Your Questions Answered # 8

By Susan Esther Barnes

I have to say, I absolutely love some of the search terms people use to get to my blog. A lot of those search terms are questions. Because they are such great questions, I think they deserve an answer. In addition, it turns out these posts are among the most popular ones on my blog. So here is the latest installment of “Your Questions Answered.”


In Judaism, ritual where bread becomes flesh?
Great question. If you’re having trouble finding that ritual, it’s because there isn’t one. We say a blessing every time we eat bread. Translated from Hebrew, it says, “Blessed are you Adonai, ruler of the universe, who makes bread grow from the earth.” Of course, we know bread doesn’t grow directly from the earth – like many Hebrew prayers, it’s symbolic. At any rate, the bread remains bread. Anybody can eat it, whether or not they are Jewish.

We don’t turn loaves into fishes, either. We do, occasionally, turn bread into toast, but that’s not a Jewish ritual.

Similarly, we say a prayer over wine, “…creator of the fruit of the vine,” and the wine remains wine that anyone can drink. It doesn’t turn into blood or anything else.


Is it okay for Jewish people to bow to other people?
Yes. Jewish people may bow to people, but we may not bow to idols. If a person is holding an idol, or wearing a symbol of an idol on his/her clothing, a Jewish person isn’t supposed to bow to that person.


If Jews don’t believe in heaven, why lead a good life?
Some Jews believe in heaven, and some don’t. But what exists in this world, right now, is real. It matters. We lead a good life because we believe it’s important to try to make this world a better place for ourselves and for others. Many of us believe it’s what God wants from us. Many of us believe God commands us to lead a good life. Many of us just think it’s the right thing to do, and is worthwhile in its own right, whether or not we will get some other reward for it later on.


Can Jews eat pork before their bar mitzvah?
The term bar mitzvah means, “son of the commandments.” When a boy or girl reaches a certain age, he or she (whether there is a ceremony or not), becomes responsible for following the commandments. So, technically, a Jewish person could eat pork before then, and not be held responsible for it.

However, observant Jewish parents want to raise their children to follow the commandments, and not eating pork is one of the easy ones. So, they tend to start with the easy ones like not eating pork or shellfish, not murdering anyone, etc., and then help the kids to work their way up to doing the harder ones, like comforting mourners, and not gossiping.


Why is it important to study the Torah in Hebrew?
It’s absolutely true that something always gets lost in the translation. When you’re talking about Torah, a lot gets lost in the translation. As the saying goes, “Reading the Torah through a translation is like kissing someone through a towel.”

Even the names in the Torah give the text a deeper meaning. For instance, the name “Ya’acov” is usually translated in English as “Jacob.” Jacob is a twin, and when he is born, he is holding onto his twin brother’s heel. If you have only read the Torah in English, you may have forgotten that (seemingly unimportant) fact. But if you read it in Hebrew, you would be reminded about it over and over, because the name “Ya’acov” means “heel” in Hebrew. It makes you wonder, “What about holding onto his brother’s heel is so important that it became his name?” Something that may seem trivial in translation suddenly reveals itself as a central idea.

Sometimes, people make a big deal about something from the Torah, using a translation, without realizing that the translation may not be accurate. Many people are familiar with the translation, “Thou shalt not kill,” when it really says something closer to “Don’t kill someone illegally,” or “Don’t murder.” Similarly, many scholars believe the commandment not to “covet” your neighbor’s wife is probably actually saying not to “take” her. That makes much more sense in the context of the other commandments, which are all about actions – not feelings (which we can’t control, anyway).

There are many other meaningful names, word plays, and hard-to-translate words and phrases in the Torah that we might miss or that can lead us astray if we’re only reading a translation. So learning and studying in Hebrew is the best way to go.

However, if you don’t know Hebrew, don’t give up! A good Torah commentary and a good Torah study partner or group can help you to notice some of the things you may otherwise miss.



Keep those questions coming!
I would love to answer more of your questions, so feel free to ask some in the comments section below, or just keep coming here via those interesting search terms.

Why the Current Use of the Term "Torah Jew" is a Chilul Hashem

By Susan Esther Barnes

We Jews seem to have a lot of labels for ourselves these days. Reform, Conservative, Orthodox, Modern Orthodox, Chasidic, Renewal, Reconstructionist, Humanistic; the list goes on.

