When Toronto poet Simon Constam emailed me with a request to read his debut collection of poetry, Brought Down, he described it as “notable because it addresses people’s daily experience of God and the Jewish religious tradition.” He noted, “it is provocative and well-written as can be attested to by the reviews of it thus far.” Indeed, the reviews I’ve read have been highly complimentary – and justifiably so.
I am neither religious nor a poetry buff, yet I found Constam’s poems engaging. I liked his challenging and questioning manner. At 70+ years old, he has wisdom gained from life experience that includes approximately a decade in which he followed Orthodox Jewish observance. His knowledge of Judaism infuses his writing and I had to look up a few names and concepts, even though there is a glossary at the end of this 61-page volume.
What I greatly appreciated about these poems is the theme that runs through most, if not all, of them: the title idea of “brought down,” as it refers to what we inherit from our ancestors, whether we’re talking about traditions, rituals, genes, coping mechanisms, etc. The lens through which Constam explores these ideas is his Jewishness. In “Yerushalmi,” for example, he writes:
“Today I seem to have the face of a man I briefly stared at, on a bus on Rehov King David in the fall of 1969. / I wear the same clothes, dark jacket, dark shirt, rough tan trousers, dust-scuffed brown boots. / The mirror shows me, grizzled, unkempt, stocky, stoic, almost seventy. / My face is the face my grandfather wore. / My parents, aunts, and uncles swore the resemblance is uncanny. My history is clear. / I was one of Titus’s captives marched through Rome in chains. I collected all my things in a sack to flee from Ferdinand and Isabella along the Jew-choked roads. I missed my fate in Kielce and Bialystock. I hid in the forests by Kishinev.” It ultimately concludes: “I am the inheritor of a furious history that only in this place can I never deny or forget.”
In his struggles with God, Constam contemplates what it means to be Jewish, what it means to be human. While this all sounds quite serious, and it is, there is humour in this collection and, ultimately, it is hopeful. As much as he takes God to task, Constam is calling on all of us to question ourselves, and to accept our responsibility for the state of the world.
The reason that is ascribed to the House of Hillel for the custom that we follow in lighting the candles is that we go upwards in holiness. (photo by Maor X)
Hanukkah lives in the sweet spot where there is one story that claims it is “historically true” and yet there is very little contemporary evidence to back this up – the earliest account being written generations after the events – and there is another story, a miracle story whose earliest recording is centuries after its supposed occurrence. We go with the miracle story.
There was no love lost between the rabbis and the Hasmoneans. There are several legends about rabbis (i.e. Shimon ben Shatah) confronting the Hasmonean king Yannai (e.g. Sanhedrin 19a-b) and Yannai killing sages (Kidushin 66a). So, it is not surprising that the rabbis did not glorify the Hasmonean victory, and chose to centre a different legend, which seems to have arisen in the first centuries of the common era. The additional prayer (called Al Hanisim) that is added to the central prayer does not mention the miracle of the oil. The earliest mention of the miracle of the oil is in the commentary (the “scholion”) to a first-century list of holidays called Megillat Ta’anit. This commentary is not mentioned in the Palestinian Talmud. Its first appearance is in the Babylonian Talmud many centuries later.
While this may point to a choice for the miracle story over the martial story, the martial story did not fade away. It arose from time to time, gaining full rehabilitation with the birth of the Zionist movement, whose adherents looked to the Maccabees for ancestral precedent. However, this is not my point.
The earliest rabbinic legal discussion of the obligations of Hanukkah (as opposed to mentioning Hanukkah in passing) is not in the Palestinian Mishnah. It is in a supposed Palestinian baraita (“outside” teaching) quoted in the Babylonian Talmud and not in the Palestinian Talmud. This is the famous debate between the House of Hillel and the House of Shammai as to whether one lights one candle on the first night and then adds a candle each night (Hillel); or, conversely, one lights eight candles on the first night and then subtracts a candle each night (Shammai). This is followed by the obligation to light the candelabrum in the doorway, outside or, if one lives on an upper floor, in the window.
These are the earliest legal discussions of Hanukkah. There are others. The salient point is that many of the laws have to do with the placement of the candelabrum in order to publicize the miracle (pirsumei nisa). One might have thought that a holiday whose legend included the purification of the Temple would have had a Temple-like ritual at its centre. Instead, even the candelabrum does not replicate the seven-branched Temple candelabrum. The focus of the holiday obligations is marking Jewish space. Facing outward at the moment that people return from the market. If one has two entrances, the Talmud asks, does one have to light in both places?
Hanukkah is a diasporic holiday that celebrates place. This place where we are now is the place in which we announce the miracle. This is not a second-rate reminder of a ritual whose better form would have been and will be ensconced in the Temple. It is a diasporic ritual that lays claim to diasporic Jewish space.
This places Hanukkah on the same axis as Purim, again a holiday that is about and in Diaspora, and would not make sense in the Land of Israel. However, the difference is Purim posits that redemption is impossible and that, as long as the king is maliciously or foolishly evil, there will be a never-ending drama in which first Haman succeeds and then Mordecai succeeds. Hanukkah celebrates the fact of being here. Light in whatever many religious or secular metaphors it is clothed is brought into these Jewish spaces. The reason that is ascribed to the House of Hillel for the custom that we follow in lighting the candles is that we go upwards in holiness and not the opposite. We light the candles and increase the holiness. Here.
Hanukkah is a diasporic holiday in that it is portable. The celebration of Hanukkah defines the space that is celebrated as a Jewish space – like a mezuzah on a doorpost or an eruv (ritual boundary) in a city. Like these other markers, it creates Jewish space that is non-exclusive. Jewish space that has permeable boundaries. Jewish space that lives in proximity to others, despite the fact that this proximity is risky. From the start, the halakhah (Jewish law) of Hanukkah decided that, in a time of danger, one need not light the candelabrum on the outside or facing out, rather one may light inside on a table.
