It’s an annual ritual — one I dread and loathe.

Many people have written about a supposed “spiritual dimension” to this yearly drudgery. In exalted terms, they describe how removing every last crumb of hametz (leaven) from our houses prepares us to deeply experience the meaning of Passover.

Yeah….right.

Who are these people? Have they really ever cleaned for Passover? I suspect they haven’t — you can’t spend weeks digging bread crumbs out of the crevices of your furniture and wax rhapsodic about it.

It’s time to cast aside this nonsense about “spiritual betterment” and be honest.

There’s nothing vaguely spiritual about folding yourself in half and swiveling your head around like Linda Blair in the Exorcist so that you can peer into the recesses of your oven and scrub at baked-on, caked-on hametz residue.

Shoving the refrigerator aside to reveal the greasy dust, lost magnets and errant food remnants underneath is not — I repeat, not — a transcendent experience. The grunts and expletives you emit while mopping up the mess are not prayers or hymns of praise.

I have never encountered the Divine while scraping ground-in chocolate cake out of the carpet.

This year, I say we acknowledge a dirty little secret – the annual pre-Passover cleaning marathon is not good for the soul. It does nothing for the soul. In fact, my soul puts its feet up and laughs as it watches my body crawling around looking for wayward balls of Trix and dessicated bits of bagel that might have rolled under the stove.

So why do I bother with all that obsessive-compulsive spring cleaning when I could be doing something spiritual, like reviewing the haggadah and meditating on its subtleties? Why do I battle the enemy hametz for a Pyrrhic victory when I could just sweep all those hateful crumbs under the rug and be done with it? My seder guests won’t know the difference, right?

True. But I will, and there’s the rub. Purging my house of hametz has become a necessary prerequisite for celebrating Passover. It alters the space (my house is never as clean as it is on Erev Pesach) and sets the stage. Cleaning is part of the theatrical experience that is Passover, when we reenact yet again the story of our People’s unbelievable liberation from bondage.

And when that dramatic retelling is over, there are crumbs everywhere! Bits of matzah freckle the tablecloth and the floor. And I don’t have to worry about it, because it’s not hametz! After weeks of freaking out about the possibility of a forgotten granola bar lurking in the back of a cupboard, and shrieking at my family, “Don’t eat that toast in here! This room is a hametz-free zone,” I can finally relax and enjoy my own liberation from the bondage of dust cloths and scrub brushes.

And that, my friends, is what you call the sweet taste of freedom.

Hag pesach sameach! Have a happy and kosher Passover!

http://www.jweekly.com/article/full/41535/brilliant-disguise-mask-exhibit-explores-hidden-jewish-identity/

The post-Purim/pre-Passover period is the perfect time to think about the hidden and revealed, and how we identify ourselves as Jews.

Does your mask (external ritual behavior) still match your real self (your spiritual leanings and longings)? 

Are you holding back when you really want to step things up, Jewishly?

Or do you feel like you need to revamp your definition of what it means to be Jewish? 

Disguises and concealed identity are constant themes running through Jewish history. The bible is full of examples. Adam and Eve hid themselves from G-d after they ate from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. Leah, hidden behind a veil, replaced Rachel under the chuppah. Moses was hidden among the Egyptians. And of course, post-biblical history is filled with examples of Jews who disguised themselves or assumed false identities in order to survive.

We are fortunate to live in a time when we can be openly Jewish without fear. But we all resort to masks or disguises now and then. Who’s the Jew behind your masks?

A friend of mine told me that she once knew a fellow Jew who thought there were three kinds of people: Jews, non-Jews and converts. My friend was furious with this acquaintance. “I told him that a convert is a Jew,” she said indignantly.

Her anecdote reminded me that “convert,” the noun, is constricting and misleading. It too readily becomes “Convert,” as in a marginal subgroup of the Jewish people.  We already have too many segments divided by ideological chasms or split by hairline fractures –Modern Orthodox, ultra-Orthodox, Chasidim, Conservative, Reconstructionist, Reform, Egalitarian, Renewal, secular Jews, Israeli Jews, Sephardim, Azhkenazim — to let yet another term of differentiation and separation become part of the way we Jews define ourselves against one another.

Our tradition says that we all stood at Mount Sinai when Moses received the Ten Commandments — – even “converts” (‘gerim’ in Hebrew, which means ‘strangers’). What better argument do you need for full acceptance and membership?