In some ways, the labels can be useful. If I’m visiting a synagogue for the first time, what label it gives itself can help me decide what to wear and how to behave once there. For example, in some synagogues I could probably show up in blue jeans and a t-shirt without feeling out of place. In some, I would be expected to wear at least a pair of slacks and a nice blouse. In others, I’d have to wear a long skirt, a long-sleeved blouse, and a wig or other hair covering.

Similarly, in some synagogues, I would be welcome wearing tefillin and a tallit, and in others I most certainly would not. In some, I would find women and men sitting together, and in others the men and women would sit in separate areas.

Therefore, knowing the denomination, or label, the synagogue identifies with helps me to prepare for my visit in a way that will lessen the chance that my clothing or behavior might result in an embarrassing faux pas.

On the other hand, even as the number of Jewish labels seem to be increasing, some people are rejecting such labels. Labels can be limiting. They can also lead to assumptions about the members which are not necessarily true. Some synagogues and prayer groups are using the terms “non-denominational” or “post-denominational” for themselves, although, of course, these too are labels.

One of the labels that has come to my attention in recent years is the term “Torah Jew.” My objection to this term is that currently it seems to be used only by Jews who others would most likely call Orthodox. The trouble I have with this is not that I think the Orthodox are not Torah Jews. It is clear to me that religious Orthodox Jews study and shape their actions according to their understanding of the Torah.

The problem I have with this term being applied only to Orthodox Jews is that it is equally clear to me that all other religious Jews also study and shape their actions according to their understanding of the Torah. We all read from identical copies of the same Torah scroll on Shabbat and at other services.

Applying the term “Torah Jew” to only one minority group implies they follow the Torah while the majority of religious Jews don’t. This is a falsehood, and a chilul hashem (desecration of God’s name). We may not all agree regarding how we interpret God’s intent, but we are all Torah Jews.

The 613 Commandments - Do We Follow Them?

By Susan Esther Barnes

I was reading the blog FinkorSwim when I came across a comment by MarkSoFla who said, “The fact is that the Reform exist. Not only do they exist, but they have numbers (for now, at least). So they have to be ‘dealt with’ somehow, certainly on some level. They've discarded most of Torah, so we can't relate on that level anymore.”

When I objected to his assertion that Reform Jews have discarded most of Torah, MarkSoFla agreed that had been an exaggeration, but then went on to quote from some of the “Declaration of Principles” from the 1885 Pittsburgh Platform, which he says rejected all but the moral laws. Let us set aside for the moment that he ignores all later Platforms, including the 1999 Platform which states, “We are committed to the ongoing study of the whole array of mitzvot and to the fulfillment of those that address us as individuals and as a community.” (Emphasis added by me).

What intrigued me the most was his claim that, “The bigger discarding of Torah was in the first statement (#3) that I quoted from the principles - rejected all but moral laws. That almost discards all of Torah in itself since there exists a moral code outside of Torah that covers nearly everything that the Torah's moral code covers.”

This all got me thinking about the 613 mitzvot (commandments) in the Torah. How many of them do Reform Jews keep these days? I pulled up the list from Judaism 101 to take a look.

First of all, on my To Kiss a Mezuzah Facebook page an excellent question arose: What do I mean by “keeping” the mitzvot? Does it mean we follow them all the time without fail? As a person named Michael pointed out, “When it comes to ethical mitzvot we’re a bit wobbly sometimes.” I responded, “By ‘keep’ I mean we try to follow them, or at least we acknowledge we ought to follow them, even though at times we don’t quite hit the mark we’re aiming for.”

The second thing that came up for me is the obvious fact that I don’t speak for all Reform Jews, and not all Reform Jews are alike in our observance. So instead of looking at how many of the 613 commandments “we” keep, I realized it makes much more sense to look at the ones that I keep. After all, I don’t think my observance is wildly different than that of other serious Reform Jews.

Even though there are 613 commandments in the Torah, nobody observes them all. This is one of the reasons why I find it a bit offputting when Orthodox Jews claim non-Orthodox conversions are invalid, because the people converting in the non-Orthodox realm are not agreeing to follow all the 613 commandments. Hello! If Orthodox converts are saying they will fill all 613 commandments they’re either ignorant or dishonest.

