American Atheist Billboards in Hebrew

By Susan Esther Barnes
Photo by the American Atheists

According to a story on the CNN website, the American Atheists are putting up billboards (pictured above) in Arabic and Hebrew in neighborhoods where religious people who speak those languages live.

I’m mentioning it because, since I’m a religious Jewish person, I’m guessing at least some of my readers would assume I’m against these billboards. I want to let you know I’m not against them, and why.

True, I disagree with the message “You know it’s a myth.” Nobody knows it’s a myth. People may suspect it’s a myth, but the non-existence of God can’t be proven any more than the existence of God can be proven. I may believe wholeheartedly that God exists, and someone else may wholeheartedly believe that God doesn’t exist, but neither of us actually knows 100% for sure.

However, I do agree with the message, “You have a choice.” If someone feels stuck in their religion, if they feel it isn’t working for them but there is no way out, then it’s a good thing to remind them that they do have a choice. Although it would be painful to do so, they can and should leave their religious community, if doing so would be what is best for them in the long run.

Insincere worship; suppressing of one’s inner beliefs; conforming to norms that make a person feel trapped, unappreciated, and undervalued is not a healthy way to live. I don’t believe God wants us to do live in an environment that is unhealthy for us.

If these billboards help people who feel trapped in their community to seek a way out, and they are able to find a more healthy environment for themselves, then that is a good thing.

I can’t see these billboards having any effect on anyone who is confident in their own religious beliefs. If a person believes in God, a billboard like this isn’t going to change their mind. And, as far as I can tell, that isn’t the aim of the American Atheists, anyway. They aren’t trying to convert believers into non-believers. Rather, they are trying to reach out to non-believers who feel trapped. You might not think this is the best way for them to go about it, but they aren’t harming believers by doing this.

And what about those who aren’t sure? Shouldn’t I be afraid that the billboards might sway those who are questioning God? No, I’m not. Questioning God is a good thing. It’s one of the things Jews have done for thousands of years. We ought to ask questions. We ought to examine all sides. We ought to listen to differing opinions.

As I have said before, beliefs aren’t worth having if they don’t stand up to scrutiny.

One other thing, though. The Hebrew billboards have on them, in Hebrew, the name of God, as God revealed it to Moses. This is the name that in ancient times was only spoken by the High Priest, and only in the Holy of Holies in the Temple, and only during the High Holy Days. Because saying it out loud was so rare and special, we don’t even know any more the proper way to pronounce it.

Religious Jews believe that when this name of God is written on a piece of paper, and later the paper is no longer able to serve its purpose (such as when a book that contains the name is too old, worn and/or damaged to be used any more), that piece of paper should not be thrown away. Rather, it should be buried, with respect.

So my question is this: This billboard will be seen by many religious Jews. They will see the name of God written in Hebrew on it. They know that the written name of God should not just be thrown away. Will any of them think to contact the American Atheists or the billboard company, to request that once the billboard comes down, that the paper with God’s name on it be given to them so they may bury it properly?

If not, then I wonder about their true beliefs and priorities.

Does it Matter That You’re Performing Mitzvot if You Haven’t Converted Yet?

By Susan Esther Barnes

This post was inspired by Skylar Curtis’s Why We’re Probably Crazy After All posted on her blog You’re Not Crazy, and the comments that follow it.

To be clear, I’d like to say that I have never met Skylar, which I am sure is my loss. I have been following her blog for the past year or so, and from what I have seen there, Skylar appears to be an intelligent person who is sincerely and diligently seeking an Orthodox conversion despite the many obstacles she has encountered.

In no way should this post be taken as an opinion about Skylar. This isn’t about her. It’s about a way of thinking that I find disturbing. I don’t know Skylar, I don’t speak for Skylar, and I am not qualified to render an opinion regarding to what extent she may or may not think along the lines I am about to describe. For all I know, she may, in fact, completely disagree with the following line of thought.

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The post referenced above starts, “Pre-conversion, it is very frustrating to feel that your actions (your mitzvot) don’t matter. After all, you’re not Jewish. You’re not required to do anything.”

Subsequently, it goes on to list various mitzvot and other actions, such as, “That it will matter that you spent thousands of dollars and who knows how many hours on seforim,” “That it will matter that you defended Jews and Israel,” “That your Jewish knowledge will finally be more than useful Jeopardy answers,” and “That it will matter that you have suffered anti-Semitism.”

What disturbes me about this post is it implies that performing mitzvot doesn’t matter if one is not Jewish, as if the mitzvot have no intrinsic value of their own.

Yes, the mitzvot are commandments that only Jews are required to do. However, if they don’t matter in any way except that they are things Jews are commanded to do, if they have no intrinsic value in and of themselves, then what that means is that God just commanded us to do a bunch of random stuff for no reason other than to allow us to follow God’s commands (and, perhaps, to reap from God some sort of reward for doing them, much like a dog gets a treat for rolling over at its master’s command).

I don’t believe God wants us to do mitzvot just to prove we’re willing to follow meaningless, random commandments. I don’t think God treats us like dogs doing tricks. I believe God gave us the commandments because God knows that when we perform the commandments, especially when we do them in a thoughtful and meaningful way, we improve our lives and the lives of those around us. I believe God gave us the commandments in order to help us to be a “light unto the nations,” so we could, through our example, suggest to the world that there may be value in doing certain things and behaving in certain ways.

For instance, when I spend money and time on seforim (books in general, or, more specifically, books about Jewish thought and scripture), it matters because I gain knowledge and understanding. When I follow the laws of kashrut, it matters because I learn about the ingredients of the foods I am eating, and I pay more attention to what I am putting into my body. When I follow the mitzvot regarding lashon hara (for instance, spreading rumors or unkind stories of others), I improve my relationships with other people.

Whether or not one is Jewish, it appears self-evident to me why it would matter that a person would defend Jews and Israel, or why it would matter that one has experienced anti-semitism, or any other kind of bigotry or discrimination.

If one can perform a host of mitzvot and not feel that any of them matter, that they have no value and have provided no benefit to themselves or anyone else, then I fail to see why that person would want to convert to Judaism. Why take on the burden of commandments that don’t matter except insofar as they allow you to do random, otherwise meaningless things that Jews are commanded to do?

This view of the commandments is expressed explicitly by commenter Mikeage, who wrote, “The purpose of mitzvos is to do them _because_ they are commanded; hence the term ‘commandment’. Period.”

I believe that to take this view is to greatly underestimate the transformative power of the mitzvot. It devalues both the mitzvot themselves and Judaism in general. We may do mitzvot because we are commanded to do them, whether or not we understand their benefit, but that does not mean they have no benefit beyond some unknown reward we may get from God later on. God forbid.