When we light candles today, we again announce that we live in Jewish spaces that are proximate to other spaces and, while we embrace this proximity, we are aware that it is risky – and yet still we increase the holiness, the light, from day to day. Here, in this time, and in this place.
Rabbi Aryeh Cohen is a fellow of the Kogod Research Centre at the Shalom Hartman Institute of North America and professor of rabbinic literature at the Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies of the American Jewish University, where he teaches courses in Talmud. He is also the rabbi in residence for Bend the Arc: Jewish Action in Southern California. For more articles by Cohen, visit jewschool.com, where the original of this article can be found. For articles by other Shalom Hartman scholars, visit hartman.org.il.
While the flood in Noah’s time, and his building of the ark, may be one of the more famous biblical weather incidents, along with the wind that battered the ship in which the prophet Jonah was hiding, they certainly are not the only ones (Metropolitan Museum of Art: Adele S. Colgate bequest, 1962)
It seems that everybody talks about the weather. Has it always been the case? While it’s admittedly impossible to prove whether it has, weather was certainly talked about in ancient times. The Hebrew Bible, or Tanakh, contains many weather references.
Right off the bat, in Genesis 2:6, we find mention of mist. In this context, G-d has spent the week creating the world. On the seventh day, He fashions the first man: “but there went up a mist from the earth, and watered the whole face of the ground. Then the Lord G-d formed man of the dust of the ground….”
Five chapters later, we get to the flood story. We read about heavy, sustained rain and catastrophic flooding – “and I will cause it to rain upon the earth forty days and forty nights; and every living substance that I have made will I blot out from off the face of the earth. And the waters prevailed, and increased greatly upon the earth; and the ark went upon the face of the waters. And He blotted out every living substance which was upon the face of the ground … and Noah only was left, and they that were with him in the ark.” (Genesis 7:18,23)
Rain, however, functions as both a positive and a negative force. In Leviticus 26:4, G-d states that He will bring the rain at the proper time, enabling the trees and the land to be harvested: “I will give your rains in their season, and the land shall yield her produce, and the trees of the field shall yield their fruit.”
When the flood in Noah’s time ends, G-d promises to refrain from ever again bringing such a destructive deluge. He does this symbolically with the rainbow: “I have set My bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of a covenant between Me and the earth. And it shall come to pass, when I bring clouds over the earth and the bow is seen in the cloud and the waters shall no more become a flood to destroy all flesh.” (Genesis 9:13-15)
The same duality that applies to rain also applies to wind. It is a positive force, as seen in parting the Red Sea, allowing the Hebrews to safely depart from Egypt (Exodus 14:21-22). But, it is also a punishing power that drowns the Egyptian soldiers who are in pursuit.
In the Book of Jonah, G-d brings a tremendous wind with the intention of smashing apart the ship in which the reluctant prophet Jonah is hiding: “… the Lord hurled a great wind into the sea, and there was a mighty tempest in the sea, so that the ship was like to be broken.” (Jonah 1:4)
Jonah and the Whale. (Metropolitan Museum of Art: Joseph Pulitzer bequest, 1933)
While we generally consider a whirlwind to be violent but brief, it has a different meaning in the Tanakh. In Hosea 8:7, it symbolizes ineffectiveness: “they shall reap the whirlwind; it hath no stalk, the bud that shall yield no meal.” Nonetheless, the whirlwind is also a blessing, which carries the prophet Elijah to heaven: “Elijah went up by a whirlwind into heaven. And Elisha saw him no more.” (2 Kings 2:11-12)
Other storm-related phenomena appear in the books of the Hebrew Bible. Both thunder and lightning, for example, are mentioned in the Book of Job, chapters 36 and 37: “He covereth His hands with the lightning and giveth it a charge that it strike the mark. G-d thundereth marvellously with His voice.” Likewise, the prophet Isaiah warns that G-d plans to bring thunder: “There shall be a visitation from the Lord of hosts with thunder.” (Isaiah, 29:6)
Hail is also written about in a few places. In Ezekiel 13:11 and 13, G-d threatens to bring a hailstorm. Significantly, in the Book of Exodus (9:18,25-26), hail is one of the 10 plagues G-d casts down upon the Egyptian people because of Pharaoh’s intransigence against freeing the Hebrew slaves: “Behold, tomorrow about this time I will cause it to rain a very grievous hail, such as hath not been in Egypt since the day it was founded even until now. And the hail smote throughout all the land of Egypt all that was in the field, both man and beast; and the hail smote every herb of the field and broke every tree of the field. Only in the land of Goshen, where the children of Israel were, was there no hail.”
The Tanakh likewise has references to snow in a few places, though there is practically no mention of snow having fallen – almost always, snow is used metaphorically. Thus, in Exodus 4:6, someone with leprosy has “skin white as snow.” Later, this phrase is repeated in Number 12:10 when Miriam, Moses’ sister, has leprosy.
The lack of precipitation is likewise an issue. Similar to hail, drought is used as a threat or as an actual way of punishing the Hebrews. As the
Hebrews were an agricultural society, a drought meant crop failure: “And if ye will not … hearken unto Me, then I will chastise you seven times more for your sins. I will make your heaven as iron and your earth as brass … your land shall not yield her produce, neither shall the trees of the land yield their fruit.” (Leviticus 26:18-20)
Meteorology has certainly advanced since ancient times, of course. Back then, there were no radar, satellites, radiosondes, supercomputers or advanced multidisciplinary weather graphs to interpret or predict the weather. In the Tanakh, the chief forecaster, G-d, is also the creator of these weather situations. As such, He has a considerable edge over everyone and everything.
