Your Questions Answered #4

By Susan Esther Barnes

One of the fun things about getting website statistics for my blog is I get to see the search terms people use to get here. A lot of those search terms are questions. You have some great questions, and I think they deserve an answer. So here is the fourth installment of “Your Questions Answered.”


What is the relevance of kissing as a religious ritual?
I love this question. For one answer, look at the very first post
on my blog, in which I explain the meaning of the name of my blog and what it means to me when I kiss a mezuzah.

If you attend a synagogue service, most likely you will see Jews kiss ritual objects, such as the Torah scroll or the neckband of their tallit (prayer shawl) before they put it on. If a siddur (prayer book) falls on the ground, you might see a person kiss it right after they pick it up.

The relevance of the kiss is to show love and respect for the ritual object. It is a way to show that we recognize these things as holy, beyond the holiness we seek to acknowledge in everything and everyone.


What other people use the Torah?
In general, you will only see Jews using a Sefer Torah, or a Torah scroll, which is written on parchment in Hebrew, and contains the five books of Moses. The Hebrew Bible, or Tanach, contains everything in the Sefer Torah as well as the Prophets and the Writings.

Secular people and people of various religions study the Tanach for various reasons. The contents of the Hebrew Bible are included in the Christian Bible, so Christians “use” it, too, although the chapters are in a different order, and Christians usually read the Torah (they call it the “old testament”) in a translation instead of the original Hebrew and Aramaic.



What does “chevra” mean?
Chevra is Hebrew for “society” or a group of people. It comes from the Hebrew word for “friend.” A “chevra kadisha” is a “holy society.” This is the group of people who visit the sick, and who prepare the dead for burial, including ritually washing the body, dressing him/her, and placing the body in the casket.



Refua shlema translation
“Refua shlema” is Hebrew for a “complete healing.” You might also hear it said as a “healing of body and a healing of spirit.” A wish for a refua shlema can be applied to someone suffering from a physical or mental illness, or to someone who is in any kind of distress. It can be used to wish them comfort and spiritual strength even in cases where a physical healing appears unlikely.



How long does a mourning minyan last?
The first seven days after a loved one is buried is called the shiva period. The word “shiva” means “seven” in Hebrew. It is customary for the loved one’s family to hold shiva minyans during the mourning period. (A “minyan” is a group of 10 Jews, which is the minimum number required to say certain prayers).

The length of a shiva minyan service can vary, based on the number of prayers that are said, and how fast they are recited. Also, there is often time set aside during the service for friends and family to talk about the person who has died, and the amount of time used for that can vary.

If you are going to attend a shiva minyan, you can expect the service to last at least a half an hour, and probably not more than an hour. It may not start exactly on time, and you will probably want to allow yourself extra time to express your condolences to the family. In addition, depending on the customs of the community, many of those coming to the service may bring food for the family to eat, and there may be food set out for those coming to the service.



How to thank clergy for a shiva service
It’s great that someone in mourning is thinking about thanking the clergy. On the one hand, it’s their job to do this, and you don’t really need to thank them. On the other hand, they are human, and it’s nice for them to know they are not being taken for granted.

You would thank them just like you would for anything else. You can thank them verbally at the time of the service, or you can call them or send them a note afterward. You might also consider making a donation in memory of the deceased to the synagogue where the clergy person works.



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 going with those interesting search terms.

Leading My First Shiva Minyan

By Susan Esther Barnes

Last night I led my first shiva minyan. It was exhausting.

The word “shiva” means “seven.” For the first seven days after someone close to them has been buried, a family stays at home and observes a number of practices. One practice is to hold prayer services in their home. The prayer service requires a “minyan,” or a group of ten or more Jews.

Last year the Cantor offered a class on leading a shiva minyan. We have a large congregation, and often there can be more than one or two deaths in a week, so it’s hard for the clergy to be able to do all the shiva services. I attended the class, and my name was added to the list of people who can help do this.

I also was able to get some experience leading Tuesday morning services. The morning service is longer and more involved than a shiva service, so between that experience and the shiva minyan class, I should have felt fully prepared.

