American Atheist Billboards in Hebrew

By Susan Esther Barnes
Photo by the American Atheists

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kol Nidre 2010/5771

By Susan Esther Barnes

Blogger Dov Bear posted a recap of five different kinds of Kol Nidre (Yom Kippur Eve) services he has attended in the past, and invited others to write about their Kol Nidre experiences. I wrote about one of my experiences from previous years, since it was not yet Kol Nidre this year.

Then he posted about his most recent Yom Kippur experience, and several of us posted about ours.

I thought I’d add my Kol Nidre and Yom Kippur experiences from this year here as well. Kol Nidre is in this post, and Yom Kippur is in the next one.

5:30 pm Final meal before Kol Nidre: I have French toast and milk for dinner. This is my version of carbo loading for the fast ahead (no food or drink from sunset on Friday night until three stars are in the sky on Saturday evening).

This is the second year Nita is offering High Holiday services. Nita is a project of our synagogue, reaching out to unaffiliated Jews in the county. I have been hearing rave reviews about Nita all year, but have stayed away from their services because I know they’re trying to build their own community and I don’t want to get in the way of that.

When I went online to buy the Nita “Lift Kit,” which includes tickets to the Nita High Holiday services, I was simply intending to make a donation, however in the week prior to Kol Nidre I decide to be selfish this year and check out the Nita Kol Nidre service.

I am wearing all white, the traditional color we wear on Yom Kippur, because it is the color we wear when we are buried. I am also wearing white canvas sneakers and no belt because we don’t wear leather, which is considered to be a luxury, on Yom Kippur. Orthodox men wear a kittel, the Jewish burial garments. Rabbis Noa and Michael also wear them on Yom Kippur.

6:30 pm: I arrive about a half an hour before services. Almost nobody else has arrived yet. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with myself, and I figure there’s no reason not to greet, which is what I’d normally do if I were at services on my “home turf.” Jane, the Development Director, asks me to help direct people to the sign-in table.

I notice a number of familiar faces, members of the synagogue, who have also chosen to attend this service instead of the “regular” one at the Civic Center. Noa’s parents also attend, and her Mom gives me a hug. I’m flattered that she recognizes me. Most of the people, however, I’ve never seen before. Many of them have kids with them.

Around 7 pm services start, and I feel torn. I came here because I was hoping to engage in a more intimate experience than I would have at the Civic Center, and I want to go in and start to get into the mood being created in there. But there are people still arriving, and I want them to feel welcome when they walk in. Helping the unaffiliated to feel like there is something for them here is important. I continue to greet until the trickle of late arrivals peters out.

I walk in, and there are few available seats left. The only ones that look viable are a group of five or so in the very back, in the middle, with no other chairs around them. I sit in one of them, but I feel isolated from everyone else. I move my chair to the right side, so I’m sitting behind someone I know. Eventually a family comes in and moves the rest of the isolated chairs next to me, and they sit down. I’m glad to feel less like I’m sitting there alone.

Noa gives a fabulous sermon that starts by her talking about the Container Store and moves on to talking about how we contain ourselves, and somehow ties in a story about a man named Yosi who Elijah finds praying in a ruin and why Elijah tells Yosi he shouldn’t pray in a ruin but should pray by the road, even if it means he may be interrupted.

She explains about how we should not pray in places of despair but should pray in the real world with all its messiness. I’m always impressed by how a good rabbi can pull in all these seemingly disparate things and make it seem obvious in hindsight how they all go together. I suppose that’s the kind of thing you learn to do when you start to get an understanding of the one-ness of it all.

I enjoy the rest of the service. I’m surprised how much of it is in Hebrew. I had imagined there might be more English, in an attempt to not intimidate folks who rarely attend services. I don’t end up with nearly as intimate a feeling as I expected; not nearly as intimate a feeling as I felt on Rosh Hashanah morning at the synagogue sanctuary service, where there were more people, but also more people that I know.

I realize that even though the Nita service is a good place to be, it is not my place. My place is at the synagogue, with the community I have joined there. I am grateful to have a place that is so good that even a place as good as Nita cannot transcend it for me.

After the service, I rush to the doors to say goodnight and Shabbat Shalom to people as they leave. Usually after synagogue services, a good number of people stay to chat, but many people leave right away, and I want to get to the doors first. I find myself standing there alone for some time. Everyone else is still inside the room where the services were, talking with each other. I feel great. It means there is a community there, in that room, and Nita is doing what it set out to do.

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.