Discovering Meaning in Ritual

By Susan Esther Barnes

Often, when I hear people say they are not religious, or they want to explain why they don’t come to services more often, they say they’re not interested in meaningless ritual. That sentiment is certainly something we have in common! What is implied, however, is that they find most, if not all, ritual to be meaningless. I would argue this is a misconception.

Ritual is so much a part of our lives, it’s easy not to recognize it for what it is. Ritual, and its inherent meaning, is more easily recognized when it stops, because that is when you miss it.

For example, I’m one of those people who can’t sleep through the night without having to get up at least once or twice. When my husband and I were first married, every time I crawled back into bed I would find a piece of him – a hand, his head, whatever – sticking out from under the covers, and kiss it.

Then came one very cold night. When I got back into bed, I saw he had the covers pulled up over his head. There was no skin sticking out anywhere at all. I didn’t want to lift the covers off of him to find a place to kiss, because I didn’t want the cold air to rush in and wake him up. “He’s asleep anyway,” I thought, “It’s not like he’s even aware I’ve been doing this.” So I lay down to go to sleep.

Suddenly, I heard a drowsy voice beside me saying, “What, no kiss?” To my surprise, even though he had never mentioned it, he had been aware of the ritual, and he missed it the first time it didn’t happen.

Similarly, most people in the US are used to receiving a cake on their birthday, as well as a chorus of people singing, “Happy Birthday to You.” If, for some reason, this doesn’t happen, most of us would feel disappointed, let down, almost as if the birthday hadn’t really happened.

This is because ritual is meaningful to us. It connects our present to our past, and to other generations. We are hard wired for it. If we don’t have enough rituals in our lives, we will invent some, whether it’s pizza every Wednesday night, or a stop by Starbucks in the morning, or whatever fits the bill.

TV producers picked up on the importance of ritual long ago, and they have never forgotten the lesson. Carol Burnett ended all of her shows by singing, “I’m so Glad We Had This Time Together.” What would the show “Good Times” have been without Jimmie Walker saying, “Kid Dy-no-mite!” or what would happen if the creators of “Survivor” suddenly decided not to snuff out a torch every time a person is voted off the island?

These actions are rituals. On the surface, they may appear to be meaningless, but we know they are not, because we would feel a sense of incompleteness, almost a sense of being cheated, if they were omitted.

Who could have predicted that a particular song, or phrase, or a snuffed torch, could become important to us? We couldn’t know for sure in advance. The first time we experienced each of these things, for most of us, they felt like no big deal. It is only through repetition and familiarity that they grew in importance and gained in meaning.

And so it is with religious ritual. It makes no sense for someone to light Shabbat candles just once and then say, “Well, that did nothing for me, so I won’t ever do it again.” It is only by repeating a ritual multiple times, giving it a chance to sink in and become a part of our lives, that we can start to discover what meaning, if any, it may have for us.

We were told on Mount Sinai, as recorded in the Torah in Sh’mot 24:7, “na’aseh v’nishma” – “We will do and we will understand.” It is the doing that comes first; the understanding doesn’t come until later. When contemplating a ritual that is new to me, I need to see how it fits, through repetition over time, before I can even begin to decide whether it is something that will have meaning for me.

After all, the first several times you try almost anything new, it’s hard not to feel self conscious and awkward. It takes time and repetition before you can relax and actually experience a new thing in its own right without having these kinds of other feelings get in the way.

And while having cake on my birthday is delicious, and seeing a torch snuffed gives me a certain sense of finality, it is only religious ritual which brings me a sense of closeness to God and to something bigger, and more universal, than I get with those secular rituals.

No, I am not interested in the least in meaningless ritual. To the contrary, since I know I’m going to have ritual in my life one way or the other, I want to find the most meaningful rituals I can. That is why I am willing to put in the time and effort to repeat new religious rituals over time, in order to discover what depth of meaning they may hold for me.

It's Good to be Alive

By Susan Esther Barnes
with art by Laurie at Urchinator

Last night was the first Friday of the month, which means our synagogue held its monthy free congregatinal dinner after services. Everyone is invited.

We've been having these dinners for a few years now, and up until last night nothing even remotely threatening had ever revealed itself to me at any of them. So I had grown atypically unwary by the time I was ready to help myself to a big plate of pasta primavera. Just before I sat down, an aquaintance said to me, "The pasta is great! I think there's salmon in it."

