come.  I wish you all peace, safety and prosperity.  And I wish you all the strength to face the world and all its pain with love.

It Could Have Been Me

[AUTHOR’S NOTE: Next Sunday will mark one year since the senseless massacre at Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh. Shortly after that happened, I wrote this essay. I am posting the essay, unedited, in commemoration of this horrid anniversary. As we need to say for too many reasons in the Jewish community: Never Forget.]

Last night I went to an interfaith vigil at Beth Or.  It was because of the slaughter of eleven Jews at Shabbat services the previous day.  Tree of Life synagogue in Pittsburgh.  Etz Chaim.  I sat there amongst the standing room only crowd, worthy of High Holiday services, flowing over into the social hall.  I sat there, listening to all the words of support, and thought “it could have been me”.

Etz Chaim in Pittsburgh is a Conservative shul, much like the shuls I’ve attended all my life.  I’ve attended services on and off for many years and when I go it’s usually the Saturday morning Shabbat service.  Let me take you inside for a typical Shabbat.

The Conservative service on Shabbat morning typically runs for about 2 ½ hours and follows a prescribed order.  Unlike in many other religions, most conservative Jews don’t come for the entire service.  I’ll never forget the first time a non-Jew came with me to a service when I was younger.  She was absolutely flabbergasted at how people just wandered in and out, all throughout the service, stopping to greet and visit as they went.  To me, though, that was how the services went:  it was a time for prayer, but it was also a time for community.

The heart of the Shabbat morning service usually comes about an hour or so in:  the Torah service.  This is when the weekly section of the Torah is read aloud, followed by the Rabbi’s sermon.  Most people gauge their arrival to coincide with the Torah service.  I used to arrive earlier because I enjoyed the quiet sanctuary of the earlier parts of the service.  I could settle in, get into the zone, and if I timed things right be able to say the Shema three times.  You see, I’m a little OCD and have a thing with the number three.  The Shema—Hear o Israel, the Lord thy Gd, the Lord is One—is a seminal prayer in Judaism.  It’s the prayer that defines you as a Jew.  It’s the prayer that summarizes the key tenets of Judaism.  It’s the prayer that is on martyrs’ lips as they face death.  The Shema and its attendant prayers are said three times during the Shabbat service.

I would arrive around 9:15.  At that point, we’d be lucky to have a minyan of 10 Jews in the sanctuary.  The cantor would be reciting in Hebrew from Pirkei Avot, the Ethics of our Fathers.  I’d don my tallis and kippah.  I’d grab the Shabbat prayer book and the Chumash–the book with the text of the Torah and related commentary that we’d read from during the Torah service.  I’d whisper “Good Shabbos” to the regulars as I’d settle into a seat not too far forward, not too far back.  Usually on an aisle.  I’d listen to the cantor for a few seconds and usually be able to pick up where he was in the prayers.  I’d search for the page with his most recently recited phrases in my mind and catch up to where he was.

The service is almost entirely in Hebrew.  I can read and pronounce Hebrew but will admit that I don’t fluently understand it.  I can read English translations of the prayers on the facing page, but usually just follow along in the Hebrew, singing softly along with the cantor in the familiar, comforting tunes I’ve known since I was a child.  We’d transition into the different parts of the service, knowing when to stand and when to sit; when to recite and when to listen; when to pray out loud and when silently.  We’d say the Shema.  We’d recite the Amidah.  I’d get into that zone of prayer and sanctuary.

Knowing the timing of when the gunman entered the shul, I’m thinking the service would have been at about this point.  Maybe they were still reciting the silent Amidah, standing in personal prayer, focused on their prayer books.  Maybe they were into the recitation of the Amidah, when the congregation starts to transition from the quiet solitude of the early parts of the service and gets ready for the Torah service.  More people would have been streaming in at this point.  The Gabbi, something of a Director of the service, would be wandering around assigning honors.  Would I get to the hold the Torah today?  Would I get an Aliyah to recite blessings for a section of the Torah reading?

What would I have done?  Would I have run?  Would I have hit the floor and hid?  Would I have tried to be a hero and rush the gunman?  You know what I honestly think I would have done?  I would have stood there and stared.  And I would have been easily dropped by a spray of bullets from an assault rifle.  They say in this day and age that we should all be vigilant.  We should all be ready to jump into action at any time!  The only thing that stops a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun!  But FOR GD’S SAKE!  I was in the zone!  I was wrapped in the sanctuary of my community! I was thinking about the service.  I was lulled into song and prayer!  There could be nothing more incongruent with that than a crazy man with a gun shouting that all Jews must die!

No, I would probably stand there, like those eleven probably did.  Mouths open, not understanding what was happening.  I would probably have been killed.  It could have been me.  It could have been me!  And if it could have been me, it could have been you.