Deborah Rubin Fields is an Israel-based features writer. She is also the author of Take a Peek Inside: A Child’s Guide to Radiology Exams, published in English, Hebrew and Arabic.
Imagine being in a meeting where everyone is asked to set “reach” goals for the next season. How about those self-help gurus who invite you to visualize your ultimate success? Perhaps there’s a social media post where you’re invited to dream, with reels of beautiful drivers in fancy cars, enormous luxury estates and vacations in exotic locales.
I was once part of an online writing group that emphasized setting goals. This included how many words you’d write a day, where you’d sell your work and how much you would earn. They repeated a refrain: “Writing is a positive addiction.” I retained a healthy cynicism about it all, but the thing I actually fell for was an exercise where you drew the cover of the book you were creating.
I drew the cover of the novel manuscript I was writing. Now, I’m happy to say that, since then, I’ve published books (all non-fiction) and articles with reputable publishers. I once won a fiction short story contest. I’m an actual writer and get paid for my work. I’m proud of this achievement! It’s also a real milestone for many who start out as grade school scribblers.
But, despite many attempts, I never sold that novel manuscript. Those who read it said it was good – but it remains unpublished. That book cover I posted above my desk for motivation makes me feel embarrassed. Who did I think I was? It’s hard for me to let go of my goals and cut myself a break. I held myself accountable.
This feeling of shame grew when I had a family because, as anyone with kids knows, it’s hard to make solid promises when dependents are in the picture. Even with family, spousal and childcare support, things can happen. The pandemic reminded us all that we have much less control over our lives than we thought. Sick kids happen. My children’s needs will always come before my work. There are no guarantees that you’ll always meet that deadline or reach the goals you set.
All this came to mind as I studied the Babylonian Talmud tractate Nedarim (Vows) and got to daf (page) 9. Nedarim is all about how to understand a vow, which, in Judaism, is taken very seriously. The rabbis explore definitions of how a vow works. Even though I’d never been taught these texts directly before, I have always hesitated to promise things that perhaps I can’t deliver. Just as we should not “swear” to things, we shouldn’t even promise anything if we think something might come up.
In Nedarim 9b, there’s a question about making a vow when it comes to bringing an offering. This itself could be strange, as the rabbis in the Gemara are reflecting on a time they never experienced. Very few of these rabbis were alive before the destruction of the Temple. They’re still concerned with the protocol of bringing an offering there, just in case the Temple is rebuilt. The real lesson is in how it’s theoretically done, even if no one’s ever making a physical offering again.
A person shouldn’t make a vow to bring an offering, the Gemara says, because “perhaps he will encounter a stumbling block” that would violate the prohibition against delaying. That delay would interfere with fulfilling the vow. Further, it’s a bad idea to designate a specific animal for the offering in advance because, again, something might happen to it. For instance, say it is a sheep, but it’s shorn by someone by accident. Perhaps someone works with a consecrated animal in some way when he shouldn’t. This is a misuse of a consecrated animal, and it’s prohibited. The animal can no longer be used as an offering.
Then, a story is told about Hillel the Elder. No one ever misused his offering. Why? He would bring it to the Temple courtyard unconsecrated. Only after he arrived, would he consecrate it. Then he’d place his hand on its head and slaughter it. There was no opportunity for misuse.
Upon reading this, I better understood my hesitancy in terms of big goals. The generations of parents who said to their children “We’ll see” rather than promising things? This made good sense. The rabbis understood the concern that sometimes even sure things fall through.
Some traditionally religious Jews say “bli neder,” or “without a vow,” when committing to something. It means – I’ll try to the best of my abilities, but I’m not making a serious vow. I’ve never used this, but it has such power. Yes, we all want to reach milestones and accomplish huge things. Absolutely! However, it can be heartbreaking when we don’t quite get there, even if we have valid reasons for why we didn’t.
It can be anti-climactic to be like Hillel the Elder. After all, there was no announcement, anticipation or build up for him around his vows. It was very low key.
I remembered something similar that happened long ago, when I was an undergraduate. Friends doing science degrees would plan big parties after their last exams, bar-hopping and celebrating when the semester ended. I often had only one or two exams. Mostly, I wrote many final papers in my dorm room. With stacks of books everywhere, I’d write alone at my computer each morning. Then, I’d print the paper, walk across campus and put it in a professor’s mailbox. That was it. When the last paper was finished, boom, end of my semester. No big announcement or party followed. I packed up by myself and traveled home.
Sometimes Jewish texts can be hard to connect to, because the issues seem old, irrelevant or don’t include me as a woman. This time, though, I was right there with the rabbis’ stumbling blocks and the low-key anti-climax of Hillel the Elder. I wish that everyone could hit those big reach goals and fulfil their aspirations – but perhaps we might not voice them as promises ahead of time. According to the rabbis, that quieter approach is entirely OK, too.
Joanne Seiffhas written regularly for CBC Manitoba and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. Check her out on Instagram @yrnspinner or at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.
On Sundays, we work together as a family to clean the house. We’ve just moved to an historic home that is in the midst of renovations. We aren’t fixing the house to create new modern luxury, but rather so that all the plumbing works and nothing freezes in the wintertime. We’re excited about creating updated versions of what this house might have looked like when it was built in 1913 – with necessary improvements like removing knob and tube wiring and asbestos, as well as insulating and fixing pipes.