I had noticed something reddish in the pasta, but I had assumed it was bell pepper. I leaned in a little closer, and sure enough, among the bow ties and peas and such, there were little bits of flaky pink things that looked suspiciously like salmon.

Of course, that is no big deal to the lox and bagel set. But it's something else entirely for someone like me with an allergy bad enough so the last time I tasted rice from the fork of someone who had been eating salmon, it caused my throat to swell to the point it was difficult to swallow.

It seems God must have been watching over me for me to be lucky enough to have someone inadvertently warn me about the salmon in such a timely manner.

Had I not received the warning, it's possible I would have taken one forkful and then spat it out upon recognizing the salmon taste. It wouldn't have been pretty, and I may have experienced some discomfort in my mouth and throat, but most likely I would have been fine.

But if I weren't so quick on the uptake, and I had swallowed some of it, things most likely would have gone downhill for me rather quickly. My evening could have included a dash to my car for my epinephrine injector, a ride in an ambulance, and some quality time in an ER or even the morgue.

After I got home and told my husband what had happened, he said he wished I didn't have such a severe allergy. Clearly, he wants me to stay alive a while longer. I do, too, but I can't find it in myself to wish I didn't have this allergy.

Incidents like this one remind me of how fragile life is, and make me feel grateful to be alive. This morning, when I thanked God for returning my soul to me, I said it with more emunah, or faithfulness, than I usually do.

Naturally, I started to think about what things would have been like if I hadn't received the warning and as a result I hadn't been able to make it to services this morning. I expect the clergy and my friends would have been at least startled about my crisis the night before.

Still, the bar mitzvah ceremony would have gone on. There still would have been a man standing in the aisle with a small boy in his arms while the bar mitzvah boy carried the Torah scroll through the congregation. The man still would have taken the little boy's hand and used it to gently stroke the Torah once, twice, three times.

But if I had not been there to see it, I would not have had the opportunity to tell that man how his gesture of passing love of the Torah down through the generations had made my eyes well up with tears. And he would have lost the opportunity to thank me for saying so, and to have his eyes well up with tears as we agreed what a sweet and holy moment it was.

So, yes, it is good to be alive, and it is good sometimes to be reminded of just how good it is.

Is the US About to Get a Taste of Jerusalem?

By Susan Esther Barnes

Thanks to the commenters at TCJewfolk, I was clued in to a nifty concept: Is the United States about to get a taste of what it’s like to live in Jerusalem this weekend?

One of the most lasting impressions of the City of Jerusalem on Shabbat is how the city transforms itself. Many people work Sunday through Thursday, so they are off on Friday and are free to do their last-minute shopping and cooking for Friday night’s festive meal.

Starting in the afternoon, businesses begin to close. As more and more shoppers and workers arrive at home, there are fewer and fewer cars on the road. By late afternoon, the normally bustling streets become empty thoroughfares, with only an occasional vehicle passing by.


As the city slows down, everything is more quiet. It’s easier to relax, to notice the plants and the flowers. A neighborly feeling emerges as couples and groups of people stroll toward their local synagogue for evening services.

On Saturday, many of the shops and restaurants are still closed. Younger kids play in local parks, older children visit with their families, parents relax.

Finally, on Saturday night, the sun sets, the cars and people emerge, and the city becomes a bustling place once again.

This year, Christmas Eve falls on Erev Shabbat, and Christmas Day falls on the day of Shabbat. This year, many Jews and non-Jews will have Friday off to prepare for the festive meal on Friday night. Others will leave work on Friday afternoon, and many stores and businesses will close early.

This year, many of those stores and restaurants will also be closed on Shabbat, for Christmas. Christians and secular Americans will be at home, unwrapping presents and enjoying time with their families. There will be few cars on the road. It will be easier to hear the birds and the wind in the trees.

Perhaps, after lunch with their families, a neighborly feeling will emerge as Jewish and non-Jewish families meet in local parks, and take a break from their normally bustling lives.

I miss Israel, and most especially I miss Jerusalem. I hope that this year, maybe a taste of Jerusalem will visit us here.

