A Season to Engage our Grief through Creativity: The Three Weeks

"It is art that helps us make sense of the world's chaos and disorder (better than science or logic).  What is art good for?  It is good for nothing.  Art is good life itself!" (quotation found in the art room at Pendle Hill Quaker Retreat Center)

"Greed and Fear" by my brother, Mitch Klein

The bad news keeps coming... shooting in a newsroom in Annapolis... children taken from their parents as they enter our country seeking safety... the Supreme Court upholding the Muslim ban... and on and on. We're entering the heat of summer, and in the Jewish calendar, the Three Weeks, the period for communal mourning that commemorates the journey from the breaching of the walls of Jerusalem to the destruction of the Temple. This is a time to slow down, to allow ourselves to feel our pain for our world, for our fellow human beings who are terrorized and homeless and suffering, and for our common future. The Three Weeks, also known as bein hametzarim (in the narrow places), begins Sunday, July 1, 2018, with the 17th of Tammuz, a fast day (dawn to dusk).

Feeling our grief and pain, however hard it is to do, is what keeps us out of despair and opens us to clarity, compassion, and courage.  Avoiding our pain leads us to numbness. 

Join me in embracing these three weeks as a time to engage our grief through creativity. I invite you to keep a grief journal or explore grief through another creative medium, such as poetry, chant, collage, drawing, painting, or dance. Devote time, even if just a few minutes each day, to creatively explore the following questions: 

1. What news stories arouse my sadness and outrage?
2. What am I personally most fearful about? When I let myself consider the worst case scenario, what arises?
3. What does the Temple represent for me at this time? What is at stake to be lost with the destruction of the Temple? What values and institutions do I hold dear whose walls have been breached?
4. In reading the haftarah of admonition/rebuke for each of the Three Weeks, what phrases speak to me? (These can serve as writing prompts or inspiration for creative expression)

1) Jeremiah 1:1–2:3

2) Jeremiah 2:4-28, 3:4, 4:1–2

3) Isaiah 1:1–1:27 (Read on Shabbat Hazon)

This blog post can also be found on RitualWell, a wonderful website for sharing creative rituals, sponsored by Reconstructing Judaism.   I plan to be writing and drawing to move through my grief over this next three weeks and I'd love for us to share our our creative expressions of grief.  One way to do so is by submitting it to Ritualwell (or if you'd like to share what you create and are not ready to go public, you're welcome to send it to me through the contact page).  

 

Memorial Day 2018

I take a walk around the block early each morning, breathing in the fresh air of a new day and seeing the beauty of the roses, irises, and peonies lovingly planted and tended by my near neighbors, most of whom I have never met, yet with whom I share an intimacy through their flowers.  This morning, American Memorial Day, I happened upon the scene pictured here, of a ripped American flag hanging from a tree.  I do not know whether this ripped flag was intentionally hung this morning or whether it was damaged in a recent storm.  What I do know is that it is a powerful symbol of our ripped America...our beautiful, ripped America, where young immigrant children are being ripped from their parents' arms when arriving at the border requesting asylum, where black and brown young people are ripped from their families and placed in prison for "crimes" for which white people are not punished, where our Mother Earth is being ripped open to support the greed of the fossil fuel economy that is bringing us to the brink of a life-threatening and irreversible warming of the planet.  Today is a day for grieving for America's fallen soldiers and for America's brokenness and injustice, for breathing into and honoring the ripped places in our own hearts.  

The Promise that Sustains Us: A Haggadah Reflection

    Near the beginning of the maggid (storytelling) section of the haggadah, we traditionally cover the matzah, lift our wine cups, and recite, “v’hi sh’amdah....it is this promise that has sustained our ancestors and us, for not just once did somebody try to destroy us; rather, in every generation they try to destroy us, but the Blessed Holy One saves us from them.”  