God's Approval Rating

By Susan Esther Barnes

A recent telephone survey by Public Policy Polling asked, “If God exists, do you approve or disapprove of its performance?” The results were 52% approve, 9% disapprove, and 40% unsure.

Setting aside the question about what caused this company to decide to refer to God as “it,” I find these results to be interesting.

They did ask some additional questions, resulting in us learning that 50% approve of how God handles natural disasters, 56% approve of God’s handling of animals, and 71% approve God’s handling of creating the universe. Still, I wish there had been a follow up question asking what, specifically, people would like God to do better.

A clear majority think God handled creation well, but where, I wonder, has God gone wrong with the animals? When people answered this question, were they including humans in the equation? I certainly hope this isn’t just about Fido peeing on the carpet again.

Further, what do we want God to do differently about natural disasters? Since we have already conceded, in the wording of the question, that these disasters are natural (rather than supernatural, God-created occurrences), what, exactly, is God doing wrong? Is God supposed to fix everything for us afterward? Do we feel God isn’t supplying us with enough comfort after the fact? Should God issue advance warnings (“Hey, don’t build there, that cliff face will fall into the ocean sometime in the next 25 years” – isn’t that why God gave us engineers?)

Most of all, if God’s creation was so great, and now things are only so-so, who do we think messed it up? It seems to me God created the world, gave us a set of instructions to follow, and then stepped back and let us have at it. If we are now unhappy with the animals and the natural disasters, is that really God’s fault, or is it our own doing?

It also makes me wonder, if we called God and asked, “Do you approve or disapprove of the job the humans are doing?” what would God say?

Maybe, “Well, I know they’re trying hard, but they really are making a hash of things is several different areas, and most of them don’t seem to get around to understanding what’s really important until they realize they’re about to die. So overall, I guess I’d have to say I don’t really approve.

“On the other hand, they are making some strides in the areas of equality in regard to race, gender, and sexual orientation, and many of them offer up some truly heartfelt prayers reasonably often, so I haven’t given up on them yet. Ask me again in another couple hundred years, if they're still around, and we'll see.”

Morality and Halacha

By Susan Esther Barnes

I was reading the comments on a post called I Made My First Gay Shidduch at Frum Satire, (a shidduch refers to matchmaking) and got into a discussion about halacha (Jewish law).

At one point I mentioned the fact that nobody follows all the laws in the Torah, and as an example used the fact that nobody kills unruly children.

The law about unruly children comes from Deuteronomy 21:18-21, which says, “If a man has a stubborn and rebellious son who will not obey the voice of his father or the voice of his mother, and, though they discipline him, will not listen to them, then his father and his mother shall take hold of him and bring him out to the elders of his city at the gate of the place where he lives, and they shall say to the elders of his city, ‘This our son is rebellious; he will not obey our voice; he is a glutton and a drunkard.’ Then all the men of the city shall stone him to death with stones. So you shall purge the evil from your midst, and all Israel shall hear, and fear.”

One of the commenters said the reason why nobody ever stones to death an unruly son is that, “In order qualify as a rebellious son, the son had to be between 13 and 13.5 years of age, had to steal money from his parents, use that money to buy meat and wine from the vat. He then had to eat the meat medium rare in a few gulps, wash it down with a large quantity of the wine, while sitting in the company of bad people. His parents had to warn him against this beforehand. The valid witnesses had to warn him of the consequences 4 seconds before he ate and drank, and then testify against him in court.”

Of course, all of the rules in the paragraph above were made up by rabbis who wanted to make sure no kids got stoned to death.

Other commenters mentioned a rabbinic ruling that if a pregnant woman craved pork (which Jews are not supposed to eat), she was allowed to eat it, because they thought if her craving was not fulfilled, it could be life threatening.

Both of these cases are the kinds of legal arguments rabbis used to make in order to ensure that the people did what they believed to be morally right.

One of the points I was trying to make in my comments was that if the rabbis could make the rules like those above, the rabbis could also, if they wanted to, make a rule that would make gay relationships accepted.

For instance, the idea that gay relationships are not okay comes from Leviticus 18:22 and 20:13, both of which say a man should not lie with a man “as with a woman.” As a result, the rabbis could easily rule that a man who “lies” with a woman is having intercourse, which of course involves vaginal sex. Therefore, in order for a man to lie with a man “as with a woman,” he would have to have vaginal sex with that other man, and as long as he does not do so, he is not breaking the law. Since that would be physically impossible, gay sex is okay.

The person with which I was exchanging comments replied, “Suffice to say that even if you may be morally correct in your views, but you’re 100% wrong when it comes to halacha.”

He says this without apology. He seems to have completely missed the point that halacha is supposed to be a system of laws that help us to do what God wants us to do. And if God does not want us to be morally upright, then I seriously don’t know what God wants, or on what basis we should think it’s a good idea to follow God’s laws.

We have seen in the examples above how far out of their way the ancient rabbis were willing to go in order to make sure the laws were moral and just. I see this as one of the main strengths of Judaism, and one of the main areas where Orthodox Judaism has gone wrong. The moment they think they can separate God’s laws from moral behavior, the moment they think it’s okay to say, “This is morally repugnant but I’m going to do it anyway because I believe God said I should,” is the moment they break from one of the most important foundations of Judaism.

How can we be a light unto the nations if we lose our moral compass so thoroughly, and don’t even seem to notice it’s gone?

What Does Building the Mishkan Have To Do With Kashrut?

By Susan Esther Barnes

An imaginary conversation with God:

Interviewer: Baruch ata Adonai, blessed are you Adonai our God, ruler of the world, who has agreed to speak with me today about the end of the book of Sh’mot (Exodus) in the Torah.

God: Thank you for asking me to be here today. Of course, I would have been here today anyway, since I am everywhere all the time. Still, I’m making a special effort to be heard right now because you have a question for me that really needs to be answered.

I: Thank you. It means a lot to me, as well as my readers. As you know, we have just finished reading the book of Sh’mot. A question that often comes up around this time is why, at the end of this book, are there these chapters with so many repetitive, detailed instructions about the building of the Mishkan (Tabernacle)?

G: Kashrut.

I: Bless you.

G: I didn’t sneeze. I said “Kashrut.”

I. I don’t understand. What does kashrut, the dietary laws, have to do with the building of the Mishkan?

G. I created the world and all that is in it, including human beings. Humans, some more than others, have a tendency at times to be a bit obsessive compulsive. So when I wrote the rules for building the Mishkan, I indulged those who want to engage in that behavior. I said what colors of yarn to use, and what kinds of metals, gems, hides, and wood. How many cubits long this should be and how many cubits wide that should be. Where each thing should be placed, how many of each thing there should be, etc. You get the picture.