Orthodox Jews in Space – The Real Questions

By Susan Esther Barnes

Recently I wrote a critique of a novella that purported to be about Orthodox Jews who go into space in an attempt to find and populate another planet. Unfortunately, the novella appeared to have been written and edited by people who know very little about Jews in general, let alone the Orthodox.

Since that time, I have continued to wonder, if Orthodox Jews actually went on a long journey in outer space, what kinds of issues would they need to address?

One thing I mentioned in my other post is the issue of whether there would be any maintenance or other work that would be required on Shabbat, since normally no work is allowed on Shabbat. As one person pointed out to me, perhaps the concept of pikuach nefesh would apply. The Talmud says that certain laws, including those concerning Shabbat, may be broken in order to save a life. Therefore, one might think that if neglecting to do certain work on Shabbat would result in the death of one of more people on the space ship, that work would be permitted.

However, it is my understanding that pikuach nefesh only applies when the specific individual who would die has been identified. For example, if you see a person drowning on Shabbat, it is permissible to do things to save that person that would otherwise be forbidden, such as using a motor boat to reach them, using a phone to call for help, etc.

In a space ship, if, for example, an air filter breaks down on Shabbat and some people might die if weren’t replaced before the conclusion of Shabbat, but it is unknown which people might die from it, there might be some question regarding whether this work is permitted (no specific individual whose life is at risk has been identified).

On the other hand, if it is a person’s profession to save lives (such as a doctor or fire fighter), that person is allowed to work on Shabbat. So perhaps it would be determined that anyone who maintains or repairs life support systems would fall into this category.

Clearly, this is one of the kinds of issues the Orthodox Jewish inhabitants of a space ship would be wise to anticipate and come to an agreement on before embarking on their trip.

Another Shabbat issue, which appears to be more easily solved, revolves around the prohibition against carrying things outside one’s home or community on Shabbat. In some areas where a lot of Orthodox Jews live, they use an eruv, or enclosure, around their community. This allows, for example, a person to carry a house key with them to synagogue. I would think it would be easy to declare the space ship’s hull as an eruv, thereby allowing all of the space ship’s inhabitants to carry items throughout the ship on Shabbat.

Whether they would actually want to do so, however, is an interesting question. If they can carry anything anywhere on the ship at any time, then when their descendants finally reach their destination, those descendants will have never experienced the prohibition against carrying on Shabbat, and may even have forgotten all about it. It seems highly possible that they, then, would be at risk of carrying things on Shabbat on their destination planet. Therefore, I can see this, too, as being an interesting topic of discussion before the ship leaves.

One issue this all leads up to is the question of sacred time. For Jews, one day of each week, namely Shabbat, is separate in time and holiness from the other six days of the week. Shabbat starts at sundown on Friday and continues until three stars are visible in the sky on Saturday night. In a space ship, there is no sundown, nor an appearance of the first three stars, to mark the beginning and the end of Shabbat.

In addition, certain other holy days (or holidays) are set aside in time as well. These days are fixed according to a lunar/solar calendar, meaning they are set based on the phase of the moon, with adjustments made in order to ensure that they don’t drift from one season to another. For instance, Pesach is always observed in the spring, and Yom Kippur is always observed in the fall. With no lunar or seasonal cycles, how should these days be set in the space ship’s calendar?

One possible option that might be considered would be to tie the ship’s calendar to the earth’s calendar. The ship’s clocks and calendar could be synchronized to a specific place on earth, such as the country where most of the ship’s original passengers came from, or with Jerusalem, for instance.

However, that would be harder to do than it sounds. Anyone who reads a fair amount of science fiction likely is familiar with the concept of how time changes with speed. Many stories have been written about people who make a journey that appears to be only a short amount of time to them, but when they return home they find many more years have passed at home.

Therefore, if a space ship tried to synchronize its time with a spot on Earth, as the ship moved faster and faster, the ship’s days and hours would get shorter and shorter. I don’t imagine a ship full of Jews being content with observing a two-hour-long Shabbat every 14 hours. That really isn’t enough time to get in all the traditional prayers, let alone to have enough time in between Shabbats to appreciate the break from work.

Even if the space farers came up with a satisfactory way to establish the correct time to observe Shabbat and the other holidays when en route, once they reached their destination planet, they would have to examine all these questions of time and calendar once again.