There are 102 commandments on the list that have to do with sacrifices and offerings. Since there is no Temple at which to make sacrifices and offerings, none of these commandments apply to us. We also can’t follow the 24 laws about t’rumah, tithes and taxes because there is no Temple. Nobody follows these commandments these days.

There is no King of Israel so we don’t follow the 7 laws about that, nor do I need to worry about the 10 laws about the Nazarites, since I’m not a Nazarite. I am not a Kohen (Cohen or of the Priestly line) or a Levite, so I don’t have to worry about the 30 laws pertaining to them. Of course, there are Reform Jews who are of the line of the Levites (my father, for example), or the line of the Kohen. However, most of these laws have to do with the Temple as well, so we’re all off the hook.

There are 16 laws about ritual purity and impurity. These are more like statements than laws. They say things like “Foods become defiled by contact with unclean things.” I can believe in the purity or impurity of things or not, but there isn’t much for me to actually do about it. Immersion in a mikvah would remove the impurity, but nothing in the list here says I have to go to the mikvah.

There are 4 laws about leprosy. I’m not a leper. I don’t know whether I would shave off all my hair if I had leprosy. I’ll cross that bridge if I ever come to it.

So if we add up all of the above, we come to 337 commandments we don’t follow, or almost 55% of the 613. Surprise! MarkSoFla was right – Reform Jews have discarded over half of the Torah laws! Of course, so have Conservative and Orthodox Jews, and every other denomination, since everything I said above applies to all of us. (Except for maybe the leprous hair shaving part).

But let’s go back to MarkSoFla’s assertion that if we only followed the moral laws (which is a false assertion, but let’s say if we did), does that mean we have discarded most of Torah? I agree that many people who are not Jewish follow many of the laws in the Torah. Most people don’t murder other people, for instance.

There are other moral things I do that are commanded in the Torah, which appear to be things I would do even though they were not commanded. For instance, last night while I was driving home from work, I had to swerve to avoid a ladder that was lying in my lane on the freeway. It was an inconvenience to pause the podcast I was listening to so I could call 911 and report the hazard to the authorities, but I did it anyway.

Did I do it because the Torah commands us not to put a stumbling block before the blind? Did I do it because the Torah commands us not to stand idly by while a human life is in danger? No, I did it because it was the right thing to do. I did it because if I didn’t call, and later heard someone had been hurt or killed as a result of the ladder, I never would have been able to forgive myself for my laziness.

On the other hand, when I called, the ladder was news to the dispatcher. Nobody else had called it in yet. How long had it been there? How many people had seen it and swerved to miss it before me? How many of them have cell phones, and why didn’t they call? Is it possible some of them didn’t bother because they didn’t feel an obligation to do so, because they don’t feel they have been commanded like we Jews have?

I can tell you, there are certainly other moral laws I did not follow before I became more observant and before I learned more about my obligations according to the Torah. Five years ago, I never visited the sick, but I do now, on a regular basis. I never used to think of it as my responsibility to rebuke a sinner. I never used to avoid the phrase, “Oh my God!” (or the ever-present “OMG”) as a form of blasphemy.

So MarkSoFla, I’d say you were half right. We’ve all thrown out over half the laws. But I’d say many of the others, including the moral ones, are very much alive and kicking, and having their effect on our lives on a continuing basis. We can relate on the level of the Torah, and I hope more of us will do so more often.

Tefillin Barbie

By Susan Esther Barnes

Tefillin Barbie. I must say, those are two words I never would have expected to put together. Which demonstrates how behind the times I am, since Tefillin Barbie has been around since 2006.

Tefillin are leather straps with boxes at the end of them. In the boxes are verses from the Torah. They are worn during prayer. One is strapped to the head so the box is on the forehead, and the other is strapped to the arm, with the box on the hand and the leather straps wound up the arm. There’s more to it than that, such as how many times around you wrap the straps, but you get the picture.

My gut reaction when I see tefillin is “Ugh.” I don’t like them. Nobody wears them during services at the synagogue I attend. So imagine my surprise and dismay when I emailed a link for Tefillin Barbie to my rabbi, and he hinted that maybe we should start encouraging congregants to lay tefillin.