I. Yes.

G. Does all that obsessive compulsive detail remind you of anything?

I. It reminds me a lot of the halacha (Jewish law) about kashrut. All those rules about separate dishes and ovens, and trying to figure out how much rennet is in the cheese, which heckshers it’s okay to rely on, etc.

G: Exactly. That’s the problem.

I. What’s the problem?

G. I know people can get obsessive in general, and that they often get obsessive about food in particular. That’s partly why I wrote Devarim (Deuteronomy) 4:2 and 12:32.

I. “You shall not add to the word which I am commanding you, nor take away from it, that you may keep the commandments of Adonai your God which I commanded you,” and “Whatever I command you, you shall be careful to do; you shall not add to nor take away from it.”

G. Right. So the point of all the detail about the Mishkan is to show everyone, “You want details? I can write details. Here they are. All the details you will ever need, and more.” And when I write, “Don’t boil a kid in its mother’s milk,” do you know what that means?

I. The rabbis tell us it means don’t serve any dairy products with any animal, including (probably) birds, and –

G. No. It means “Don’t boil a kid in its mother’s milk.” I never wrote anything about separate dishes, or birds with cheese, or any of those other details people have added over the years. I don’t know how I could have been any more clear about it. I showed you that I didn’t want a bunch of extra details read into to the laws of kashrut by demonstrating that when I want you to follow a lot of specific details, I will say so, like I did in Sh’mot when I wrote about building the Mishkan. If that weren’t enough, I followed it up by explicitly telling you not to add to my laws.

I. So all those laws about kashrut…

G. The laws about kashrut are in the Torah. The way I wrote them. All the rest is just commentary, written by you loveable, fallible people. Now go study.

Being Vulnerable with God

By Susan Esther Barnes

When Rabbi Noa Kushner leads services, she bows differently than most people do. She holds her prayer book in her left hand, and she holds her right hand slightly away from her body, palm up. Her husband says she does this as a way to say, “Look, God, I’m open for whatever you send my way.”

Part of me likes that idea. I want God to send stuff my way. I want to be open for whatever God sends my way. But they say, “Be careful what you wish for.” They say, “God works in mysterious ways.” Saying to God, “Sure, bring it on!” without knowing what “it” is feels pretty scary to me.

So usually when I bow I “forget” to hold my right hand out like that. Or I kind of sort of do, but I don’t really mean it. Or, you know, my prayer book is kind of heavy; don’t I need to hold it in both hands?

Last Friday night Dan Nichols was at our synagogue as Artist in Residence. I was sitting in my seat, following along with the service, when Dan suggested we close our eyes. He told us to go deep into ourselves. He asked us to think about our first Jewish memory. What did it look like? What did it feel like?

I couldn’t pick just one. I thought about presents that said “Happy Chanukah” on them. I thought about visiting Grandma in San Francisco, with her Hebrew calendar in the kitchen, and a box of matzo always on hand, and the chanukiah in the living room year ‘round.

As I was sitting there, remembering myself as a small, vulnerable child in my Grandmother’s apartment, Dan started to sing a song about Torah, and about struggle. “Did you mean this struggle for me?” the song asked.

I thought about how just staying in the world of Reform Jews would be so easy for me. Why do I go to blogs written by Orthodox people and struggle with the thoughts and statements I find there? Why do I go where my beliefs are questioned? Do I really need to seek the struggle?

For me at least, the answer is yes. We are the people Israel – which is translated as “struggles with God.” It is through the struggle, through the questioning of my beliefs and the way I live my life, through the search for knowledge and understanding, that my beliefs are transformed from just ideas into something deeply and firmly held. A belief that does not hold up to close scrutiny is not worth believing in. The fire and the water tempers the steel.

Then, while I was in the midst of being this small, vulnerable child in my Grandmother’s living room, and thinking about the struggle, and feeling more alone and exposed than I have ever felt in a room so full of people, Dan began to chant the Sh’ma. And we all joined in with him. It was the deepest, most vulnerable, most connected Sh’ma I have ever chanted.

“Hear, oh Israel, Adonai is our God, Adonai is one.” Or, perhaps, “Listen up, all you people who struggle with God. God is here with us in our struggle and vulnerability; in fact, God is at one with us in the middle of all of it.”

Later in that service, and through services on the next day, when I bowed I held out my right hand, palm up. Because I knew what it felt like to be vulnerable with God and to open myself up to what God is sending my way. And I know that whatever it is, it’s going to be okay.

God's Role in All This

By Susan Esther Barnes

Last night I had just passed the halfway point in Rabbi Lawrence Kushner's excellent book I'm God; You're Not, pictured above, when I reached a passage on pages 124-125 and came to a screeching halt.

This is where he says, "When you're facing an unknown future - and the future is always unknown - you have three options. First option: everything is fated, it's all meant to be. In other words, predestination."

He eventually settles on what he calls the third option, that God is everything, concluding "the entire glorious, horrible, holy, terrifying wondrous mess we call creation is a continuous manifestation of the Divine." He says, "Everything is the way it's supposed to be."

Maybe I'm a little dense, but I don't see how what he calls option 3 is effectively different than option 1. In neither case do I see any room for humans to have any effect on the outcome of anything. Either options strikes me as an invitation to sit back and do nothing. It's all predestined and/or it's all the way it's supposed to be anyway.

I don't understand why he so quickly dismisses what he calls option 2, or free will. He claims that if we excercise free will, that means God "refuses to intervene," and that would mean "God is effectively irrelevant."

The trouble is, he is basing his conclusion on a faulty assumption. Humans can have free will without God having to refuse to intervene. Even if God doesn't do things for us or make us do things, God can still influence us to do things.

A few years ago when this same Rabbi Kushner spoke at our synagogue, he told a lovely story. (I may have misremembered some of the details, but the important parts are here.) He was leading a Torah Study group when he had to leave early to meet with the bar mitzvah family before services started. The room was crowded, so it took him a while to extricate himself.

Then, for no apparent reason, and even though he has never done anything like this before or since, he squeezed back into the room to whisper in a man's ear, "Don't look now, but that woman in the red dress sitting across the table from you is a rabbi, and she's single." Then he left.

When Torah Study was over, the man struck up a conversation with the woman, they started dating, and eventually Rabbi Kushner presided at their wedding.

Why did he turn around and squeeze back into the room to say such a thing to this man? I would say he was excercising his own free will, but that the idea to do it was God's, not his.