A friend was excited about the house’s historic details. She said her husband wouldn’t consider moving to an older home because of ghosts. While I won’t belittle anyone, I’m not particularly worried about ghosts in old houses. Instead, I love knowing that people lived, died, gave birth and had many important, regular and extraordinary life events, both happy and sad, inside these same walls. Imagining past inhabitants who washed their faces at the sink, ate meals in the dining room or celebrated birthdays with loved ones, just as we do, gives me great joy.
Like any house, ours has its creaks and groans. It’s perhaps worse than usual because we’re new here. We haven’t yet effectively bled the radiators. Maybe we don’t always properly close a storm window. This morning I heard sounds, but I suspect there’s a squirrel in the attic. Even this annoying intruder reminds me that our family’s not the first one here. Hopefully, not the last either, although I hope we can get the squirrel to leave first!
When I think about Jewish tradition, it’s a lot like this opportunity to inhabit an old house. Judaism is old, but as each of us “moves in” to our identity or tradition and makes a place for ourselves, both the tradition and the people grow and change. Jewish practice isn’t exactly the same as it was 2,000 years ago, no matter how much some people would like it to be. Similarly, when we’re done fixing up our old house, it will be different, functional for today, and perhaps even better than when we got here. The same, but different, and that’s OK.
I reflected on this when we hit this Jewish month of Heshvan, sometimes called by its older name, likely connected to Akkadian, Marheshvan. In English, this could be translated to “Bitter Heshvan.” As time passed, language changed. With the connections to other ancient languages forgotten, the rabbis called this month “bitter” because, in their understanding, it didn’t contain any big holidays. To some, this might be a relief after the fall High Holidays and, to others, it’s a weird thing to say. Shabbat still happens every week and that’s important, too. There’s even a little-observed Ashkenazi tradition, the Fast of Behav, which I just learned about while writing this column, and it happens during Heshvan.
This learning process is one of those chances where I realized Judaism can grow and change just as we do with our old house. A year ago, I wrote about Heshvan as the time when I would begin to learn to chant Torah – and, yes, while I still have a long way to go, I learned to do that well enough to read Torah twice.
This year, I realized that, actually, Heshvan isn’t mar or bitter due to a lack of holidays because Sigd is on the 29th of Heshvan. As of 2008, Sigd is an official holiday in Israel. It’s a Beta Israel (Ethiopian Jewish) holiday, 50 days after Yom Kippur, and it celebrates the acceptance of Torah. Today, it’s celebrated by fasting, reciting psalms and gathering in Jerusalem to hear the Kessim (priests, like the Kohanim) read the Orit (the Octateuch, or eight biblical books: the five books of the Torah, plus the books of Joshua, Judges and Ruth). Then, when the ritual ends, it’s time to break the fast, dance and celebrate.
I learned this from Wikipedia and other sources online. I haven’t experienced this in Israel or met Jews who celebrate the holiday. However, that doesn’t mean the holiday doesn’t exist! Our tradition has multiple ways to celebrate and observe. For instance, many Jewish organizations take two days off for some holidays, even though only part of the Jewish community observes for two days. Many Jews don’t observe minor fast days, such as the Fast of Behav, which I just heard of today.
How do Heshvan and Sigd relate to living in an old house? Living in old houses has offered me so many ways to learn the social histories of our ancestors. Discovering the plumbing of a bedroom sink, long removed, or a window that was blocked off during a renovation helps me see not only how the original owners of the house used it, but also how subsequent families and businesses chose to reinvent their living spaces. While we can’t understand everything about their lives, we find reminders of the past that can inform us now.
In my house, the contractors recently removed the quarter-sawn oak flooring of a room to deal with the water damage from a long-ago flood. We found a 1925 penny on the subfloor. Perhaps it fell out of the pocket of the house’s first owner, a doctor, as he undressed, or a worker lost it during a renovation. That penny was produced nearly 100 years ago, but 12 years after the house was built. Sometime later, it fell between the boards.
We’re often so immersed in our rituals, as family members, congregants or people in a particular ethnic or national group, that we miss out on other ways to enrich our knowledge and traditions. If we look beyond the easy, and later, interpretation of the word Marheshvan and consider its Akkadian roots, or the diverse holidays that in fact do happen this time of year, we can turn around this bitter message.
Wishing you a happy Heshvan, full of both new learning and old discoveries.
Joanne Seiff has written regularly for CBC Manitoba and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. Check her out on Instagram @yrnspinner or at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.
Left to right: Cantor Josh Breitzer, Cantor Shani Cohen, Rabbi Kylynn Cohen, Prof. Joyce Rosenzweig and Cantor Lianna Mendelson at Shani Cohen’s installation as cantor at Temple Sholom the weekend of Oct. 28-29. (photo from facebook.com/templesholom.ca)
Temple Sholom officially installed Cantor Shani Cohen, the first ordained cantor to serve the congregation, on the Oct. 28-29 Shabbat weekend, with services and music throughout to mark the occasion.
Always passionate about music and Judaism, Cohen found a path that combined her interests – and talents – while studying for a master’s of music in vocal performance and pedagogy at the University of Houston in the mid-2010s. There, she started working for Congregation Shma Koleinu.
“Rabbi Scott Hausman-Weiss saw something in me, and invited me to lead High Holy Day services with him. He knew that I would become a cantor before I did. Once I started leading services, I looked into becoming a cantor and what that would mean,” Cohen told the Independent. “What I discovered was that being a Reform cantor encompasses so many different skills: you get to lead the congregation in prayer, teach b’nai mitzvah, introduce new music, and lead lifecycles for the community.”
