Homing Pigeon

By Susan Esther Barnes

This morning, as I was getting ready for work, I could feel that my blood pressure was significantly higher than normal. I know high blood pressure is called the “silent killer” because most people can’t feel it, but I can. One day I expect to write a post about how feeling God’s presence is like feeling your blood pressure. You can learn to sense it once you discover what to pay attention to.

I took one of my cats to the vet last week because of an inconvenient but non-emergency issue that arose. They did an exam and sent some samples to the lab. Today, I had to take him back so they could do some more lab work and take an X-ray. I’m worried about the cat.

Also, Thursday before last, I went to seek some medical advice for myself due to something unusual I noticed, and I ended up getting an unscheduled mammogram. At first the nurse practitioner said she’d call me that afternoon with the results. Then, after the mammogram lady looked at that day’s images, she said they were going to order copies of the images from my mammogram from last year to compare, and it would take three or four days before they got back to me.

After a week I still hadn’t heard anything, so I sent an email asking what was up (I made the appointment online so I didn’t have the phone number). The next day I got an email back saying they don’t know, but they’d call me back that afternoon. Monday I sent another email. As of Monday night I still hadn’t heard anything. So, yeah, my blood pressure was high.

This morning I was in the car, driving the vociferously unhappy cat to the vet, knowing he’s got something wrong with him but not being sure whether or not they’ll have an effective way to treat it, while at the same time wondering whether I have breast cancer, and whether the delay in getting the results to me is giving it extra time to grow and/or spread. I know I tend to over-react to this sort of thing, but that’s where my head was.

I exited the freeway, and suddenly realized I had gone one exit too far, mistakenly taking the exit to the synagogue, not the exit for the vet. Even with the cat crying in his carrier in the seat beside me, like a homing pigeon I had subconsciously headed to a place of comfort rather than my intended destination.

I very much wanted to drive to the synagogue and go sit in the quiet sanctuary, soaking up God’s presence and the serenity and strength of community permeating that special room. Just ten or fifteen minutes could have done wonders.

I’m pretty sure the cat wouldn’t have appreciated that, though, so I turned left and headed down the road to the vet. I then turned on some cheery music in the car as I drove to work, where I settled in to wait for results for both of us.

Then I decided, “screw that,” and I dug around online until I found a phone number for the medical office I’d been to and I talked to a nurse, who looked at my results. She said the mammogram looked "pretty normal" and they recommend a regularly scheduled follow-up mammogram in two years, which is what I believe they recommend for every woman my age. She says they mailed me a letter with the good news yesterday.

I’m still going to take those ten or fifteen minutes in the sanctuary later on this week, though. As a wise person once said, if you only hang out with God when you’re worried about something or want something, what kind of relationship is that? Certainly not one fit for a homing pigeon.

Changing Plans

By Susan Esther Barnes

While browsing the web on Friday, I made a comment on Minnesota Mamaleh's blog about what I was looking forward to doing on Shabbat.

My father taught me better than this. You never say, “I’m going to do such and such.” You always say, “I hope to,” or “I’m planning to,” or someplace you insert, “God willing.” For me this is not a superstition. It’s an acknowledgment that we can make all the plans we want, but God may have different plans for us, and in the end, it’s God’s plan that comes to fruition.

Last Saturday my husband and I went to see his folks in Oregon, and the previous two Shabbats I was in Israel, so this, I assumed, would be the first Shabbat in about a month on which I would be able to follow my normal routine: Services on Friday night, Torah study on Saturday morning, Saturday morning services, and a nap in the afternoon. After all, I had nothing else planned. What could possibly go wrong?

On the third Friday of the month during the summer, our synagogue holds Friday night services outdoors at a nearby state park. It’s a beautiful place, with plenty of grass to sit on and a gorgeous view of the San Francisco Bay.

So there I was, standing at the parking lot entrance, greeting congregants as they arrived, when a particular couple drove up. We have a mutual friend, Rose, who at 93 was diagnosed with cancer. I was able to visit Rose in the hospital a couple of times before I left on my trip.

She seemed to be doing quite well. In fact, on my last visit she was telling me she’d only been walking from her bed to the restroom, but she didn’t think that was enough exercise, so she was going to try to talk the nurses into taking her on a walk down the hall. The staff was working on plans to discharge her to a convalescent hospital.