The whole idea of tefillin comes from Deuteronomy 6:8. Deuteronomy Chapter 6 starts by talking about the laws, the one-ness of God, and our love for God. Verse 8 says, “And you shall bind them as a sign on your hand, and they shall be for frontlets between your eyes.”

One of the things I like about Judaism is we often don’t take the words of Torah literally. We look beyond the literal to discover possible meanings on other levels. I was once told the reason we chant Torah rather than just read it is to make it sound like a song, to remind us that it, like a song, should not be taken it too literally.

On a figurative level, I like this verse. It can be a useful guide to our actions if we go around thinking that the commandments and our love of God are always on our hands and in front of our eyes, so no matter what we do or see, we shape our words and deeds accordingly.

The idea of people taking this verse literally and actually tying these words onto their foreheads and hands strikes me as a bit silly.

The main reason for my gut reaction against tefillin, however, is what I associate with them. Jewish law requires men to wear them for prayer; it does not require women to wear them. I have only seen them on Orthodox men, and in books that are clearly written only for men. As a result, the message I get when I see them is, “This is for us; this is not for you,” a message which plays into my issues with rejection.

When I was in Israel last summer, on the airplane and in every city we visited, there were men trying to get male tourists to try on tefillin, as part of their outreach effort to draw men into becoming more religious. These men had no interest in offering to lay tefillin with me, because I am female, and beneath their notice.

As a person who believes in egalitarianism, I have always seen tefillin as an outdated remnant of the old, sexist ways some Jews still cling to while I try to be a religious Jew in the 21st century. I have never viewed tefillin as religious objects. To me, they have always been a symbol of sexist exclusion.

Why would a woman want to wear a symbol of sexist exclusion anyway? We don’t want to adopt their outdated ways. We want to express our Judaism in ways that make sense in a modern, egalitarian world, a world which, I would venture to say, is a step closer to the World to Come than one in which one segment of society is excluded by another.

Just this past week, however, I began to read a book by and about the Women of the Wall, a group of women in Israel who have been fighting, since 1988, for the right to pray out loud, wearing tefillin and a tallit and with a Torah, at the Western Wall in Jerusalem. I had never heard anything before about women wanting to wear tefillin.

In their book, the women explain that it is not against Jewish law for women to wear tefillin. It just upsets some religious men because they’re not used to seeing it, and many therefore are ignorant of the law regarding it, so they assume it is forbidden.

The knowledge that there are some women fighting for the right to lay tefillin puts the idea into a new light for me. Why should men claim the right to do this, and try to deny it to women? Especially Orthodox men, who claim to be bound by Jewish law? Suddenly, the idea of a woman wearing tefillin feels less like women taking on a symbol of exclusion, and more like a way to reclaim something which wrongfully has been denied to us.

Coincidentally (or not), while I was reading the book on the Women of the Wall, I came across a blog post that mentioned Tefillin Barbie.

It is particularly fitting that Tefillin Barbie was created by Jen Taylor Friedman, who, according to her website, is the first woman in modern times to have written a sefer Torah (Torah scroll, which are written out painstakingly by hand and, the Orthodox would say, only by men).

When I finally had a chance to think it all through, the rabbi’s suggestion that we lay tefillin transformed in my mind from something offensive to something that, like Tefillin Barbie, may be yet another step in the struggle of women to claim our rightful place in prayer and religious practice alongside Jewish men.

Simchat Torah 5771

By Susan Esther Barnes

When I arrived at the synagogue at about 10 minutes to 6 pm, there were a few bottles of spirits, as well as some cold water, on a table near the front door. I had my first taste ever of peppermint schnapps. I suppose that’s one way to loosen people up for dancing, particularly people like me who don’t drink much or often.

A little after 6, we went into the sanctuary. Most of the chairs had been removed. There was a line of chairs along the outer wall facing in, and a couple of tables with some chairs around them in the center.

We sat down at the center tables, and studied the last couple of chapters of the Torah. It was pretty hot in the sanctuary (we don’t have any air conditioning), so we turned on a couple of large standing fans. The fans made it harder to hear each other, but the breeze they created was welcome.

Some of the “regular” Saturday morning Torah Study group was there, but there were quite a few others as well. When you’re studying Torah, you never know what’s going to come up. For instance, last Saturday we read the part in which Moses asks to see God, and God says (I’m paraphrasing here), “You can’t see my face but I’ll shield you in the crevice of a rock with my hand as I pass by, and then you can see my back.”