The length of the days, the years, and the seasons on the new planet, and whether or not it has more than one sun or more than one moon, will present a new host of questions to be answered by everyone concerned with establishing the correct placement of Shabbat and the holidays in time.

These are all questions that I think could be incorporated into a very interesting story about what might actually happen if Orthodox (or other observant) Jews endeavored to take a long journey in space to find and populate other planets.

The Man and the Food Barrels

By Susan Esther Barnes

On Erev Shabbat I was standing by the closed sanctuary doors. Inside, the congregation was singing Lecha Dodi to welcome the Sabbath Bride.

Opposite the sanctuary doors, near the main synagogue doors, there are two food barrels: One for the county food bank and one for a Jewish food pantry. I saw a man leaning over a backpack by the food barrels, a box of graham crackers at his feet.

At first I thought he was trying to extricate some items he had brought to put into the barrels. Soon, however, it became apparent that he was taking food out of the barrels and placing it into his backpack.

I considered going over to him to say something, but I thought, "How badly does he need the food to be doing that right in front of me?"

I knew if I said something to him, he would be embarrassed. Our tradition teaches us that if we cause someone to blush - if we make blood rise to their cheeks in shame - it is as bad as if we had shed that blood.

I thought about the people who had put the food into the barrels, trusting it would go to the food bank or pantry, to be distributed to those in need. By saying nothing to this man, was I betraying their trust? Or would they be glad to know their donation went to someone in our community with an immediate need?

As all these thoughts tumbled through my head, I turned my back to the man, to give him some sense of privacy. Clearly, staring at him wouldn't help anyone.

He finished gathering the items he had chosen, picked up his backpack, and left without either of us uttering a word. I wish now that I had said something kind to him, if only, "I wish you well."

As he made his way out into the cold world with its overcast sky threatening the rain that soon would begin to fall, the congregation reached the last verse of Lecha Dodi. I opened the sanctuary doors, and the Sabbath Bride rushed in to greet those inside, even as she reached out in the opposite direction, out through the synagogue doors, so seek out others in need.

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.

Fencing with the Photographer

By Susan Esther Barnes

I’m sitting in services, listening to the guest cantor singing a melody with which I’m unfamiliar. There are two girls becoming bat mitzvah today. As usual on such occasions, there are photographers in the back, outside the sanctuary, peaking through the movable partition to the social hall, preserving memories of the event for the girls and their families.

When I look up to my left, I see a man with a camera on a large tripod. He is standing inside the sanctuary, right in front of the closed main doors. How did he get there? He certainly wasn’t there when I walked in and took my seat.

The rabbi is standing at the front of the congregation, while the cantor continues to sing. I go up to the rabbi to whisper in his ear, “Do you want me to move that photographer?” He replies, “That would be good.”

I walk over to the photographer, and say, “I’m sorry, we don’t allow photos to be taken in the sanctuary during services.” There is no question in my mind that he will say, “I’m sorry,” and he will move his camera outside.

Instead, he says, “She told me I could be here.” I ask, “Who?” and he looks toward another photographer, standing in the back. I say, “I talked to the rabbi, and I’m sorry, but you will have to move outside the sanctuary.” He says, “Oh,” but his body language tells me he has no intention of going anywhere.

I stand my ground and look at him. After a moment, he gestures at the woman in the back. She starts to come forward, but I walk back to her instead. I don’t want to cause a scene inside the sanctuary in the middle of the service.

Once again I say, “I’m sorry, but we don’t allow cameras in the sanctuary.” She angrily responds, “That must be new. I’ve seen cameras in here other times.”

Now, I’ve only missed a handful of Saturday morning services in the last three or four years, and I can assure you, the only other time I’ve seen a photographer inside the sanctuary during services, the rabbi came up to me and asked me to ask him to move outside. Which he promptly did.

I don’t mention this to the woman in front of me now. I say, simply, “It’s not a new rule. I’m sorry, but he will have to move.”

I am wearing a badge with my name, the synagogue name and logo, and “Board of Directors” on it. I consider drawing her attention to the badge, but I don’t want to do that.

I love being at the synagogue. I adore the warm feeling of spirituality and community I get here, and I want to help others feel it, too. I wear the badge because it says, “If you have any questions – if you need to find the restroom or a kippah, or you want to know something about our customs here, you can ask me.” I don’t want it to say, “I’m the photography police. Respect my authority.”