Cantor Shani Cohen (photo from Shani Cohen)
Following her studies in Houston, Cohen enrolled at Hebrew Union College and embarked on a five-year cantorial program, which comprised a first year of study in Jerusalem, followed by four years in New York. “I got to work with the most incredible, groundbreaking cantors and rabbis of our generation, and enter into a diverse community of Jewish clergy around the world,” she said. “The training for cantors centres on Jewish music and liturgy, but many of our courses are in conjunction with the rabbinic students, including pastoral care, Bible, Jewish history and philosophy, and lifecycles.”
As a student, she presented recitals every year on different topics, such as Shabbat, High Holy Days, and Jewish composers. In her final year, she wrote a thesis and presented a recital on the same topic – her research delved into the collaboration between rabbis and cantors, looking into the history of these roles and the way clergy teams function in Reform congregations today.
Cohen was influenced by the cantors of the early to mid-20th century, which is often referred to as the cantorial “golden age.” These cantors included such names as Yossele Rosenblatt, Moshe Koussevitzky, Leibele Waldman and Moishe Oysher.
“I love how they brought their full voices to every piece, whether they were leading services or performing on the concert stage. I am also greatly inspired by the incredible teachers that I had at the Hebrew Union College Debbie Friedman School of Sacred Music (DFSSM), including Chazzan Israel Goldstein, z”l, who I got to work with as my coach my second year.”
Two of Cohen’s mentors, Prof. Joyce Rosenzweig and Cantor Josh Breitzer, were in attendance at her October installation, offering both words and music. Cohen worked with Breitzer as an intern at Congregation Beth Elohim in Brooklyn, where she got “to see firsthand his ability to weave together traditional and contemporary musical styles in an authentic, cantorial way.”
She said, “I too strive to bring the breadth and depth of Jewish music into my cantorial work, showing our community that both new and old music has a place in our synagogues. I think this is what cantors are called to do in order for us to keep this art form alive.”
Cohen delights in both the variety of her job and its interpersonal nature, noting that no two days are alike. “I could go from teaching students and leading prayer with our religious school one day, to officiating a wedding or going to visit one of our home-bound congregants the next,” she said. “Each facet of my work feels meaningful, especially being there for people when they are feeling vulnerable: when someone loses a loved one, gets bad news, or even the excitement and anxiety of preparing for their child’s b’nai mitzvah.”
A native of the Bay Area, Cohen attended the University of Puget Sound in Tacoma, Wash., where she studied music and psychology. “I love being close to the water and, when the sun comes out, you appreciate it so much more because so much of the year is dark and rainy,” she said. “It was definitely a big contrast from where I grew up, but I felt a strong connection to this part of the continent when I was an undergraduate student, and am so grateful to be able to live here now.”
Cohen and her wife Rabbi Kylynn Cohen moved here with their black Lab mix, Trouble.
“The addition of Cantor Cohen to Temple Sholom’s clergy team is a milestone for our growing congregation, having grown from 600 households in 2013 to nearly 950 households just nine years later,” said Rabbi Dan Moskovitz, senior rabbi at Temple Sholom. “Cantor Cohen adds a depth of pastoral skills and Jewish knowledge to her outstanding musical and cantorial abilities.
“She stands upon the shoulders of lay cantorial soloists Arthur Guttman and Naomi Taussig, who together set the tone and tenor for generations of Vancouver Jewish families,” he said.
“It is an honour and a privilege to be part of the Temple Sholom clergy team,” said Cohen, who brings the team to three, joining Moskovitz and Rabbi Carey Brown. “And I am grateful to get to do this work every day.”
Sam Margolishas written for the Globe and Mail, the National Post, UPI and MSNBC.
Laurie Wohl’s “unweavings” are currently on display at the Zack Gallery, until Nov. 8. The exhibit, Journeys, features two of the New York artist’s collections: the Shabbat Project and the Meditation Project.
“By unweaving the fabric, I make manifest what is hidden within the material – liberating the threads to create shape, then ‘reweaving’ through colour, texture and text,” says Wohl in her artist’s statement.
“My unweavings process came out of my concern with narrative and storytelling,” she told the Independent. “I began as a painter on stretched canvas over 30 years ago, but I came to feel that painting on a flat, rigid surface felt static – distancing me from my materials and my stories. So, I began experimenting, cautiously making slits into the canvas, then unweaving, thread by thread – engaging with the material, exploring it. My work became completely ‘unstrung’ by 1989.
“Unweaving became a meditative process that allows me to feel my way into the material at the same time that I am feeling my way into the spiritual texts that have caught my attention,” she said. “Liberating the threads – creating different forms physically – has given specific resonance to the biblical, spiritual and poetic texts that fascinate me. Both the words within each piece and the unwoven form suggesting these words serve as a visual commentary, a visual midrash. This process of unweaving, then reweaving with text, paint, texture and beads, becomes a modern interpretation of the narrative and ritual function of textiles.”
Laurie Wohl’s textile art is on exhibit at the Zack Gallery until Nov. 8. (photo from Laurie Wohl)
Wohl’s maternal grandfather was an Orthodox rabbi – “I was very close to him, going to Shabbat morning services with him, sitting with him in the intense quiet of a Saturday afternoon twilight, at the waning of Shabbat,” she said.
“I was raised in the questioning tradition of Reform Judaism and I have read widely in the faith traditions of Christian and Eastern religions,” she continued. “My work has grown out of my own search for meaning – what is important to me as an artist in our complex world – and from my exploration of a medium that’s congenial to this meaning. The events of our time and my own life experiences have captured my imagination, and led me to be concerned with possibilities for reconciliation, both political and religious – in post-apartheid South Africa, in Christian-Jewish relations and, after Sept. 11, 2001, in possibilities for interfaith conversations among Jews, Christians and Muslims.”