Now that I was back, I wanted to visit Rose again, so I asked this couple where she was. They answered my question, but they told me Rose had stopped eating and had been moved to hospice. It’s funny how people are able to convey what they mean without coming out and saying it. What they were telling me was Rose is dying, it may not be long now, and if I wanted to see her I’d better do it soon.

As if that weren’t convincing enough, at home I had a voice mail message from another friend, telling me Rose specifically asked for me to come see her, implying that it should be soon.

So instead of going to Torah study on Saturday morning, I called the place where Rose is and asked if I could come see her. “Come on over in about an hour,” they said, “She’s up and showering, and she’ll be having breakfast soon.”

Showering? Breakfast? Does this sound like someone who has stopped eating and is going to die in the next few days? What was I supposed to make of that?

Of course there was nothing for it but to go on over and see for myself. And there she was, talking on the phone, as lucid as ever. But beside her bed was a full tray of food, along with an array of cups and glasses filled with various liquids she clearly wasn’t drinking.

So we talked. I tried to make plenty of space to let her talk about whatever she wanted. She told me about her two children who had died, and how she keeps thinking about what it was like for her and for them when that happened. She talked about her son who is still living, and her hopes for him.

She told me about how, before her husband’s death, as a rabbi’s wife she used to greet people at the synagogue, and how I do that now.

We talked about our first memories of each other. I reminded her that back when I attended my first class at the synagogue because I knew nobody and wanted to meet some friends, she was the first person I met. I tried to let her know how much it meant to me when she was the first person to introduce me to someone as her friend.

I told her I love her, and I will miss her. She told me her children are always with her, and she will always be with me.

I was there for an hour and a half. Mostly we talked. For short periods of time we were silent, and that was okay too. Some moments we smiled and laughed, and at some moments tears graced my cheeks. It wasn’t nearly enough time, but the rabbis tell us not to stay too long when we visit the sick, so I left, and said a prayer for her.

I sat in services this morning, but for the most part I couldn’t say the prayers. I just let the tears come down as they would. I didn’t feel sad exactly; I just felt like crying. A part of me kept paraphrasing the line from the Monty Python movie, scolding, “She’s not dead yet,” implying it was not yet time to cry. But grief takes its own course in its own time; only a fool tries to divert it.

Perhaps I will see Rose again. Perhaps I will speak with her on the phone. Maybe both; maybe neither. It’s hard not knowing, but it’s the way it’s supposed to be. I am grateful Rose has this time to see her friends and family and to say goodbye. I am grateful I had this time with her.

It’s funny how often God’s plans are better than mine.

A Reform Jew Discussed on an Orthodox Blog Reflects

By Susan Esther Barnes

On Thursday last week I was browsing a few blog posts I came across on JRants, and I chose to make a comment on a post on an Orthodox Jewish blog that said some things about Reform Judaism about which I disagreed. The author responded, I made a clarification and an additional comment, and suddenly things took a turn for the surreal when he declared me to be “an amazing human being” and stated his intention to write a post inspired by me.

True to his word, the next day he published a post titled, “Susan.” I have to say, I was a little apprehensive about reading the post. In our prejudice, we in the Reform community sometimes expect contempt from the Orthodox, but this was not the case. The post and the many comments after it were all gracious and respectful.

It starts, “From tragedy there is sometimes greatness. The tragedy is intermarriage. The greatness is that it produced a person like Susan.”

At first, I was flattered. After only a brief online exchange, he had concluded that I am amazing and great. Pretty cool. It wasn’t until that evening that I realized what a backhanded compliment it was. After all, in these same three sentences he did manage to say that the marriage of my father to my mother was a tragedy. It eventually occurred to me that one might take this as an insult.

I realized this potential insult had no emotional impact on me not only because the blog’s author clearly didn’t intend to insult me, but because his assertion that intermarriage is a tragedy is one I automatically dismiss as simply a difference of opinion. If I were to list the largest tragedies to befall the Jewish people over the last 100 years, intermarriage would not even be in the running.