Based on this story, as well as my own experiences, I would say God is giving us hints, giving us helpful suggestions, in a still small voice on a regular basis. Sometimes we're listening; often we're not. Sometimes we follow God's suggestions and things get better for us, and sometimes we don't, and things get worse.

This isn't to say that every time something bad happens to us it means we've done something wrong or failed to listen to God - far from it. In fact, if that were the case, we wouldn't really be exercising free will at all, we'd just be trying to avoid punishment. Random things happen, both good and bad, through no fault or action of our own or God's.

But God sees things we don't see, God has the big picture view, and God wants our lives to be better. So maybe option 4 (or just a revised option 2) is that, when faced with an uncertain future, we have the ability to act on our own free will. And the more we make God relevant in our lives by listening for and following God's good advice and suggestions, the better off we will be.

Life is Fragile

By Susan Esther Barnes

I spent a couple of hours this afternoon at the memorial service of a man who died suddenly, and too young. Parents should not have to bury their children in any case, but a week ago this man, his parents, his wife, and his young daughter all thought he was fine, and now he's dead.

In a remarkable service, with over 800 people in attendance, we learned that although he technically was survived by only a couple of siblings, an astonishing number of men considered this man to be their brother.

From the boy he met in grade school by throwing rocks at him, to his brothers-in-law, to his work colleague, we heard story after story of his sense of humor, his kindness, his generosity, his gift of expressing interest in people and making them feel at ease.

But one day last week he realized something was wrong, and he went to the hospital, and within days he was gone. And in his final act of generosity, he donated his organs, giving life to others who will now be able to go on to leave their hospital beds, and hug their families, as he will not.

I was grateful to the rabbi for saying he does not believe the death of this man was God's will, but that it was an accident of nature. He said God did not will it that this man's daughter should grow up without her father or that the rest of his family and dear friends should lose him so soon.

It serves as a reminder to us all: Life is fragile. Be thankful for today. We never know what tomorrow may bring.

Is Giffords a Jew, or is She Just Jew-ish?

By Susan Esther Barnes

In all the greater storm about the shooting of Representative Giffords, may she and all those wounded on that day have a full and speedy recovery, on the side there is a tempest in a teapot about whether the Jewish press should refer to her as Jewish. She is an active member of a Reform synagogue, but her Jewish roots are on her father’s side, not her mother’s.

In the world of Reform Judaism, one is considered Jewish if one is raised Jewish and either parent is Jewish. In Orthodox Judaism, one is considered Jewish only if one’s mother is Jewish, or if one converts to Judaism in an Orthodox conversion process. So as far as Giffords and her synagogue are concerned, she’s a Jew, but as far as an Orthodox person is concerned, she is not.

Although there are some who refer to others as “half Jewish,” I don’t believe there is such a thing. Either you are Jewish, or you are not. The question is, where do you draw the line? And who gets to say where that line should be drawn?

It is troubling to me that an ordained rabbi can work with someone as they go through their conversion process, and declare that person Jewish, only to have other people deny the Jewishness of that person.

In Israel, there are thousands of soldiers who moved to Israel from Russia and converted while serving in the Israeli Defense Forces, but who the Chief Rabbinate has declared as still not halachically Jewish.

Is this what God wants? I don’t think so.

These claims about who is, or is not, halachically Jewish are made as if there is no disagreement as to the interpretation of halacha. In fact, halacha has been debated and changed over the years, as our understanding of God, humans, and the world around us has evolved.

We are taught that all Jewish souls, both those on earth at the time and all those as yet unborn, were present when God made the covenant that created the Jewish people at Mt. Sinai. Many of those souls are here on earth now, seeking to join their people through the process we call conversion.

To deny them their rightful place among us, to push them out by saying their rabbincally supervised conversion is not halachically acceptable, strikes me as an unconscionable disregard of God’s will, an enormous chillul hashem - desecration of God’s name.

It is well past time for us to recognize that matters of halacha have never been settled. Different people interpret the law differently. Each person must follow his or her own beliefs about the right interpretation, according to the teachings of their rabbinic authority. At the same time, we need to recognize that differences do exist, and concede that the only one who truly knows God’s will is God.

So let’s honor the good will, knowledge and authority of the rabbis – all of them – and accept anyone declared by a rabbi to be Jewish as Jewish, and let God be the final arbiter.

Ok, I Admit It: I'm Religious

By Susan Esther Barnes

I’m religious. I’m going to guess this doesn’t come as a great surprise to readers of my blog. I have to say, though, it did sneak up on me slowly over time, and it’s not something I often admit to myself in so many words.

This was brought to my attention a few weeks ago when I was speaking with someone who was at our synagogue for the first time. After some small talk, he asked, “Are you religious?” and I said, “Yes,” but then I immediately felt embarrassed. “He’s going to think I’m a nut,” I thought, regretting my hasty response.

But why should I feel embarrassed? Maybe it’s because when I think of the word “religious” a whole bunch of images come to mind that don’t represent me at all. These include faith healers, people who shout, “Praise Jesus!” repeatedly, Orthodox Jewish women who think it’s immodest to let their own hair be seen in public but who think it’s okay to wear someone else’s real human hair instead in the form of a wig, priests, nuns in traditional habits, Jewish men hurling chairs across the mechitza at the Women of the Wall, etc.

As Rabbi Lezak says, why should we let other people define for us what it means to be religious? Isn’t it way past time for the word to be reclaimed by those of us who may be more moderate than some of those listed above?

I used to think religious people were either out of touch with reality or hypocrites. Out of touch with reality for believing things that can’t be real, like the parting of the Red Sea or the resurrection of Jesus, or hypocritical for following a religion even though they don’t believe in some or all of the things it says are true.

However, that analysis relies on the assumption that religious people have to take the Bible literally. I have since learned that a person can look at it as a source of inspiration and learning without believing that everything happened exactly like it says. Which is a good thing, since there are several places where the Bible gives more than one, contradictory, version of events (such as the creation of humans in Genesis).

So that begs the question, what do I mean when I say I’m religious? Is it that I go to synagogue most Friday nights and most Saturday mornings? I have talked to plenty of people who go to services who say they’re not particularly religious.

Is it that I learn about the mitzvot (commandments) and try to find ways to incorporate them into my life? No, I think people who do that to excess are edging closer to obsessive compulsive than they are to being religious.

Is it because I believe in God? Is it that I talk with God pretty much every day? I think that’s getting closer to it. I bought a piece of art in Tzfat in Israel that says “Ein od malvado,” which means, “There is nothing but God.” I see a bit of God in everything, from every person I meet to every tree and plant, and even in inanimate objects. I guess that makes me religious.

The thing is, I feel incredibly uncomfortable with much of what I wrote in the paragraph above, even though it’s all absolutely true. There is a part of me that is concerned it’s possible those feelings and beliefs mean I’m crazy.

