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?

Choosing Something Holy

By Susan Esther Barnes

This summer I am planning to go on a trip to Israel with some families from my synagogue, lead by one of our rabbis. Last month those of us scheduled to go on the trip received a letter from the rabbi inviting us to a get-together in one participant family’s home later this month. The letter says, in part, “Please have each member of your family bring one item and/or story that they consider holy/treasure. We will think about all of the gifts that we have received and think about how Jerusalem will help us appreciate our blessings on a much deeper level.”

The most holy thing I have is probably my ketubah (Jewish wedding contract), but it was big to begin with, and then we put it into an even bigger frame so we could hang it over our fireplace. Taking that along just doesn’t seem practical.

The next thing I thought of that I treasure is a bust of a tiger my husband drew and gave to me back in the early 80’s. It is amazingly lifelike, and it’s fascinating because it is drawn entirely with tiny dots of ink and no lines. The skill and patience that went into making it are enormous. I can’t bring myself to take it along, though. I brought my ceramic mezuzah to a show-and-tell event like this once, and on my way home I dropped it and it shattered. If anything happened to my tiger because of my negligence I would be very upset with myself.

I then turned to the “story” suggestion in the letter, and printed out Portia Nelson’s poem, “Life in Five Short Chapters,” thinking I would read that to the group. I first saw this poem, about repeatedly falling into a hole and trying to get out, at a time when I was doing exactly that. It meant a lot to me then, and I still appreciate it, even though I am way past that particular hole in my life and I’m not going back. Still, it seems more indicative of my past than my present or my future.

Although I’m still not sure what I will bring with me to this event, if it were happening today, most likely I would use it as an opportunity to show the group my toes. Not that my toes are particularly holy, but they are something I treasure. The second and third toes on each of my feet are connected about half way up. They are not webbed; it just looks like one wide toe at the base that suddenly turns into two “normal” toes about half way toward the tip.

So why do I treasure them? I often say nobody really knows me until they have seen my toes. I attribute three things about my outlook in life to them. First, I have never seen anyone else with toes like mine. Even as a child, I knew my toes were different than everyone else’s. Thus, even my oldest memories contain the knowledge that I am different than everyone else.

Second, it was quite clear to me even as a child that my unique toes are not particularly ugly or particularly attractive. They do not hinder me in any way, nor do they help me in any unique way. They are just different. Thus, I discovered early in my life that differences between people do not necessarily carry any positive or negative value. People can be, and are, very different from each other in ways that do not make them better than, or worse than, anyone else. I have never been tolerant of the idea that physical differences are anything beyond simply physical differences.

Third, because my toes spend most of their time covered with socks and shoes, as I got older I came to realize that people can be different from each other in ways that are not readily apparent to others. We make assumptions that the people around us are like us, and in many ways that is true, but in other ways it is not. We all know things about ourselves that most of the people around us don’t know. We all carry secrets. Thus, I finally realized that not only am I different from anyone else, everyone is different from everyone else. My job is to be open to seeing and appreciating those differences.

Maybe I need to think of something else to bring, though. What if everyone else brings their toes too?

Judaism Creating Connections

By Susan Esther Barnes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How old was he?" asked the woman.

"22."

"Oh, I didn't know."

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

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

Visit from the Shekhinah

Yesterday I felt like I was coming down with a cold, and I spent the whole day in bed napping with the cats and watching the "Deadliest Catch" marathon on TV. However, it was Friday, I missed Shabbat last week because I was in Hawaii, and I'm going to miss Shabbat next week due to our company retreat. Three weeks without Shabbat is three weeks too many as far as I'm concerned, so I hauled myself out of bed and went to the synagogue.

When services started the sanctuary doors were closed, so during the song/prayer "Lecha Dodi" I walked around the back of the sanctuary to the outside of the main sanctuary doors. "Lecha Dodi" is about welcoming Shabbat. Traditionally, during the last verse, everyone bows toward the doors of the sanctuary, thereby bowing to Shabbat as she enters. I'd say Shabbat can make it through the doors whether or not they're open, but it's more dramatic if the doors are open when the last verse starts, and it certainly seems more welcoming to Shabbat to open the doors for her.

So there I was, in the foyer, listening to the singing through the closed doors, waiting for the last verse, and I started thinking, "Hmmm, if I'm standing out here waiting to let Shabbat in through the doors at the last verse, then Shabbat must be out here in the foyer with me now." So, I looked up over my shoulder, and felt the Shekhinah, God's presence, hovering over me.

When the congregation reached the last verse and sang, "Come in, bride," I opened the doors, and the Shekhinah swept past me into the sanctuary.

I know God is with us all the time. I know I can feel God wherever I am. But there is something special about the Shekhinah on Shabbat that I truly miss whenever I'm away.

Daily Blessings

I received an email from a colleague informing me she will arrive to work late today because her refrigerator stopped working, and she’s waiting for a new one to be delivered. There are many ways I could respond to a piece of news like this. “That sucks,” springs to mind, or “I’m sorry you have to deal with that today,” or “I hope they deliver it on time!”

Although these responses may seem natural, and have some sense of sympathy for her situation, they all focus to some extent on the negative side of the experience.

In Deuteronomy 11:26 we read, “See, I set before you this day a blessing and a curse…” Yes, I am taking this quote completely out of context, but so often in life we have the choice to see something as either a blessing or a curse, and which one we choose to focus on can make all the difference in how we feel about, and respond to, the experience.

We have so many chances to choose a blessing, and too often we let those opportunities slip by. So I responded to my colleague’s email with, “May your new fridge bring you many years of coolness, and storage of much that is good to eat.” Today, I chose the blessing over the curse. May I chose wisely again tomorrow.