I suspect part of this comes from our different experiences of intermarriage. If an Orthodox Jew marries a non-Jew, it is a tragedy. It becomes a tragedy because the Orthodox Jew is shunned by his or her community. If the Jew who intermarries is a man, his daughter is not considered to be Jewish, even if, as the author states in his blog, she goes to synagogue every week. Thus, the number of Jews is diminished and sincere people who want to be part of the Jewish community are rejected.

On the other hand, if a Reform Jew intermarries, he or she may remain part of the Jewish community, and his or her children, if raised as Jews, are also considered to be Jews. Thus, there is no tragedy.

The author assumes on his blog that the reason Reform Jews decided to welcome as Jewish children of patrilinial descent was “to stop the hemorrhaging.” It does not seem to occur to him that it was done out of compassion, out of righteousness, out of the recognition that it is wrong to cast someone out because they fell in love with the “wrong” person or through an accident of birth.

There is an assumption among the Orthodox that any Jew who marries outside the faith is lost to Judaism. In my experience, the opposite is true. We have many committed Jewish families in which one parent is Jewish and their children are Jewish. I even know several couples in which the non-Jewish spouse eventually converted to Judaism. It is a blessing, not a tragedy.

I then came to suspect that the author’s expression of admiration toward me, and his invitation to me to explore Orthodoxy, were not actually flattering at all. What he seems to appreciate about me is my sincerity about Judaism and my desire to follow mitzvot (commandments). I suspect he is inspired by me because he thinks that, surrounded by the secular and the uncommitted, I have somehow found a desire to be serious and to commit.

So here is the thing I suspect some Orthodox Jews may find hard to believe, but it is true. Reform Judaism is not “Judaism Lite.” Yes, there are many unaffiliated secular Jews. I would suggest they are unaffiliated, not Reform. There are also many affiliated Jews who would not call themselves religious, and who only go to synagogue on Yom Kippur. There are Jews who intermarry. Reform Judaism holds the door open to all of these people, and encourages them to find a deeper spiritual path.

But among the backbone of the Reform Jewish community, I am neither the most committed nor am I unique. Reform Judaism provides a deep, meaningful Jewish experience, including meaningful prayer, serious study, and the observance of mitzvot. Without this, there would not be enough money to support the many Reform congregations in this country. Without this, nobody in their right mind would want to become a member of the Reform clergy.

In his blog, the author suggests I convert to Orthodoxy so I can be acknowledged as Jewish by all Jews, rather than just a subset of Jews. He correctly surmises that I would like to be recognized as Jewish by everyone.

What he does not seem to realize is that recognition as a Jew is not what motivates me. What has motivated me, ever since I first heard the word “God” as a child, is the desire to have a close relationship with God. As a Reform Jew, I have exactly that. As an Orthodox Jew I would not, because the Orthodox hold several important beliefs with which I strongly disagree. As an Orthodox Jew I would need to do things I believe to be morally wrong, and as such I would be distancing myself from God.

So the Orthodox follow one set of rules, and the Reform Jews follow another. Who is right? It reminds me of a story about the House of Shammai and the House of Hillel, two Jewish houses of learning which often disagreed with each other on points of law. In this story, they appeal to Heaven to tell them which one is right. The answer is that the House of Shammai is right and the House of Hillel is also right.

How can this be? I suggest that the path is not the same for everyone. If Orthodoxy brings you closer to God, it is right for you. If Orthodoxy doesn’t work for you but Reform Judaism brings you closer to God, then that is where you should be. If you’re not religious or some other religion works for you, go for it. None of us holds ultimate truth in our pocket. The best we can do is to sincerely explore what we believe to be right, and to courageously follow our convictions.

As we sang on Shabbat evening after services at a gathering in a congregant’s home as I was pondering all this,

Kol ha-olam kulo gesher tzar m’od
V’ha-ikkar lo l’faheid k’lal

The whole world is a narrow bridge
And the essential thing is not to fear at all

The Binder

Enough time has passed since I wrote the following piece that I'm certain nobody can figure out who the boy in the story is. Extra credit question: To what, or whom, does the title refer?
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By Susan Esther Barnes

There was a period of time last year when I repeatedly asked God, “What do you want me to do?” and the answer I kept getting was, “Pay attention.” I kept trying to pay attention, but it seemed God might never give me the answer to my question. It took a while, but eventually it dawned on me that God wasn’t saying, “If you pay attention, I will tell you what I want you to do.” Rather, God was saying, “What I want you to do is to pay attention.”