To show how irrational my discomfort is, the clergy people at my synagogue are religious, but, on average, I don't think they're any more crazy than the average Joe. It makes no sense for me to think religious equals crazy for me but not for them.

So the only reasonable option I see is to go forward in the world believing what I believe and feeling what I feel. And as long as I remain a fully functioning, upstanding member of society, I guess that’s okay. Even if it may be a bit embarrassing from time to time.

The Sliding Scale of Kosher

By Susan Esther Barnes

Earlier this week, the tour guide we had on our trip to Israel last summer came to our synagogue to give a lecture. Those of us who were on the Israel trip were invited to come for dinner with him before the lecture, as a kind of reunion.

It was a Tuesday night, when there are a bunch of teens there for classes the synagogue holds weekly for kids who are not in Jewish day schools. Before classes start, the kids are treated to a pizza dinner. So that’s what we had too: pizza and Caesar salad, plus a nice spinach salad one of the women on the Israel trip brought.

As we were talking, I noticed our guest from Israel was not eating. I heard him mention cheese to one of the other people. I asked him, “Do you not eat cheese?” and he replied, “I eat cheese, but not just any cheese.” Oh, right.

He’s Modern Orthodox, so although there were three flavors of vegetarian pizza offered, and therefore no mixing of meat and dairy, the cheese itself was not kosher. Plus, since the pizzas were made in a place that also cooks meat, in an oven where meat is cooked, the pizzas weren’t kosher even if the cheese on them had been kosher before it was used. Similar issues apply to the cheese on the two salads.

Luckily, the rabbi ran over to the café at the JCC next door and bought our guest some tuna salad and a bag of Fritos so he wouldn’t have to go hungry. It did remind us, though, that what passes for kosher at a Reform synagogue doesn’t cut it with an Orthodox person, no matter how Modern they may be.

Last night, I went to a cafeteria-style burrito restaurant, where you walk down the line and point out the various items and condiments you want in your burrito (or rice bowl).

The woman in line in front of me happened to be from my synagogue. The man behind the counter grabbed the spoon in one of the two containers of beans and asked her, “Do you want beans?”

She said, “The other kind of beans, please, it needs to be vegetarian.” So he added the vegetarian beans, and then she asked for chicken on the burrito. He looked at her, startled, and repeated, “Chicken?” He was obviously confused, because she had just insisted on vegetarian beans. It made no sense to him that she would ask for meat with vegetarian beans.

Of course, to me it made perfect sense. In Mexican restaurants, the non-vegetarian beans contain either lard, or bacon, or both. The woman is Jewish, so she doesn’t eat pork, thus she wanted the vegetarian beans. But she’s not a vegetarian. Chicken is fine.

Along these same lines, which an Orthodox Jew might dub issues of “fake kosher,” I’ve also been contemplating the issues of “fake treyf,” or items that appear not to be kosher but are.

Probably the most common example of this is turkey bacon. Readers of my blog may recall that the thing I miss most about my non-kosher life is the bacon. (Please pause for a moment of silence while I reflect wistfully.) When I mention this to people, sometimes they ask, “Why not just eat turkey bacon instead? It tastes about the same.”

One helpful person even pointed out you can now get kosher bacon-flavored seasoning because, as the company’s slogan reads, “Everything should taste like bacon.”

Aside from my assumption that turkey bacon and fake bacon flavoring can’t be any healthier than “real” bacon, it seems to me to be missing the point. Why keep kosher if you’re going to eat things that appear to be, and taste like, forbidden foods?

Sure, one can argue we keep kosher because we’re commanded to, and since God didn’t command us to avoid eating kosher foods disguised as non-kosher foods it’s perfectly okay, but I’d like to think it’s deeper than that.

I’d like to think there’s something to the idea that we’re also learning a lesson about taming our desires. I’d like to think that by denying ourselves certain things, maybe we can learn to have a little empathy for others who have to do without things they would like to eat or have.

I would like to think that paying attention to what we eat reminds us of our covenant with God, and that we shouldn’t look for ways to weasel out of keeping kosher by using technicalities any more than we’d want God to look for technicalities to weasel out of God’s end of the bargain.

The same thing applies to Passover foods. On Passover, we’re not supposed to eat foods made with leavening, to remind us that when we fled Egypt we didn’t have time to let our bread rise. Yet the Passover section of the supermarket is filled with “kosher-for-Passover” cake and cookie mixes that look and taste like they have baking soda or powder in them even though they don’t.

In the end, it comes down to the letter or the law vs. the spirit of the law. Those who eat the turkey bacon and the Passover cake seem more interested in the former, while those who eat the vegetarian pizza seem more interested in the latter. And that’s how we get the sliding scale of kosher.

Shabbat Shalom

By Susan Esther Barnes
with photos by Dinah Lang



"Shabbat shalom." It's what we say to each other on Friday night and on Saturday morning. We generally think of it as wishing each other "Sabbath peace," but it is more than that. The word shalom means not only peace; it also means wholeness. Because God made the world in six days and then rested on the seventh, on Shabbat we attempt to rest as well, and to act as if the world is peaceful and whole and perfect just the way it is.

Last Friday evening I arrived at the synagogue as usual, about 45 minutes before services start. A couple of years ago, I was the only person standing at the front door greeting people as they arrived.

On this particular night, as on most Friday nights, Jeff greeted people at the top of the stairs, as did Ken. Judith stood at the sanctuary doors handing out the sheets with announcements and the list for the Mourner's Kaddish. Ralph helped to serve the wine, and later, as the sanctuary filled up, helped to make sure those sitting in the back had prayer books. Greeting on Friday nights is no longer something I do alone.

After services, we walked to the JCC next door for the community dinner the synagogue hosts, free of charge, on the first Friday of each month. After making sure the majority of the people were settled, I found a seat next to a couple I know. It turns out I spent most of the meal talking to the couple on the other side of the table, who I didn't know before.

This has happened to me before. I sit down to eat with people I don't know, and by the end of the meal I have new aquaintances, who greet me by name at services in the following weeks and months.

On the occasions when Dan Nichols plays at first Friday night services, after the dinner he leads "Shabbat Unplugged" at a congregant's home. Aviva and I used to both go to these evenings separately, but now we go together. Another friend send me an email Friday afternoon asking if she could carpool there with me that night. At dinner, two others joined us, so we ended up with five people jammed into my car. This is no longer an event I go to alone.



Imagine about 40 people, jammed into a living room. At first, it's like any weekend party, with people chatting while we snack on cookies or fruit and drink beverages. It's 10 pm when the instruments come out and the singing starts. That's when everything changes.