    Several years ago, as I was preparing to lead my family seder, I decided to stop reciting this paragraph, even though I really like the melody for chanting the Hebrew.  I believe that the stories we tell about who we are influences who we become, and I found myself deeply uncomfortable with the statement that “in every generation they try to destroy us.”  Is this really true?  Is this necessarily true?  “In every generation they try to destroy us” has the feel of a curse upon ourselves, inviting destructive forces our way, and also encourages our suspicion of others--of the unnamed “they” who will try to destroy us.  During my medieval Jewish history class in rabbinical school, we learned about Salo Baron’s critique of what he refers to as the “lachrymose conception of Jewish history.”  Baron was responding to a tendency in his day to view Jewish history as all darkness.  Baron taught that “suffering is part of the destiny [of the Jews], but so is repeated joy as well as ultimate redemption.”  I was leaving out the “v’hi sh’amdah” passage to protest the lachrymose view of Jewish history.  

    This year, I took another look at “v’hi sh’amdah” and realized that I had missed the main point of the paragraph.  The essence is not the persecution of the Jews, but rather, our relationship with a benevolent God.  The message is that when others rise up against us, God will save us, in each generation.  God is our Saving Power, and God will not abandon us.  We lift our wine cups when reciting “v’hi sh’amdah”  in an act of faith and hope. 

    Why was I so ready to reject this passage?  I have come to realize that part of my discomfort came from not wanting to consciously recognize the reality of anti-semitism in my life experience. In my mind, the message of “in every generation they try to destroy us” could not be about my generation, and reading this passage during seder was threatening to the thin veneer that allowed me to be in denial that I am part of a vulnerable group.  In reality, I was continually on high alert during my childhood and teens in northern New Mexico, discerning how hidden I needed to be about my Jewishness in order to be safe. One day in the back of my high school chemistry class, while our elderly teacher was presenting a lesson, a classmate tried to convince me to become Christian.  I felt unsettled, and at lunchtime confided in a close friend about this experience, only to hear her say, “I wouldn’t mind if you were Christian, either.”  This was just one of many not-so-subtle messages that our culture that was not fully accepting of Jews.  I recall riding home on the school bus one afternoon past a water tower upon which had been painted, “Kill the Jews.”  Anti-semitism was indeed present while I was growing up in the 1980’s, even as I told myself that it wasn’t.  

    With the rise in overt anti-semitism this year here in the United States, I am challenged to stop denying that it is real.  This is ultimately a blessing for me, for I was expending a lot of effort being in denial, and in the realm of parenting, I was unconsciously communicating my fears about being Jewish to my child rather than openly discussing it in a mindful way.  I will recite “v’hi sh’amdah” this year, practicing the courage to accept the reality of anti-semitism in our times, and then to affirm my faith and hope for the future.  I am grateful for the wisdom of our ancestors to craft these rituals for us.  As we navigate the world today, an important message I want to communicate this year to my 11-year-old son, and other participants at our family seder, is to keep faith in the promise of redemption. 

I wrote this reflection for the March 28, 2018, Jewish Exponent in Philadelphia.  The link is here.   

It's the 7th of Adar: Reflections on Chevra Kadisha

The 7th of Adar is considered to be the date of Moshe's death, and it is a day for Jewish burial societies, known as the chevra kadisha, to reflect on and celebrate the important work they do in lovingly preparing bodies for burial. Jewschool.com posted a week-long series of essays by contemporary Jews about chevra kadisha.  My essay is pasted below and can also be found here.  To find the other essays, search "chevra kadisha" on the Jewschool.com website.  

I am a member of the Reconstructionist Chevra Kadisha of Philadelphia.  If you would like to learn about this Chevra, contact Rabbi Linda Holtzman at rabbilinda18@gmail.com.

Taharah for My Aunt

I have been blessed to participate in chevrei kadisha in three different Jewish communities, and through the process of performing taharot, the ritual purification and preparation of a body for burial, I have learned about kindness and gentleness and experienced the deep calm that accompanies being present to the truth of our mortality. 