The photographer gestures to the other one, still standing with his tripod and camera in front of the closed main doors. “Can we open the doors?” she asks, suggesting he can then just move his camera back a few feet and continue shooting through the open doorway.

“No,” I say, “We’re having a worship service here. We have to…” and that’s where I stop. She stares at me while I gaze back at her.

My mind casts around for the right words, but I can’t find them. How can I explain this is a holy ceremony taking place in a holy space? How can I get her to understand it is Shabbat, and the rabbi and the cantor are trying to create a special place in time, an island away from the distractions of work and school and the sights and sounds of the secular world? How can I tell her all we’re asking for is a short time to spend with nothing but the divine?

I can’t find the words. I’m not capable of conveying to her, in this moment, why the camera needs to move; why we won’t just swing open the doors for her convenience.

I repeat, “We’re having a service here. He needs to move.”

She says, “How can he take the camera outside if we can’t open the doors?” I don’t know whether she’s being sarcastic.

I give her the benefit of the doubt, and tell her I will hold the door open for him. She goes to talk with him, he picks up his things, and repositions himself elsewhere.

Perhaps it is over for them, but it is not over for me. I don’t often get angry, but I am angry now.

I’m not sure why I’m so angry. Maybe it’s because what should have been a painless one- or two-sentence transaction has turned into a needlessly lengthy ordeal.

Maybe it’s because she wasn’t respecting the sanctity of our sanctuary and the service, or the needs of the congregation. Maybe it’s because she wasn’t respecting me.

Most likely, it’s because I feel I have failed myself. Today, on Shabbat, a day which normally helps me to remember the kind of person I want to be in the world, I have not been that person.

Instead of being warm and welcoming, I have been argumentative authoritarian. I have insisted that someone obey my words without adequately expressing why doing so is in the best interest of others. I have created anger and frustration, and I feel powerless to heal it.

In this week’s Torah portion we read, “Tzedek, tzedek, tirdof,” or “Justice, justice shall you pursue.” Some say the word "justice" is repeated to remind us to pursue justice in a just way.

I don’t think I have done anything unjust. I sincerely wish I had been able to do it in a better way.

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.

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.

No Longer in Israel

By Susan Esther Barnes

Sitting at the JFK airport in New York waiting for my connecting flight to San Francisco, I hear voices speaking a language that isn't English, but it isn't Hebrew either.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a man walking toward me. Something sways near his hips, but when I glance up it is not the tzitzit I expected to see, but instead it is the arms of the sweatshirt he has tied around his waist.

I purchase a bottle of water, but the vendor does not want Shekels, she wants Dollars.

I realize the Hebrew, the tzitzit, the Shekels were not surprising or jarring when I arrived in Israel. Why, then, are their absence here so unsettling to me now?

Why in the world would I think nostalgically about the Hardei turning their back to me as I walked down the street?

The woman sitting next to me asks me, in Spanish, what time it is, and I am able to answer her in Spanish. Sadly, I would have had more trouble understanding her question and formulating the answer if we were trying to speak Hebrew. So why doesn't this exchange make me feel more at home?

Whatever led me to believe that if I just visited Israel once I would be satisfied? I don't want to live there, but I want to be there, soaking it in. I know I belong here now, in the US, and I suspect the alien feeling of my own country will fade with the jet lag.

Yet part of me will forever miss the ease I felt, walking into a restaurant or dining room without having to wonder whether the bread served with the meat might have dairy in it, violating the laws of kashrut. I will miss the mezuzah on every hotel room door and the quiet of the streets of Jerusalem on Shabbat.

It seems there will always be something here to remind me I am no longer in Israel.

Shabbat Angels

By Susan Esther Barnes

Rabbi Yosé bar-Yehudah says: on Erev Shabbat two angels accompany a person home from the synagogue: one is good and the other is bad. If he arrives home and finds candles burning, the table laid and the couch arranged [around the table] the good angel says "May it be this way next Shabbat too," and the bad angel has to respond "Amen." But if the opposite is the case it is the bad angel who says "May it be this way next Shabbat too," and the good angel has to respond "Amen."
-The Talmud

On Friday evening – Erev Shabbat – I drive straight from work to the synagogue, where I arrive about 45 minutes before services start. One of the first things I do is go into the kitchen to pick up my challah, which I put in my car.