We were talking about why God would do it that way, when it suddenly occurred to me how well that describes what happens when we’re in distress, like Moses was after he learned he wouldn’t live long enough to make it to the Promised Land.

In times of trouble, we generally don’t see God coming, but we are shielded by God’s hand during the worst of it, and it isn’t until later that we see God receding and are able to be thankful for the strength and comfort God gave us while we were suffering the most.

At any rate, a little after 7 we concluded our study and removed the tables and chairs from the center of the room. Children and others who wouldn’t mind doing so were invited to sit on the carpet in the middle of the room, while others sat on the chairs along the walls.



We sang some songs, and then two of the Torah scrolls were removed from the ark and completely unrolled. Adults held the parchment while children were invited to come up close to get a good look at the writing.

Over the past couple of years, people from the Torah study group have participated in the “pasuk project.” A “pasuk” is a verse. As we read through the Torah, when we were struck by a particular verse, we would write down which verse it was and why it meant something special to us, and this information was then posted on the wall in the room where the Torah study group meets on Saturday mornings.

I like the project for a number of reasons. First, it helps us to personalize what we’re reading, and to show how it is relevant in our lives today. Second, the room is used for various other purposes throughout the week, and the verses on the wall remind others of the importance of the Torah and learning in everything we do at the synagogue and in our daily lives.

We also used the project in our Simchat Torah celebration this year. After the Torah scrolls were unrolled, all of us present who had picked a verse stood near that verse on one of the scrolls, and one by one we told the congregation which verse we had picked and why.



Then it was time for the dancing. While the two scrolls were rolled back up, the remaining scrolls were taken from the ark, the band started up, and the dancing began, with one Torah in the center of each group. I was happy to see a Torah being carried to those still sitting because they are not able to move around easily, so they could participate too.

Later, one of the groups danced around a number of elderly people sitting in chairs, and another group danced around the sukkah outside. I heard yet another group danced out the front doors, and may have even made it into the parking lot. During the last dance, the woman next to me exclaimed, “This is the best Simchat Torah ever!”

When the dancing was over, we gathered on the bimah (or as close to it as we could get) while the white High Holy Day mantles were removed from the Torah scrolls and replaced with the mantles they wear for most of the year. As the last Torah made its way up to the ark, on an impulse I reached out my hand to kiss it, and was pleased to see several others, both adults and children, follow my example.



On the way out, we were treated to bowls of apples for a sweet new year, and we had our last chance to stand in the small sukkah out front before it and its big brother in the back are taken down and stored away again.

As one congregant remarked on the way out, “It’s not a bad way to start the new year, is it?”

With Apologies to the Caterer

By Susan Esther Barnes

A few years ago Rabbi Lezak was trying to convince me to read “A Spiritual Life: A Jewish Feminist Journey” by Merle Feld, and I was trying to tell him I wasn’t interested in reading a feminist book and I certainly wasn’t interested in reading poetry. So he pulled his copy off the bookshelf and read me a no-nonsense poem from it called, “Mazel Tov!” I loved it; I bought the book.

The poem “Mazel Tov!” is the story of Feld at a wedding reception, telling the band leader to play traditional Jewish dance music when the bride and groom come in so the guests can lift the two of them on chairs and dance, a core tradition at Jewish weddings. But the caterer interrupts and says, for a variety of reasons, they can’t dance until after the soup. Feld says they’re going to dance anyway. The last line of the poem is, “And screw the caterer.”

I love the message this poem communicates about what is important. The meal is there to help the guests celebrate with the bride and groom. But nothing is more important than the main event, which is the wedding itself and the traditional dancing with the chairs, without which it just wouldn’t feel like a proper Jewish wedding. The food is secondary.

Still, I feel for the caterer. He or she is trying to make a living, and to some extent has a reputation riding on whether or not the soup is cold or the main course is overcooked. As anyone who has put together a Thanksgiving or Passover dinner can tell you, when serving an elaborate meal, timing is key and an unexpected glitch can throw everything off.

Of course, on this day, the happiness of the bride and groom is paramount. The rabbis even tell us that if a wedding party and a funeral procession arrive at the same intersection at the same time, the funeral procession should pause and allow the wedding party to pass first. I agree with all this, but I still wish the caterer didn’t have to feel screwed.