Wohl uses a heavy cotton canvas for her works. She describes her creative process on her website: “I first release either the warp or weft threads to create the desired shape. Various textures may be collaged onto the surface, such as fibrous papers, sand and pumice. My images and calligraphy are applied with modeling paste. I then apply acrylic paints to the surface, and a final thin layer of gold wash. Where gauze is used, the fabric is dipped in diluted paint, then hand-painted and embellished with fibrous papers. In the last part of the process, beads – prayers and marking points – are affixed with acrylic gel.”
Wohl’s textiles are held in numerous public and private collections, including the Museum of Arts and Design, and some of her pieces have been on long-term loan to U.S. embassies in several countries. Her works are recognized by the American Institute of Architects’ Interfaith Forum on Religion, Art and Architecture, and by the Surface Design Association, and she has exhibited in widely differing venues, from Jewish community centre galleries to university galleries to galleries in theological seminaries.
“One of the exhibits in a Christian theological seminary led to a feature on my work in a magazine, Christianity and the Arts, which led to my work being exhibited in a major church in Chicago – Fourth Presbyterian Church,” she said. “This led to a commissioning by the church of 12 pieces for their sanctuary. And that led to another commission in New York City by Madison Avenue Presbyterian Church.
“The pieces I made for these sanctuaries are my responses to the particular interfaith work of those communities and their Old Testament roots. The Psalms Project for Fourth Presbyterian’s main sanctuary consists of 12 large pieces…. The church asked me to use Hebrew as well as English calligraphy to underscore the congregation’s immersion in its Old Testament roots, and the psalmic motif emphasizes the Christian-Jewish dialogue to which that church is committed. The project for Madison Avenue Presbyterian Church uses texts from both Old and New Testaments, and Hebrew, English and Greek calligraphy.
“Between 2001 and 2010, as I was working on projects exploring the relationship of Christianity and Judaism, the necessity of expanding my work into the realm of Islam was percolating beneath the surface,” she said. “I had just moved to New York City when the events of Sept. 11, 2001, occurred. Experiencing the trauma and aftermath, and especially the demonizing of many Muslims, I began to think about how I, as an artist, could contribute to a better understanding among Jews, Christians and Muslims – to suggest a way that art can be used to mediate at the intersection of faith and politics. After extensive reading in medieval and contemporary spiritual texts and poetry in 2009, I began my 18-piece project – Birds of Longing: Exile and Memory – in which I explore the relationships among the three Abrahamic religions, using text, texture, colour and form. I relate spiritual and poetic texts from the Convivencia (the Spanish medieval period) to contemporary Middle Eastern poetry, particularly Israeli, Palestinian and Syrian. The pieces explore common themes of spiritual love, exile, nostalgia for Andalusia, poetry referencing Old and New Testament texts and the Qu’ran, and poetry speaking of mistrust of enemies, yearning for reconciliation.”
Wohl began the Shabbat Project after Birds of Longing, which had been an intense process. “I was somewhat exhausted spiritually – there seemed to be no end in sight to the fighting and misunderstanding in the Middle East, and xenophobia was heating up against immigrants and refugees coming to our borders,” she said. “I felt a need for spiritual renewal and turned to our tradition. The Kabbalat Shabbat service at my own synagogue – Stephen Wise Free Synagogue [SWFS] in New York City – is a wonderful blend of reflective and joyous music. Through wordless music – the niggunim – and through prayerful words set to music, we are invited to enter into the spiritual, the transcendent, both individually and in community.
“Music has long been an important part of my art practice. The pieces in the Shabbat Project embody prayers and psalms of the Kabbalat Shabbat and Shabbat morning services, both in terms of the texts inscribed and the form of each piece, which evokes – hopefully – the spiritual texts. I was fortunate to collaborate with Cantor Dan Singer at SWFS for a soundscape that is integral to and accompanies the project.”
Wohl shared the meaning behind a few of the works from the Shabbat Project. “The piece ‘Kabbalat Shabbat’ is a circular piece suspended from the ceiling,” she explained. “With this form, and using semi-transparent materials, I try to evoke the mystery and beauty of the Shabbat bridge. There are references to many prayers and melodies embedded in the piece: Y’did Nefesh, Ahavat Olam, V’al Kulam, L’chu N’ran’na.”
“Sanctuary: Mishkan” by Laurie Wohl, who explained: “The partially unwoven centre alludes to the bima and altar, and the piece includes words from Psalm 19, Yih’yu L’ratzon: ‘May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable to You….’”
Another example she gave was “Hashkiveinu: Evening Prayer,” which, she said, “suggests a tallit or prayer shawl and embodies words from an ancient prayer. ‘Cause us to lie down in peace and raise us up, our Sovereign, to life renewed’: ‘Hashkiveinu, Adonai Eloheinu, l’shalom. V’haamideinu shomreinu l’chayim.’
“‘Romemu’ also echoes the form of a tallit or prayer shawl, and incorporates the praise text from Psalm 99:9: ‘Let us exalt Adonai our God / and worship at His holy hill / for holy is Adonai, let us exalt.’ (‘Romemu Adonai Eloheinu / V’hishtachavu l’har kodsho / Ki kadosh Adonai Eloheinu, romemu.’)”
In total, 12 pieces comprise the Shabbat Project and the Meditation Project encompasses 11 pieces.
“For many years, the process of unweaving and working with spiritual texts has been a form of meditation for me,” said Wohl of the latter project. “Living in New York City at the beginning of the COVID pandemic, the incomprehensible numbers of those dying daily caused me to search for a way to find solace in a world turned upside down. Rabbi Angela Buchdahl, the senior rabbi at Central Synagogue in Manhattan, started a daily meditation practice on Zoom just then. I found comfort in her teachings and in the communal aspect of the meditation. Rabbi Buchdahl has continued the communal meditation once a week, and I have continued my meditation practice. The pieces in the Meditation Project draw on the teachings from her sessions and my responses to them. My hope is that the thoughts I held as I created the work will project a sense of mindfulness and serenity that viewers can carry with them.”