We sing in Hebrew. We sing in English. We sing without words, and sometimes we just hum. We sing about God and shalom, about peace and togetherness. We ask God if she can hear us sing; we ask for our lives to feel the echo of our praying.

At some point, Dan stops and begins to speak about how, during the week, our parents or partners or children tell us we're not doing well enough. He knows sometimes our boss at work tells us we're not doing well enough. He reminds us we all tell ourselves we're not doing well enough.

Tonight, it is Shabbat. The music is sweet. Words cannot describe the intense beauty of the harmonies as our voices blend togther. There is no such thing as one of us not singing well enough.

Dan points out, in case it is possible for any of us to have missed it, that in this moment, we are tasting the World to Come. In this room, at this time, there is peace. There is wholeness. Everyone here is not just a part of it, but is a necessary part. In this moment, right now, the world and everything in it is perfect.

Shabbat shalom.

Kabbalat Shabbat in Heaven

By Susan Esther Barnes

It’s Friday evening, almost a week since Rose died. The Mourner’s Kaddish is supposed to be said for her by her next of kin every day for eleven months, and every year on the anniversary of her death. It requires a minyan, ten people, to say, because mourners are not meant to be alone; they ought to be surrounded by their community.

Before she died, Rose gave me permission to say the Mourner’s Kaddish for her. I asked because her surviving son is not observant, so we both knew he would be unlikely to say it, other than perhaps at her funeral. Someone ought to say it for her, so I offered to take on the responsibility. Tonight, Shabbat evening, is the first time I have been in a minyan since her death.

When the rabbi asks those who are in the first seven or thirty days of mourning to rise and say the name of the person they’re saying Kaddish for, I feel hesitant. I am not related to Rose; I don’t want to appear to be fishing for sympathy I have not earned. I’m not convinced it is my place to do this thing I promised to do.

I rise, I say Rose’s name, and I stew in my doubts while the names of those recently dead and those who have died at this time in years past are recited. I wonder whether I will be able to say the words, or if the jumble of my thoughts will cause me to falter.

When the time comes, I start to speak, and something completely unexpected happens. As each word forms in my mouth, it transforms into something solid. Not something sharp, with hard edges to chafe and cut; but something soft and rounded, like a rosebud.

As each word solidifies, as its leading edge reaches my lips, it feels as if it is being snatched away and borne swiftly upward, away from me. I don’t know what is happening, but as each word is formed and flies upward, I realize it is being pulled out of my mouth by a force over which I have no control. I have no choice but to continue until the end of the prayer. It appears I was mistaken; saying Kaddish for Rose is not voluntary.

Later, I imagine the words were being pulled out of my mouth and carried upward by angels.

In my mind’s eye, God is surrounded by the dead as the angels fly in from all directions, depositing the words of the Mourner’s Kaddish in neat little piles at their feet.

Some of the words bear the mark of close family, some of friends. Some come from the lips of cantors or rabbis or other prayer leaders who speak for those who have nobody else to pray for them.

As the last word arrives, to be laid reverently on the last stack, Shabbat arrives in heaven, and it is time for God and the angels and the dead to rest.

Mah Zeh Achim?

By Susan Esther Barnes

The most holy place for Jews is the Temple Mount in Jerusalem, the place where our Temple once stood. It is said God's presence in the world emanates from this place. It is where Abraham brought Isaac; it is where God spoke and created the world.

For the almost 2,000 years of our exile, we yearned to return to this place. Throughout those long years, when the land was in the control of others, the closest we could get to it was a small piece of the retaining wall that forms a rectangle holding up the hill on which the Temple used to stand.

This accessible piece of the wall is West and South of the Temple's former location, which was about half way between the North and South ends of the wall surrounding the hill. The Holy of Holies, the most sacred place within the Temple, where the presence of God resides, was on the West side.

Although Jews are now in control of Jerusalem, we are still not allowed to pray on the Temple Mount, still not allowed to pray near the old Temple site or the Holy of Holies. I am not advocating a change in this policy.

Untold thousands of Jews continue to come to the Western Wall to pray, where the men and women are divided by a barrier and women are not allowed to sing aloud or wear a tallit (prayer shawl). It is crowded with people. There is always someone there praying, 7 days a week, 24 hours a day.

But recent excavation has opened a path along the base of the Western Wall, heading North. It leads to a place that is clearly marked as being aligned with where the Temple used to be. This is the closest any Jew can now come to the old Temple site, to the Holy of Holies, to the source of God's presence in the world.

So who is allowed to walk this path to this special place? Just the Chief Rabbi of Jerusalem or other dignitaries? Only the most devout? No, it is open to everyone.

So it must be crowded, right? Bursting at the seams? Humming with life and prayer? No. Even though anyone can come here; men and women, children and families; wearing a tallit or not; singing aloud or not; this Holy place stands as empty as a forgotten tomb.

*****

Mah Zeh Achim?
What is This, My Brothers, My Sisters?

You have been separated from your beloved for many years. Your heart aches for her, you long to embrace him again, and though you know your love is reciprocated, despite your best efforts you are kept at a distance.

She dropped a scented kerchief to you, and you cling to it as you pray by her outer courtyard, calling to her.

He sent you a love letter, and you write down your deepest fears, your secret dreams, on little scraps of paper that you leave by his outer gate, hoping he will discover them there.

But what is this? The outer gate has been opened to you, for the first time in all your years of longing you may enter. And although you still may not approach her front door, and though you may not enter his home, yet you have been given a chance to come closer to the dwelling place of your beloved.

What is this?

She begs you to draw nearer, yet you stand aloof. She calls out to you, yet you do not hear. "What is this?" she cries, "Why have you abandoned me?"

"Why do you linger yet in the street outside?" he wails, "Have you clung so long to your kerchief and your letter, have you spent so much time adoring the place to which you have been coming all these years, that you have forgotten why you ever started to come there at all?"

"My beloved," she whispers, "Has it been so long you have forgotten it was me you once loved, and not the cold, hard stones?" She aches for you to abandon your worship of the wall and to draw nearer, to return to her.

My brothers, my sisters, wake up. Open your eyes.

Mah zeh achim?

What are you doing?

Not a Rabbi

By Susan Esther Barnes

On Friday before services a very nice man suggested I might want to consider becoming a rabbi. I don’t remember exactly what he said, but “I could see you as a rabbi” was in there somewhere.

I can’t say the thought has never crossed my mind. About 15 years ago I looked into it briefly, and even started to write an essay for my application to rabbinic school. When I told my rabbi at the time what I was thinking, he discouraged me, and, thinking back on it, he was probably right.