On Shabbat morning this week there were two girls having their bat mitzvah. Near the front door of the synagogue is a long table. The top of the table opens, and inside are hearing devices, nametags, kippot (or yarmulkes, the skullcap men, in particular, commonly wear in synagogue), and some other items. Before services this particular morning the tabletop was down, because the family of the bar mitzvah girls had provided their own baskets of kippot for the guests.

It was an overflow crowd, so the partition at the back of the sanctuary was open, allowing us to set up extra chairs, extending the congregation into the social hall. Generally when this happens I stand near the back of the extra chairs, handing out prayer books to late arrivals and answering their questions. This allows me to see pretty much everything going on, including the service itself, the congregants, and the activities of the caterer in the social hall, setting up for the lunch that follows the service.

Part way through the service, I saw the caterer and one of her helpers carrying trays with cups of wine for the kiddush toward the front door. I didn’t know why they would take the wine out there, instead of keeping it in the social hall, but I didn’t think much of it at the time.

Moments later, a man who had just arrived asked me if we had a yarmulke he could wear. I replied, “Of course,” and went to get one from the table by the front door. When I got there, I found that on top of the table were four trays, with a sign on one side saying, “wine,” and a sign on the other which read, “grape juice.”

“Oh,” I thought, "the caterer just put these here so guests who aren’t staying for lunch can still get kiddush wine (or juice) on the way out.” The problem was, the baskets of kippot from the bar mitzvah family were empty, and the synagogue’s kippot were all trapped inside the table under the trays of wine and juice. I couldn’t lift up the tabletop even a little bit to reach inside for one without risking everything sliding off the back and spilling all over the floor.

I looked around hopefully, but the other table near the front door was full of other items, including what looked like food covered in foil, so I couldn’t put the wine trays there. Years ago I worked for a restaurant company; I know one of the ten commandments of the food service industry is, “You shall never put food or drinks on the floor.” Just then, in my head I heard Rabbi Lezak’s voice saying, “Screw the caterer,” and I knew the importance of the man being able to wear a kippah outweighed the matter of a temporary displacement of the wine, so I began to move the trays onto the floor.

That’s when the caterer came around the corner. Imagine the look of horror on her face as she saw her carefully poured and artfully arranged trays of wine strewn about the floor where no consumable should ever be. I was so busted.

Immediately I apologized to her, and explained that I needed to get a kippah from inside the table. She said, “It’s a little late, isn’t it?” and I nodded, and mumbled, “Yes, well, he just got here, and he asked for one.” She lifted the last tray of wine from the table for me, and wisely suggested I grab several kippot instead of just one, and put the extras in the empty basket, in case anyone else needed one. I did as she recommended, and helped her return the trays to the table before apologizing again and bringing the kippah to the man who had so innocently asked for it.

This is a caterer who often serves at functions at the synagogue, and I was a little concerned she would be upset with me, but later on she asked me whether it was the first girl still reading from the torah or the second one, in order to help her with the timing of the last lunch items she was preparing. She didn’t seem angry, so I suppose she must have taken it all in stride.

And frankly, although I still love Merle Feld’s poem, this is as it should be. We must do our best to honor what is important about the day, and yet, whenever possible, it is still best to make an attempt not to screw the caterer.

Delivering a Fresh Batch of Hope

By Susan Esther Barnes

I actually wrote the following story over a month ago, but I didn't want to post it until after it was published in our synagogue's newsletter. All I did was take out a few names in the interests of privacy.
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These days, teenagers lead busy, complicated lives. What with homework to finish, social and athletic activities to participate in, and numerous text messages to send, it seems they have time for little else. Why is it, then, that every Tuesday night Monica can be found baking cookies she won’t even get to eat?

Monica and her mother, Jessica, have always enjoyed spending time together in the kitchen. When Monica was preparing for her bat mitzvah last year, she was able to use her cooking skills when her class made a meal for the men staying at our synagogue as part of the temporary rotating winter shelter. “The best part was hanging out with the guys after they ate,” Monica exclaims, “I learned a lot of things from them that I wouldn’t have assumed. One of them even spoke Hebrew!”