Burquest Jewish Community Centre has invited a series of local Jewish leaders to visit the centre and discuss their approach to Jewish practice. A Coat of Many Colours: Conversations about Jewish Practice takes place every other Sunday, through Dec. 11. It started Oct. 16.
Rabbi Laura Duhan-Kaplan – rabbi emerita of Or Shalom (Renewal), volunteer at Beth Israel (Conservative) and director of inter-religious studies and professor of Jewish studies at Vancouver School of Theology – began the series with a talk called An Integrative Spirituality.
On Oct. 30, 1:30 p.m., Congregation Har El’s Rabbi Philip Gibbs speaks on The Conservative Synagogue and the Modern Jew.
“As a Conservative rabbi, I believe that Jewish law develops over time so that even a deep commitment to live according to Jewish values, traditions and rituals can fit with modern sensibilities,” he said. “At the same time, as a community leader, I also recognize that not every person wants to or is able to follow the discipline of an observant life. The synagogue acts as a spiritual toolbox with the many rituals and values that can add meaning to your life. The tension between an individual’s interest and the communal practice is both a challenge to create a welcoming space and an opportunity to explore the deeper meaning of our tradition. We will look at a few examples of how a synagogue could approach rituals like kashrut, prayer and Shabbat.”
Rabbi Tom Samuels of Okanagan Jewish Community Centre, Beth Shalom Synagogue, will give the Nov. 13, 1 p.m., talk, on the topic From Synagogue to Home.
Samuels, who does not identify with any singular Jewish denomination, institution, theology, pedagogy and the like, said, “My session will explore the idea of relocating the North American model for ‘doing Jewish religion’ from the synagogue building to the home. In response to the destruction of the Second Temple, a new Judaism emerged called Rabbinic Judaism. The ancient rabbis established a new locus of Jewish identity and connection to the home, and specifically, to the shulchan, the Shabbat table. Using the model of the Chassidic tish (or botteh, or what Chabad Lubavitch call the farbrengen), we will experience the seamless tapestry of Torah learning, tefillah (prayer), singing and eating that could be replicated by Jewish communities, with or without a local synagogue, throughout North America.”
On Nov. 27, 1 p.m., Temple Sholom’s Rabbi Dan Moskovitz will speak on These Are The Things – 10 Commandments for Living a Purposeful Life.
“Reform Judaism in general emphasizes the moral ethical commandments as being obligatory while the spiritual ritual commandments are more subjective to the individual worshipper with the autonomy to make meaningful, informed choices in their personal practice,” said Moskovitz. “My current rabbinate as senior rabbi of Temple Sholom is shaped by an emphasis on finding meaning through Jewish custom and practice, social justice work, inclusion, outreach to the unaffiliated and developing a relational community.
“I will present a passage from the Mishnah called Elu Dvarim, which details 10 commandments that, if followed during your life, receive reward now and for eternity…. I will present and we will discuss how the application of these particular commandments to your life, regardless of your faith tradition or whether or not you even have one, is one answer to the eternal question what is the meaning of life.”
Rounding out the presenters will be Rabbi Dovid Rosenfeld, Chabad Lubavitch, on Dec. 11, 1 p.m., with a topic to be announced.
Further information on presentations and presenters is available under events at burquest.org.
Imagine an interview where the interviewer wanders around the office, conducting work while asking intrusive personal questions. The interviewee trails behind. An hour-long appointment stretches into two. Things get further off track. The potential employee, apologizing profusely, gets herself out of the building and into the safety of her car. Cheeks burning, she drives herself home, wondering, “What the heck was that?” Days later, she fields phone calls from the interviewer, asking why she won’t accept an offer that is a dollar or two more than minimum wage. The amount would not likely cover the gas, taxes, work clothes and household/childcare coverage it would take to do the job. Advanced degrees and experience don’t matter, she hears. This is the going rate.
Meanwhile, at home, the same potential employee “works” at the numerous tasks that pop up every day. She self-drafts a clothing pattern, because a kid needs pyjamas of the right size and the pattern she has doesn’t fit. She mends a favourite pair of school pants. She prepares multiple meals in advance, baking bread ahead, too. These tasks are lined up for quick moments to spare amid managing homework and extracurricular activities. She contacts tradespeople to see if they can provide affordable repair quotes, responds to school emails and fits in applying for other jobs or doing her current work as she can. She is sadly behind in keeping up with her friends and family, but doesn’t know when to fit that in.
In between, she walks the dog, meets the kids at the school bus, takes them to medical appointments, or pays bills. She politely tries to get out of volunteer commitments that moms “should” do for the school and community organizations.
This might sound familiar to parents, mostly mothers. It’s all the work that goes unnoticed and is uncompensated in our society. Daring to seek compensation for some of these skills is seen as selfish. After all, these parents (usually mothers) are told, “If you expect to earn anything for your experience or education, you’re mistaken. You ‘chose’ not to stay consistently in the full-time workforce. You chose to have children/get married/study a less-lucrative topic in university….” The list goes on.
Our society functions in many ways because of the unpaid labour. It’s most often women’s physical, emotional, social labour done behind the scenes. It feels new and unfair in every generation, I suspect, even as some things change for women slowly over time.
As I study Ketubot, which is a Babylonian talmudic tractate dedicated, at least in theory, to marriage contracts, I’ve had competing demands on my time. It’s forced me to read aspects of the text differently. When the rabbis debated these issues (1,600 to 2,100 years ago, give or take), women’s roles were more circumscribed. However, some of the basic arguments seem to arise in ways that don’t surprise me.