I’d like to share about a particularly special experience I had two years ago with tahara.   This was the experience of my first time performing a tahara for a family member.  When I heard that my Aunt Dina died, I drove to Upstate New York where she had lived to help prepare for her funeral.  Family members had not been present with Aunt Dina during her final days, and I noticed the desire within me to participate in her tahara.  In our hevra kadisha in Philadelphia, family occasionally ask to participate, so I knew that this was a possibility.  I contacted the organizer of the local hevra, who told me that I was welcome to participate and gave me directions for how to enter the funeral home.  She then added, “I just need to ask you one thing.  Are you shomer mitzvot (one who keeps the commandments)?”  I had never been asked that question and it took me a moment to sort out how to respond.  The organizer was an Orthodox woman who was serving as a gatekeeper for communal ritual, and my response would affect my ability to participate.  I answered, “yes”, knowing that she might not share my definition of shomer mitzvot– I’m a female rabbi married to a woman who turns on lights on Shabbat; yet, on the other hand, serving the Divine Beloved through Jewish practice is core to how my life is structured.  Thus, I felt that I was answering with integrity by saying “yes”.  This was one of those “better not to give too many details” moments.  

The three women who were members of the local hevra were warmly welcoming and grateful for my presence. They found out that I read Hebrew and assigned me the role of reading the ritual texts as the tahara progressed.  Aunt Dina had behaved in cruel and manipulative ways towards close family members (not towards me), and it was profoundly healing for me to witness the love and gentleness with which these women washed my aunt’s body.  One of the challenges in supporting Aunt Dina when she was alive, particularly for my father who was her little brother, is that she would turn against him when he tried to help her.  In this moment, the giving and receiving was pure.  

When performing a tahara, I have often noticed how the person’s face relaxes and she becomes more accepting of her death as we prepare her body.  This was true with Aunt Dina.  These women taught me that even a person who has been cruel deserves love and honor.  We are all equal in death.  

Following the washing and pouring of water, we dressed her and wrapped her in the white linen sheet and left her on the table for the funeral home staff to transfer her to her casket.  I realized that I had forgotten the jewelry that we had taken off of her in the room, so I went back.  I am grateful for that moment– the opportunity to lean down and give her a kiss.   

Here is a poem I wrote following Aunt Dina’s death.

My father tells me about his sister

I did not know

she kept their Mama on a respirator 

five weeks

ignored Mama’s let me die

years later 

she scolded you failed to return for Mama’s funeral

I did not know 

she stole 

a portion 

of his inheritance

while shouting you want to steal my money

She is dead.  He is sad.

I wash and prepare her for burial

wrap her in white

lean down and kiss her, then kiss her again

My invitation to Kansas City: On Responding to Violence and Injustice

I traveled to Kansas City (my first time!) to speak on a panel entitled "Common Good: Interfaith Action in Response to Violence and Injustice." The panel was sponsored by American Public Square in Kansas City, an organization that brings together non-like-minded people for civil conversation on the important issues of our day.  They even have a civility bell that can be rung by audience members if the tone of the conversation veers from civility, as part of their mission is seeking to improve the tone and quality of public discourse.  The bell was thankfully not needed tonight; however, I'm excited that they gifted each of us with a civility bell to bring home and add to our toolbox.  

I am grateful for this invitation to further articulate my beliefs about how we will get ourselves out of the mess we are in and to learn from my colleagues, a UCC pastor from Nebraska whose PhD is in Hebrew Bible, and a young Imam originally from Philadelphia who now serves a community in Kansas City.   Our conversations focused on both the inner work and outer work needed to respond to violence and injustice.  

The conversation is worth watching and can be found here.  The program begins at minute 23:08. I share my reflections about being present in Charlottesville and responding to hate groups, starting around 1:04:38.  We discuss the role of our sacred texts in relating to current events at 44:12.  

I dedicate this post to the community of Parkland, FL, reeling from the trauma of the death of 14 students and 3 staff in a high school mass shooting. This is yet another wake-up call that it is time to find the courage and wisdom to stop further gun violence in this country.  It is time to seek out ways to offer mentorship and support to young people who are feeling alienated and frustrated.  It is time for guns to be taken out of the hands of those who do not know how to use them responsibly.  May we, the American people, choose life and love.  