Spiritually speaking, if you’ve converted to Judaism, you were there when Peoplehood was originally conferred. Therefore, there is no difference between a Jew who has converted and one whose great-great-great-great-grandparents were Jews. Further, once you’re in, you can’t change your mind and back out.  According to Jewish law, the adult who has converted cannot reverse the decision, since it was voluntary in the first place.  Once a Jew, forever a Jew.

Encountering someone who chooses to be Jewish is uncomfortable for many born Jews, because it prompts them to deal with deep-seated feelings about their identity, possibly for the first time in a long time. They may recall a personal or family history of discrimination, self-deprecation or ambivalence. Their identity may be a source of discomfort and self-consciousness for them, or a facet of their lives that they have deemed irrelevant in the modern world. They may wonder why anyone would want to be Jewish. And here you are, fresh out of conversion class, all aglow with the significance and wonder of being a Jew. Your very existence is a challenge to their preconceived notions and internalized prejudices about themselves and our People.

That’s why you’ll hear comments like, “You don’t look Jewish,” one of the most mindless statements ever. The remark infuriates me because it suggests an insider’s knowledge of Jews, as if the speaker knows who is a Jew and who is not via a sixth sense only born Jews have. What does it mean to “look Jewish” anyway, when there are Jews who are Ethiopian, Chinese, Japanese, Mexican, Moroccan, Spanish, Swiss, French, Persian, Russian,  Australian, Korean, South African – to name only a handful of the ethnicities or nationalities represented among the Jewish people.

A Jew is a Jew, regardless of where in the world he/she was born and whether his/her affiliation with the tribe is an accident of birth or a voluntary choice. I make this statement fully aware that many Jews of Orthodox persuasion will vehemently disagree with me. Oh well. As the saying goes, “Two Jews, three opinions.”

For now, I would like to suggest that we all start using “convert”  as a verb (accent on the second syllable), not a label. You studied, you prepared, you made the cut (or, if you’re male, you underwent the cut during your symbolic bris) and now you are a full-fledged member of the People. The path you took to get here is not relevant. You don’t have to apologize or explain. You’re legit.  Welcome to the tribe — did you have any idea what you were getting yourself into?

Listening to the Megillah — yes, this is a mitzvah. It’s so easy, because you’re required to listen, not read along (so don’t worry if you don’t know Hebrew). On Saturday night and again during the day Sunday, anyone over the age of Bar or Bat Mitzvah (13 for boys, 12 for girls) is required to hear the whole Megillah. Whenever the reader says Haman’s name, stamp your feet, twirl your grogger, hoot or boo.

Get schikered (drunk) — On Purim, the Talmud commands us to get so tipsy we can’t tell the difference between (“ad lo yada” in Hebrew) Mordechai the righteous and Haman the wicked. When someone passes you a little cup of schnapps or whiskey during the Megillah reading, drink up!

Eat up! — Late in the afternoon on Purim, we’re supposed to have a Purim seudah (feast). There are no special prayers or rituals associated with this meal. It’s just a great excuse to get together with family and friends for some good food.

Hag Purim sameach! (Happy Purim!)

Purim begins at sundown Saturday, Feb. 27.  In the last post, we talked about giving tzedakah to the poor. Let’s talk about another mitzvah of Purim: giving Shalach Manos (also called Mishloach Manot), or gifts of food, to friends.

Start by selecting a variety of foods — fruits, nuts, cookies, candy, pretzels, chips, small packages of tea or coffee, little bottles of schnapps or other liqueur, fancy little jars of jam or olives, chocolates, and so forth. You don’t have to do all of the above — just make sure you have at least two different types of food, so recipients can say two different blessings (for example, the blessing before eating fruit and the blessing before eating cookies or other sweet pastries).

If you’re feeling creative, you can give a theme to your Mishloach Manot (also called Shalach Manot). Try making Purim Italiano Mishloach Manot (a box of pasta, a jar of spaghetti sauce, a small bottle of wine, a wedge of Parmesan, etc) or Healthy Purim (fresh fruit, organic granola, green tea, veggie chips, whole-wheat scones, etc), or a Chocolate Lovers’ shalach manot (everything from chocolate hamantashen, chocolate-covered raisins, mole sauce, fudge — let your imagination run wild).

Next, you’ll need some sort of container to put the treats in. If you feel like splurging, buy pretty gift bags, boxes or baskets. I prefer to keep it simple (and cheap) – a brown paper bag with some Purim stickers works just fine (and is ideal if you’re short on time or money). If you have kids, put them in charge of decorating the bags. I’ve also seen (and received) Mishloach Manot goodies in containers shaped like Chinese take-out boxes, fabric bags (muslin and organza are common choices) and even paper plates covered with foil or plastic wrap. There are no hard-and-fast rules.