For one thing, at that time I was married to a man who was already concerned that I might become “too Jewish.” Also, there was a lot of personal growth I’ve gone through over the last ten years, without which I suspect I might have been a pretty bad rabbi.

So why not become a rabbi now? First, there are the logistical issues, such as the enormous cost of five years of school and the unacceptable strain on my marriage of a year studying in Israel, not to mention the remaining four in Los Angeles or New York or Ohio. All of which would be hard to justify considering I’m much more interested in learning all the stuff a person needs to learn in order to become a rabbi than I am in working as one. Most importantly, as I told the man who brought up the subject Friday night, right now I don’t feel I’m being called to the rabbinate.

Still, last night, lying in bed, I started to wonder what it would be like to go to rabbinic school, and what I might do if I were ordained. Then I fell asleep, and had the following dream:

I was standing at a ticket booth, trying to buy passage to my intended destination. The woman behind the counter said she couldn’t sell me the ticket right then, but I should give her my cell phone number and she would call me when it was time for me to get my ticket.

There was a bit of a language barrier, and the woman seemed unable to explain why I couldn’t buy the ticket right then. It seemed like she didn’t understand why I would want her to explain; I should just take her word for it and do as she requested. I tried to tell her I had everything I need to buy the ticket right then, but she insisted I needed to wait for the call.

During this conversation the man behind me in line grabbed my arm, and then spun me around, telling me to do what the woman said. When I told him, “Don’t touch me!” he became angry and threatening.

So there I was, standing between two aspects of God: the one who tries to direct us onto the right path even when it is contrary to our will and even if we don’t (or, perhaps, in that place and time are not meant to) understand why we ought to go that way; and the angry aspect who gets ticked off when we try to insist on doing what we want instead of having the faith to follow the good advice we’re being given.

Was the dream a message from God, telling me not to pursue the rabbinate unless and until God sends me a calling to do so, or was it just a subconscious rationalization to excuse myself from looking into it? Since I believe in following my instincts and doing what feels right, it doesn’t really matter what caused the dream. Right now, I’m content to wait for the call. And if it never comes, that’s fine with me. My life is pretty darn good just the way it is.

It's Better to Have Loved and Lost...

By Susan Esther Barnes

It was sudden and unexpected. There were no lingering goodbyes, no time to savor our last moments together. It just happened. One day, much like every other day of my life, I was eating treyf (non-kosher food), and the next day, with no advance planning or noticeable forethought, I was not.

Though I admit I had dalliances with sausages and peppers, with ham and with shrimp, and a certain relationship with pepperoni pizza, my true love, it turns out in hindsight, was bacon. Bacon and lettuce sandwiches (no tomato, thank you), bacon on salad, and just plain bacon. This is the only thing I truly miss, the thing I wistfully think about; imagining its aroma, the texture of it on my tongue, the feel of it giving inexorably between my teeth as the flavor fills my senses.

It made me wonder, would it have been better to grow up in a kosher home, to have smelled bacon, perhaps at a friend’s house or in a restaurant, but never to have tasted it? Would it have been preferable to feel repulsed at even the thought of lifting a pork product toward my mouth?

Although I will never truly know what it would have been like, I don’t think it would be better. I like it this way. I like how this morning, when Rabbi Lezak mentioned kashrut (the set of Jewish dietary laws), I thought about my lost love, my bacon. I like that I thought about how I miss it, and what, if I abandoned kashrut, that first bite would taste like.

I like that, knowing fully what I am giving up, I know that by following this law I am in a covenant with God. I like that my next thought was, “I loved my bacon, but I love my relationship with God more.”

Shabbat Unplugged

By Susan Esther Barnes

What do you do when you encounter unspeakable beauty?

When words and actions and music and voices
combine with grief and joy and comfort
to create one holy moment after another
when God’s presence fills the spaces inside and in between
the people and the room and the instruments
and you think to yourself
Life can’t possibly be any better than this
and someone says
Maybe this is the world-to-come

What do you do when the best outlet you have
is to pour it into words on paper
but you know for these moments
words on paper are utterly inadequate

What can you do other than soak it in
and feel grateful in the moment
then go home
and try to stop it from slipping away

Judaism Creating Connections

By Susan Esther Barnes

On Friday night during services Rabbi Lezak told two stories about how living in Israel means living in an inter-connected community. The first one, here, talks about how the plight of Gilad Shalit, the Israel soldier who has been in captivity for three years, feels personal to all Israelis, since all of them have family members who were or are in the military.

The second story, here, is an amazing true story about the woman who is the mother of the first soldier killed in Cast Lead, who goes to a concert and by chance (or perhaps an act of God) meets a couple who named their baby after her fallen son.

To some extent these stories are possible because Israel is such a tiny country, where everyone (with some exceptions) sends their children to military or other national service. These stories, combined with something else that happened at services Friday night, got me thinking about how the practice of Judaism itself helps to create these connections.

One of the situations Judaism is particularly sensitive about is the death of a loved one. There are many customs and rituals that surround this event, and many of them create and rely on community connections. When a mourner returns home from the graveyard, he or she is not allowed to eat his or her own food. Rather, the community is expected to, and in fact bears the responsibility of, bringing food to the mourner. This not only relieves the mourner of having to think about mundane acts like grocery shopping and cooking when just walking across the room may feel like a monumental act, but it also makes sure the mourner is not alone during this critical time.

In addition, the mourner is to say the Mourner's Kaddish on a regular basis throughout the first eleven months after their loved on has died. And this prayer may only be said when there are at least ten Jews present. Again, this serves to ensure the mourner is surrounded by members of his or her community during the first year of mourning.

After the first year has passed, we say the Mourner's Kaddish for the anniversary of the loved one's death, called the Yarzheit. When worshippers come to services on Friday night they are handed a program that contains various bits of information, and on the back is a list of those in the congregation who have died recently as well as the names of those who are having their Yarzeheit.

On Friday night, I was sitting beside a couple, when another couple sat behind us. The woman next to me was looking at the Yarzheit list, and she turned to the couple behind us. She pointed at the list and said, "I see this person on the list with the same last name as you. Is this your father?"

"No," they replied, "That is our son."

"How old was he?" asked the woman.

"22."

"Oh, I didn't know."

And thus another connection was created, because when you know a couple has lost a son, an incredible tragedy in itself, and further learn the son died so young, it cannot help but create an understanding, a bond, from the acknowledgement that these people have walked through the fire and have the bravery to carry on.

And it strikes me this is one of the ways Judaism seeks to connect us. Yarzheit not only serves to comfort the mourner, but its public nature gives us the opportunity to ask the questions that bind us together, like "Who was she?" "What is your favorite memory about him?" and to make the statements that bind us together, like, "I remember him" and "I miss her too."