I then turn my attention to greeting. On any evening I may help set out the food and wine, or help someone with a walker or wheelchair to find a seat, or introduce a visitor to some people so they don’t have to stand around by themselves.

Once services start, I’m usually either greeting people who are arriving late, or setting out more chairs if the sanctuary is full, or passing out bags of crayons and coloring books to the parents of small children. It’s hard to say what I’ll be doing, but I know what I won’t be doing is thinking about my work week, or the economy, or the latest celebrity gossip.

Usually by the time we get to the Amidah everyone is pretty much settled, and I have a chance to participate in the prayers. I try to keep an eye out, though, in case anyone comes in late and needs a prayer book, or in the event someone needs one of the boxes of tissues we try to keep handy.

By the time we’re ready for the Mourner’s Kaddish I’m up again, heading over to childcare to bring the kids back to the sanctuary for Kiddush. Then I head over to the doors so I can open them at the end of services and say goodbye and Shabbat shalom to people as they leave.

Every night is different. Some nights, I feel like all I’m doing before and after the praying is socializing. But sometimes I can see by the look in someone’s eye that I have helped them, and they appreciate it. More than that, I know what I’m doing makes a difference because at seemingly random moments someone I barely know will smile and rub my back or my arm, or, as on one occasion, will wordlessly lean over and kiss me on the cheek on the way out the door.

Once most of the people have left, I put my Shabbat Greeter badge back in its basket, and drive home, feeling relaxed and glowing. In the still of the Shabbat night, I kiss my mezuzah and I enter my home. As I look at my dark, empty table and put away my intact challah, an angel says, “May it be this way next Shabbat too.” And sometimes I smile and wonder: Which angel is speaking?

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

Last Night on Shabbat

By Susan Esther Barnes

Usually, as soon as Friday night services start, Jose clears away the trays, cups, and other items from the pre-oneg. But last night more people came than we expected, and with extra chairs to set up, and prayer books to find and hand out, and dinner to get ready next door, it didn’t happen.

By the time I noticed the leftovers were still out, the service was half over. I began to clear away the plates, but as I went back for a second load I realized that despite the fact it is early February, with so many people packed into the synagogue, it was too hot and stuffy inside. In ones and twos, people were getting up and helping themselves to the water that was still left out. I thought to myself, “Oh, that must be why none of us thought to clean that up earlier; people need it now.” It felt like it was no coincidence.

Then I began to wonder whether there was enough water left, so I walked over to check. Standing there was a woman who had lost her father last week. “I can’t be in there right now,” she said, motioning toward the sanctuary, “I don’t feel part of the joyous mood.” We talked a bit about how, since she had been sitting shiva, this was the first time she had been past her own driveway this week, and about how when someone close to you dies it seems that your world stops but somehow the rest of the world keeps going, and it’s hard to get back in synch with everyone else.

I asked her whether she was planning to go to the dinner after services. She said no. Instead, she planned to gather her family around her, and read aloud to them from the condolence notes and cards she had received over the past week. She explained that her family had seen who had come to pray with them as they sat shiva, and she wanted them to understand that support comes in other ways as well. It felt right.

While I was helping to clean up after dinner, I happened to stop to chat with a woman and her family. I had never met these people before. It turns out the woman was visiting from Maryland, and was going to have surgery here soon. I asked her daughter-in-law whether she had notified the synagogue about it. She said no, because “she’s just visiting.” I told her, “Perhaps, but you’re related. And you’re not just visiting.” She gave me permission to let the synagogue know, and she looked grateful that someone would think of doing that. It felt like my stopping to chat with that particular family was no coincidence.

After dinner, I went to Shabbat Unplugged, where a group of us sang with Dan Nichols. At one point, he revealed that two weeks earlier he had sung at a memorial service for a 17-year-old boy who had died. He said after the service the boy’s mother told him the service was both beautiful and horrible, and he was trying to figure out how to process that. After we sang a bit more, he told us that singing with us was helping him to heal. It felt right; it was a holy moment.

On the way home, I thought about a man I know named Angel who often says he believes the universe is unfolding the way it’s supposed to. I certainly felt that way last night. Not that it’s a surprise. It was, after all, Shabbat.