Some of the takeaway nuggets from this tractate…. When a woman marries, her husband is owed her labour and the fruit from her properties. Even if she brings servants into the marriage, there are certain tasks she must do herself. Her virtue and loyalty are worth a monetary value in the marriage.
There are surprises though. If the husband dies, the woman is owed the price of her marriage contract, or the husband’s heirs must take care of her upkeep. She (or her representatives) may write obligations into the marriage contract that the husband will be required to honour. For instance, if she brings a daughter from a previous marriage with her, she can obligate the new husband to pay for the daughter’s physical support in the contract. (Ketubot 102)
Long story short, smart women can sometimes find ways to protect themselves. This is true even in a rabbinic system that isn’t designed necessarily for them. In these texts, women – and their families – both look out for one another and treat each other unfairly.
What can we draw from all this? I feel less alone when considering that expectations may have changed a bit in 2,000 years, but that many of our sometimes truly overwhelming expectations and commitments remain. Further, clever people have protected themselves whenever they can, throughout the centuries. It’s not new to look out for one’s own interests and avoid being taken advantage of by creating some safe boundaries.
Studying these texts at this point in my life offers me a level of maturity that I didn’t have the first time I went through a bad interview. More than once, I was offered a job that took a lot of skill but offered only a low wage. I remember feeling torn up about these experiences, wondering if I was worth so little. It was also a feeling of desperation. I needed a certain amount to live, and this offer wouldn’t provide it.
One privilege of being older is that women who value themselves aren’t embarrassed to ask for what they’re worth. Earning less than what we need doesn’t do us or our families any favours but, of course, in financial desperation, many women must take those jobs anyway. This is what fuels the cycle of low wage work in the first place.
We aren’t all experts in everything. Drafting a sewing pattern doesn’t make one a professional fashion designer. Finding the right document in a bunch of storage boxes is like finding a needle in a haystack, but it doesn’t make me an archivist or a research librarian. We all have our areas of true expertise. Also, just as the rabbis debated the value of one’s roles and responsibilities in marriage, we do the same. Is our work worth something? Heck, yes.
Tractate Ketubot’s messages about the value of a woman or a wife sometimes seem mercenary, but this, too, is Torah. Sometimes, being mercenary is the way to have our work be seen, valued or compensated appropriately.
Joanne Seiff has written regularly for CBC Manitoba and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. Check her out on Instagram @yrnspinner or at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.
Laura Soda, right, with her host family, the Lipiks, and some of her MITF colleagues at Rosh Hashanah. (photo from Laura Soda)
Growing up as a Jewish young adult in White Rock, I always had mixed feelings about celebrating the High Holidays. On one hand, I enjoyed the traditions and the feeling of community that I experienced when we would go to services. However, early fall has always been a hectic and stressful time for our family as well. Aside from Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, there was the beginning of a new school year, all four family birthdays falling within a month of one another and, finally, Thanksgiving. It’s a six-week family marathon.
During the High Holidays, I also was overwhelmed with the feeling of being the “token Jew” in every class. At the beginning of every school year, I dreaded having to approach the teacher and ask for time off so that I could observe holidays that most of my peers, and even some of my teachers, had never heard of. I almost had a sense of guilt, as if I were inventing holidays just to get out of class. All I wanted was to fit in and be like everybody else. And, in the White Rock of my childhood, there was little cultural, ethnic or religious diversity. There were two other Jewish kids at my school, but we rarely – if ever – acknowledged our mutual Jewish connection outside the context of Hebrew school, synagogue or youth group. It wasn’t that we were actively hiding our Jewishness; for me, I simply felt that any sign of difference was “uncool.”
I am currently on a 10-month program teaching English in Israel with Masa Israel Teaching Fellows (MITF). I am living in Kiryat Gat, a small, mostly religious up-and-coming city in the south of Israel. For the next 10 months, I will be teaching English to the children of the community in which I live. Most of the people here do not speak English, and I feel grateful to be in a place where I can help break language barriers and contribute to English language education. For me, however, it has been quite an adjustment.
With the challenges of settling into a new country, in a town where not many people speak English, I am overwhelmed by the tremendous sense of community and unity. Despite the inconvenience of the train and bus schedules around the holidays, it wasn’t just me being inconvenienced. For the first time in my life, I was in the same situation as everyone around me.
Recently, I celebrated my first Israeli Rosh Hashanah with a host family that I was connected to through the MITF program. The Lipik family welcomed my peers and I, quite literally, with open arms and have made us feel at home. My roommate and I walked to Rosh Hashanah services in the morning and passed many others doing the same. Suddenly, I realized that, although I had been prepared to feel like an outsider in a tight-knit community of people who were more religious than me, my Rosh Hashanah experience was so welcoming. I smiled at the children who listened to the shofar with wonder, and I was reminded that children are simply children, no matter where they live or what language they speak.
Later, we joined our host family at their backyard barbeque along with their extended family and friends, and we ate our hearts out as we basked in the smell of smokey chicken kebabs and toasted marshmallows for dessert. Throughout it all, it sunk in that, this year, I don’t have to explain myself. This year, it is my turn to learn – to watch and listen to how other Jews celebrate, being curious about the differences, but, more often, being surprised by the many similarities in our traditions. My first Rosh Hashanah in Israel taught me that although I am far from my home in Canada, I am exactly where I need to be – I feel right at home.
Laura Sodais currently on a 10-month program teaching English in Israel with Masa Israel Teaching Fellows. For more information on the MITF and other Masa programs, visit masaisrael.org.