However, walking into the mourner’s house last night I felt completely unprepared. I was ready to do the actual service itself, but somehow I hadn’t expected everything else that goes on around it.

First, I hadn’t expected people to come to me for advice. One woman asked me where she could find a support group of people who are faced with ailing parents. I was able to point her to Jewish Family Services, but I wished I had a list of support groups with me.

Before the service I spoke with the sons of the women who died, and one of them asked how long the service would be. What popped into my head was, “I have no idea – I’ve never done this before.” I didn’t want to tell them this was my first time. However, there are some portions in the prayer book we can say or leave out, so I asked them whether they would like a full service or an abbreviated one.

Later, one of them asked, “Did you start to do this after your father died?” and I said, “Technically, yes” since that was true without admitting this was my first one.

I also found that the sons were looking for my approval. I kept thinking, “I’m not a rabbi. Who am I to approve or not?” but they needed me to tell them it was okay that many of their friends and family don’t speak Hebrew, and it’s okay that the funeral earlier that day was hard so they didn’t want to talk about their Mom again during the service that night, and it’s okay if they don’t want me to go through the whole prayer book. They were relieved by my assurances, but being the person to give them those assurances felt heavy.

Then the service started, and it was too hot. I was wearing a blazer, which I should have taken off. I could feel my face getting red, and I was starting to sweat, but I didn’t want to interrupt the service to take off the blazer. I hoped my appearance wasn’t too distracting.

We got to haskiveinu, which is a lovely song about God spreading a shelter of peace over us. I explained the meaning of the song, and suggested those present think about sending thoughts of peace to the mourners.

Then I started singing, and realized that only one or two other people knew the song, so it was virtually a solo. I know full well the song is too high for my voice, but usually when we get to the high part nobody can hear me because I sing softly and my voice is covered by everyone else. No such luck here. My voice was shaking anyway, I got to the high part and my voice cracked like I knew it would, and I just pressed on.

At the end I was hoping it wasn’t too awful. I thanked everyone for coming, and to my surprise a couple of people thanked me for leading the service, and said I did a good job.

I spoke with a friend about it afterward; particularly about why it was so exhausting. She pointed out that when you’re in a situation where you have to be hyper aware of what is going on around you, and adjusting what you’re saying and doing to fit what you’re seeing and hearing, it takes a lot of energy.

So although the next time I lead a shiva minyan it may not be less tiring, at least next time I think I’ll feel more prepared.

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.

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."

How Are You?

The question, "How are you?" is a common greeting among people I know. The expected answer is, "I'm fine, how are you?" I find I sometimes surprise people when, instead of giving the expected answer, I say, "I'm doing great!" This is generally the most authentic short answer I can give, since my life really is much better than I ever would have expected. It's not that everything is perfect, but all the most important pieces are in place: The world's best husband, a great community, friends, mostly healthy family, full employment, etc.

A friend of mine told me recently how much she dislikes the "How are you?" greeting, since most people seem to ask it in passing and then rush on without even pausing to hear the answer. If you're not going to stick around for an answer, why ask?

A woman who lost her husband about six months previously spoke to my Bikkur Cholim (visiting the sick) group about what to say and what not to say to a person in mourning. She said the one question she wishes people would stop asking her is, "How are you?" She says she doesn't feel comfortable answering, "Fine" when that's not how she feels, yet she knows most people who ask the question aren't really interested in hearing her real answer to it.

Another person in the group related a story about a family she recently visited who were sitting shiva (the first seven days of mourning after a loved one has died). She said part way through the evening the husband taped a hand-written sign to the door saying, "Please don't ask me how I'm doing." I can't even imagine how difficult it would be to try to respond to that question when one is in mourning, particularly in the first days and weeks, when the mourner is still struggling to understand the enormous change that has occurred.

Aside from greeting mourners and friends with something more along the lines of, "It's good to see you," or some such statement rather than a question, I don't know what I plan to do with this whole "How are you?" question. It is still part of the oil that keeps the social machine running. Substituting something like, "Greetings and salutations" is a bit awkward. I guess it's something I'll just have to work on.