Monica’s Torah portion, T’zav, was about making sacrifices, so for her mitzvah project she decided to sacrifice some of her time and energy each week by baking cookies for the men she had met at the homeless shelter. Now that it’s more than a year later and her obligation to do a mitzvah project is long past, Monica has faithfully continued to bake for the men every week again this winter.

“She does it all,” says Jessica, “All I do is drive her there to drop it off.” Asked why they do this every week, she says, “Everyone wants to do good stuff, but sometimes it’s hard to know what to do. At the synagogue they make it easy to do things for other people.”

Jessica also finds meaning in a term Rabbis Lezak and Kushner use, “hiddur mitzvah,” or “beautiful mitzvah,” which is about not only doing a mitzvah but doing it in a beautiful way. As Rabbi Kushner explains, “It is the difference between doing kiddush with a paper cup or doing kiddush with a cup a child made or someone gave to you.”

As Jessica describes it, “For me giving is purposeful and fulfilling. If someone took the time to help me and my family, it would give us a tiny bit of hope. You can’t live in your own head, in your own bubble. You can’t wait for someone else to do it.” And so, week after week, Jessica drives Monica to the synagogue to do a hiddur mitzvah; to drop off a freshly baked batch of hope.

The First Day of Spring

By Susan Esther Barnes

Two weeks ago my friend Mark, who has been grappling with cancer, announced that for the first time in two years he would be able to work five full shifts in a row.

That day my friend Gail’s mother, who had been ill for a number of years, died.

About the same time, my friend Joanne’s brother, after playing cards with some friends, developed a sudden headache, began to throw up, then was rushed to the hospital with a massive stroke, where he died a short time later.

We sat shiva for Gail’s mother and Joanne’s brother on successive evenings.

Last week, Mark went to the hospital for a treatment to burn out a tumor, and emerged saying he didn’t know it was possible to be in so much pain. The doctors are trying to readjust his medication.

My husband caught a cold and snored so much, I spent much of the week sleeping on the couch downstairs.

On the windowsill in the kitchen the orchid is sporting six soft but strong white flowers, while in the pot beside it the first basil sprouts are peeking out from the damp dirt.

This morning, two 13-year-olds were called to the Torah and became b’not mitzvah. They are now considered to be fully responsible members of our community.

And today is the first day of spring.

For Shabbat T'Rumah

By Susan Esther Barnes

Last weekend the Torah portion was T’Rumah. That’s the portion that starts with Exodus Chapter 25 in which God tells Moses to take from the people whatever their heart moves them to give in order to build the tabernacle so God may dwell among them as they travel in the wilderness.

Last year the staff and clergy at our synagogue decided to use Shabbat T’Rumah as an opportunity to thank the people who volunteer to help people in the larger community, outside of the synagogue. This year they decided to use it to thank the people who volunteer for the benefit of people within the synagogue community.

On Friday afternoon I received an email from the synagogue asking me to say a few words at services that night about why I volunteer and what it means to me. My first reaction was, “No way.” There wasn’t much time to think of something to say, and I couldn’t imagine I could come up with anything that wouldn’t sound lame. But I thought I’d take a stab at it, and when I got near the end of the page there were tears in my eyes, so I thought, “Well, maybe other people will think it’s lame but there must be something here.”

So I answered the email, agreeing to say a few words. Apparently it wasn’t totally lame, since after services two other women said it made them cry. Below is what I said:

I don’t think it’s possible for me to convey to you why I do what I do here or what it means to me, but I’m going to try.

Some of you have heard me talk about how, three and a half years ago at High Holy Day services, I felt lonely and invisible because after 4 years of being a member here I still didn’t know anyone. Some of you have heard me say I decided to remedy the situation by getting involved here.

I can tell you now my efforts have been successful beyond my wildest dreams.

Instead of feeling invisible, I now know if I don’t arrive at least a half an hour before services on Friday night, I’ll be greeted by a chorus of people saying, “You’re late!” Where it used to be impossible for me to find a single familiar face, it is now impossible for me to sneak by without receiving a host of smiles and hugs. While ten years ago on my birthday I sat alone on my bed watching TV while I ate cake from a to-go container, last week on my birthday, for the first time in my life, I sat among a group of friends who sang “Happy Birthday” to me in Hebrew.

So no, I don’t think I can convey to you why I do what I do here or what it means to me, but I can tell you I don’t plan to stop.