The Mournfulness of Her Song: Hearing the Cries of the Enslaved

This is a d’var torah I wrote for Parashat VaEra 5778 for Torah from T'ruah.  The painting is by my brother, Mitch Klein.

On my recent visit to the National Museum of African American History and Culture in Washington, DC, I was moved to tears by one of the readings displayed in the darkened memorial room to those who were transported to America on slave ships from Africa. I learned that the chained slaves would sing songs of lamentation upon their departure and that the captain of one of the ships threatened a woman with flogging “because the mournfulness of her song was too painful for his feelings.” (William Corbett, 1806) In threatening a flogging for singing, this captain was essentially communicating to this woman, “You’re breaking my heart, you’re showing me your humanity, and I can’t allow you to touch my heart this way. Please stop singing, for if my heart opens, I’ll be propelled into turmoil and I may not be able to follow through with the mission for which I was hired. Leave me be.”

This slave ship captain hardened his heart. Like Pharaoh, he hardened his heart and did not let the people go. He placed his self-interest first, constricting his spirit so that he had the capacity to participate in the enslavement of other human beings. Like Pharaoh, we human beings each have the capacity to focus on protecting our self-interest, even at the expense of others, even at the expense of our own souls. We Americans are a country filled with hardened hearts and an obscured ability to see slavery in our midst.

Whereas the 13th Amendment to abolish slavery was passed by Congress in 1865, slavery continues in the United States—shapeshifted into different forms, but still slavery. One of the nefarious forms of slavery today, which is mostly hidden from public view, is mass incarceration. The United States has the highest incarceration rate in the world, with African Americans disproportionately imprisoned and working for pennies an hour. Last year, our minyan in Philadelphia brought Jondhi Harrell, director of The Center for Returning Citizens, to speak about his vision for ending mass incarceration. The room was uncharacteristically quiet and still as we listened to Harrell speak of his prison experience. Prisoners worked long hours and started out making 11 cents an hour, then 22 cents, then 33 cents...it was a big deal if someone got to the level of earning more than a dollar an hour. This was the continuation of slavery in America, funded by our tax dollars, and we had not even been aware.

In this week’s parashah, VaEra, the Divine declares a readiness to free the Children of Israel from slavery in Egypt, and the slow and painful process of redemption begins. Why, after 400 years of slavery, was God finally ready now? The answer is found in Exodus 6:5 (a reprise of Exodus 2:23-25). God says, “I have now heard (shamati) the groaning of the Israelites whom Egypt is enslaving and I have remembered my covenant.” In other words, God’s heart is softened by hearing the laments of the enslaved.

We, too, can soften our hearts by stepping outside of our comfort zones and listening for the stories and laments of people affected by incarceration. It’s important to remember, when listening to those who are suffering, that the greatest gift we bring them is our loving presence. We do not need to know how to fix the problem; rather, by truly hearing and seeing another person, we bring more love and connection into the world, and then together, when the way is clear, we can work towards redemption.

A few years ago, an African American woman in my neighborhood heard about my work on incarceration and reached out to discuss the barriers to staying connected with family members who are incarcerated. It was heartbreaking to learn about how difficult and expensive it is for a parent to continue in their parenting role when a teen or young adult child is incarcerated. Young people from Philadelphia are often placed in prisons hours away. It was only towards the end of our time together that she was ready to quietly share that her son is in prison, and that not many people know because of her concern for his reputation when he gets out. She and her immediate family were suffering the financial drain, fear, stress, and long-term loss of her son alone. I realized at that moment that an important piece of our work in addressing mass incarceration is finding ways to support family members, recognizing that they may not readily make themselves known.

I dream of a day when the ship captain not only listens but laments with the slave woman, when the prison guard laments with the prisoner, when the business owner laments with the grossly underpaid laborer, when policy makers and judges lament with the African American families separated by incarceration, when we each soften our hearts and when white and black people groan together. This is beginning to happen here in America. I believe that God is listening to, and waiting for, our cries.