Unseen Impacts

By Susan Esther Barnes

I’m beginning to suspect few of us, myself included, has any idea the impact our words and actions have on others. The Torah tries to give us a hint about the power of words. In the very first chapter, God creates the world by using words, as in the famous, “God said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light.”

It’s not uncommon for me to think about words and their impact. I try to write things in way that will, as accurately as I can, communicate how I see things as well as how I feel about them. I feel best about my writing when I feel it packs a punch, leaving the reader with something to think about after they have finished reading.

A couple of weeks ago a friend was struggling because she felt she was failing to get others to see the importance of something very dear to her. She said she felt she wasn’t communicating to others about it in a powerful enough way, and she was contemplating using more powerful language, but she didn’t want to be hurtful. I told her it’s possible to use words powerfully without being hurtful.

Often it seems being powerful and hurtful is much easier than being powerful and constructive. And yet, there are times when we say or do powerfully constructive things without even realizing it. For example, two and a half years ago, a woman introduced me as, “My friend Susan.” She said it as if it were no big deal, and to her it probably wasn’t one. She had no way to know it was the first time I’d heard those words in 20 years, so she had no idea how powerful those words were to me.

Earlier this year a woman said to me, “I value your friendship.” I thought, “You value my friendship? Don’t you mean it the other way around?” I had been so wrapped up in how cool it was to have a bunch of friends around me, it hadn’t occurred to me it might work both ways. She didn’t know what a revelation it was for me to consider someone might view my friendship as a valuable thing to have.

Yesterday, I received an email from someone who said, “Thanks for being a good friend.” It made me feel great, but I was surprised. Sure, I think of him as a friend, but I have no idea why he thinks of me as a good friend. We don’t have dinner together; we don’t go to the movies or other outings together. I don’t even know when his birthday is. Aren’t those things all part of being a good friend? Obviously, I must have said or done something in the past that makes him feel this way about me. And clearly, at the time I had no idea the impact I had on him, just as he has no idea the impact his words, “Thank you for being a good friend” had on me.

Just before we say the Amidah, the central prayer of each prayer service, we say, “Adonai, open my lips so my mouth may declare your glory.” Rabbi Noa says we start with this prayer because we want the prayers that follow to come out right. Often, when I say those words I’m not thinking about the prayers coming up. Instead, I’m asking God to help me, throughout the week, to say and write things which will have a positive impact on others. Sometimes I know I’ve succeeded. Sometimes I think I’ve succeeded when I haven’t. And sometimes, I’m discovering, I succeed without even knowing it.

Remembering Grandma

By Susan Esther Barnes

This week I finished taking a class series on walking people through the process of dying, as well as visiting people in mourning. On the last night of class, Rabbi Lezak asked us to tell stories of a time when either someone visited us while we were in mourning, or a time when we visited a mourner.

The first thing I thought was I’ve never received a visit while I was in mourning. We come from a small family, and both my grandfathers died before I was born. The only family members who have died in my lifetime were my two grandmothers and my two Great Uncles. In no case did anyone come to our house to comfort us after their deaths.

The next thing I thought about was how, after my father’s mother’s funeral, we gathered for lunch at the apartment she had shared with her brother, my Great Uncle Mitch. At some point during lunch my father’s wife Sonia said, “One story I remember about Pearl is – “ but Uncle Mitch cut her off. He would not permit anyone to talk about Grandma. I don’t remember anyone in my family talking about Grandma after that day. Whenever I think about that lunch, I feel like I was cheated. How many stories about Grandma would I have heard if Uncle Mitch had let us talk about her? What would I have learned about her that I will never know?

Last summer, I said the Mourner’s Kaddish for the 25th anniversary of Grandma’s death. As far as I know, it was the first time anyone had said Kaddish for her since her funeral. She was too strong a force in this world to be forgotten easily. She is still a positive force in my life. So although I can’t go back to that lunch to try to convince Uncle Mitch to let us speak, here are the stories I want to preserve about her.

Grandma was about five feet tall, in her 80’s, and bent over from osteoporosis. Her whole body shook all the time, like Katherine Hepburn’s does now. When I asked her why she shook like that, she told me a rat suddenly jumped out at her when she was a girl, and it scared her so badly she’d never been able to stop shaking.

Anyone who knew Grandma would immediately know her rat story was a complete fabrication. She might look small and frail, but she was a warrior. She was a woman of action. Nobody would believe something as insignificant as a rat would scare her for long. When she was living in Hungary and Hitler was rising to power, she went to see him speak so she could size him up for herself. She didn’t know German, but what she saw and heard alarmed her. Rather than cowering in fear, she gathered up her husband and son (my father), and got the heck out of Dodge. They would not be among the six million killed.

Grandma was the embodiment of unconditional love. She was a refuge and a protector. That doesn’t mean she never got mad at us. When my sister and I got into trouble, boy, would we know it. Just the look on her face would make the bravest person back off fast. No sane person would ever cross her twice.

She taught me that when it comes for sticking up for what is right, size doesn’t matter. She regularly walked to the Opportunity Shop in her neighborhood, where she volunteered raising money for Israel. She never learned to drive, but she lived in San Francisco, knew all the Muni routes, and had no trouble getting wherever she wanted to go. When she got on a bus and found all the seats were taken, she would stand in the middle of the aisle, look down the length of the bus, and announce in a loud voice hardly impeded by her small shaking body, “As a rule, it used to be that when an old lady got on the bus, a gentleman would give her his seat!” Immediately, a half dozen shame-faced people would leap to their feet and offer her their place. Some of them were so embarrassed they never sat down again even after they realized they could. My sister and I got some good seats this way.

Aside from her unconditional love, the best gift Grandma gave me was a sense of connection to my Jewish heritage. Although we grew up in a secular home, Grandma consistently made sure to write “Happy Hanukah” on the presents we unwrapped at Christmas. She had a hanukiah in her living room year round, and a Jewish calendar in the kitchen. If we wanted a snack, in her home matzo was always available. These may seem like small things, but as I was growing up, whenever I heard someone say the only way to get to Heaven was though Jesus I knew it wasn’t true because Grandma wasn’t Christian and there was no way a fair and decent God would, for even a moment, consider keeping her out.

So this is how I remember Grandma. Every year, from now on, I will be saying Kaddish for the anniversary of her death. And from time to time I will wear something that has Tweetie Bird on it. Because, like Grandma, to the uninitiated Tweetie Bird may appear to be small and helpless, but anyone who knows anything knows Tweetie, like Grandma, is well capable of taking care of himself.

For Pearl Singer, may her memory be a blessing.