Yesterday morning I was greeting people at the synagogue entrance when Rabbi Lezak asked if I was planning to stay for services. I told him I was, and he said, “There are a lot of boys here today. They are very excited…” I responded, “Maybe I should sit behind them, and if they make trouble, I should smack them on the back of the head?” He just smiled and walked into the sanctuary.

Often, when a lot of kids come for a Bar Mitzvah, they sit toward the back of the sanctuary. For some reason, these kids chose to sit in the front, to one side. Consequently, I couldn’t sit behind them, but I was able to find a chair beside them, in a place where I wouldn’t normally sit.

When I looked for a prayer book, I noticed a thin binder sitting in the seat back in front of me. Sometimes classes or meetings are held in the sanctuary, so I assumed the binder contained notes someone had left there earlier in the week. But something about the binder was bugging me, so I picked it up and turned it over. On the front was a label with someone’s name, and some doodles. I thought, “Yes, I was right, it’s some kid’s class notes,” and I put the binder back.

Then, I suddenly thought, “That name sounds vaguely familiar…Is it the name of the kid having the Bar Mitzvah right now?” A part of my mind told me, “Stop with the binder already. You’re supposed to be praying,” but I just couldn’t let the thought go. I gave into my compulsion and picked up the binder again. This time I opened it. Inside I found some handwritten pages, and in the pocket on the left was a typewritten sheet headed by the word, “Drash.”

“Okay,” I thought, this is the Bar Mitzvah boy’s binder, but maybe this is just an extra copy of his Drash.” I thought about waiting to see whether he needed the binder, and running up with it if he did, but as I pictured him standing there and starting to panic if he thought it was lost, waiting didn’t seem like the best option. By this point, the Bar Mitzvah boy was starting to walk the Torah through the congregation, so I took the opportunity to take the binder up to the front of the sanctuary, where I handed it to Rabbi Lezak, saying, “In case he needs this.”

When the Bar Mitzvah boy returned to the bimah, he set down the Torah, looked around, and then turned to his parents, making a gesture that looked like he was holding up a binder. Just as he was starting to look concerned, Rabbi Lezak handed him the binder. He looked relieved, opened the binder, took out his Drash, and began to read.

Maybe the boy won’t remember this small event, since everything turned out fine. But maybe, somewhere in his subconscious, there is the thought, “On one of the most important days of my life, when for a moment it looked like everything was about to go horribly wrong, the rabbi stepped in and saved the day.” Down the road, where might a thought like that lead? God only knows.

A Zero Sum Game

By Susan Esther Barnes

I remember, when I was a teen and I felt like my life was a mess, I thought that somehow each of is allotted only a certain amount of happiness in life, and that if we are happier in part of our life, we’ll necessarily be less happy in another part. So I remember making a deal with God, saying, “Ok, things suck right now. Go ahead and let the first part of my life be awful, because I know later on it’ll all balance out, and I’d rather be unhappy now and happy when I’m old, than the other way around.”

Over the last several years, as I experienced large changes in my life and everything seemed to be getting exponentially better, I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Things can’t really stay this good for long,” I thought, but then I’d also think, “On the other hand, most likely I’m in the second half of my life now, so maybe now I finally get to enjoy all the happiness I ‘paid’ for in my youth.”

During services this morning, I kept thinking about the man who recently told me he’s looking for a good way to kill himself. I kept thinking, “My life is so good right now, in so many ways, and his isn’t. If only I could take some part of my happiness and give it to him. I have more than I need; it would be worth it to have a little less if it would help him.”

Then suddenly it dawned on me: That isn’t the way happiness works. The more good feelings and caring I have shared with others over the last few years, the more happiness and caring has flowed back to me. It’s like throwing a little yeast into dough. Sprinkle some around, and before you know it, it starts expanding. When I try to give this distressed man some of my caring and happiness, I don’t have less. I have more. For the first time in my life I finally understand it’s not a zero sum game.