It’s customary to deliver the mishloach manot on Purim day. And that’s it — you’ve done a mitzvah and endeared yourself to your friends!

Find at least two poor people and give them a generous amount of cash. It’s nice to give them a gift of food, too. What if you can’t find individual recipients for your Matanot L’evyonim? You can fulfill the mitzvah by putting money in a tzedakah box or sending a check to a charitable organization. One I like is MAZON, A Jewish Response to Hunger. This is a national nonprofit organization that makes grants to soup kitchens, food pantries and other organizations (Jewish, non-Jewish and secular) that fight hunger.

“I can’t right now,” she replied. “It’s the winter festival, and it only happens once a year. Shabbat happens every week.”

A logical response, right? In our mainstream culture, the rare, infrequent events are of course more special than those that occur regularly.

Not in the Jewish way of thinking. It’s one of the things I love about Judaism — there’s this great, big contrarian streak running through it.

In Judaism, Shabbat — the 25-hour period that predictably comes around every 7 days — is more special than once-a-year holidays (except possibly Yom Kippur, which is also known as the “Shabbat of Shabbats”). It’s not infrequency, it’s what Shabbat represents that sets it apart and makes it special.

Rabbi Irving Greenberg calls it “the temporary anti-reality of perfection” (in The Jewish Way: Living the Holidays). He adds that: “On Shabbat, it is not really that one is forbidden to work, it is that all is perfect, there is nothing to do.”

Nothing to do…now isn’t that a delicious notion for all of us overscheduled, multitasking, distracted, overcommitted, verge-of-a-complete-breakdown modern humans?

We live in the era of the perpetual update. Instead of news of the day, it’s news of the minute or even second. This makes work into a moving target that we cannot stop chasing. I think it’s why we feel overwhelmed by our to-do lists — nothing is ever really “done” anymore.

But if that’s the case, if we never pause to savor how far we’ve come and ponder where we’d like to go next, what becomes of free will? We run the risk of operating on autopilot (not to mention overdrive). Then we aren’t really creative agents in the world, we’re merely responders, reflexively doing what “needs” to be done.

If you “skip” Shabbat because it comes every week and you’ll have another chance next week, you’ve missed out on a fleeting taste of perfection. You’ve passed up an opportunity to do nothing, to stop trying to manage and manipulate the world. You’ve lost a chance to review your work of the previous week and say,  ”It’s enough” or “It’s good.” 

My Webster’s notes that “special” implies “…that the thing described has qualities, aspects, uses, etc. which differentiate it from others of its class…” That’s certainly true of Shabbat, whose qualities of perfection separate it from other days.

Think of it this way — which would you rather have, just one day or 52 days of perfection?

Shabbat shalom!

This coming Friday at sundown, we begin celebrating Tu B’Shevat (it means “15th of Shevat”) also known as “the New Year of the Trees.” This is the time of year when trees are just beginning to bud.

In Israel, it’s customary to go on picnics and plant new trees (which won’t happen on the day itself this year, as it falls on Shabbat). Jews everywhere eat the seven “fruits” of the land of Israel mentioned in Torah: wheat, barley, pomegranates, dates, figs, olives and grapes.

In the U.S., Tu B’Shevat doesn’t get much attention. It’s not one of the major holidays on our calendar, and besides, we’re still in the depths of winter. In much of the country, the ground is either blanketed in snow or too cold and hard for digging a hole. What slender sapling could survive sub-zero temperatures, anyway?

But Tu B’Shevat isn’t just about trees. There’s a mystical, spiritual dimension to it, and that’s what I want to share with you…

There’s a fair amount of tree imagery in Judaism. The Torah is called etz ha’im, the “tree of life.” Adam and Eve ate from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. After the flood, the dove brought olive branches back to Noah. The prophet Zechariah had a vision of a menorah with an olive tree on either side. Oil was pouring straight from the trees into the menorah, symbolizing renewal and the promise of peace. This vision is evoked in the image on the seal of the state of Israel – a menorah flanked by two olive branches. The Torah says people are like “trees of the field.” We grow and mature and bear “fruit:” our good deeds (mitzvot) and acts of loving kindness (gemilut hasadim).

In Hebrew, the word “shevat” means “branch.” As my rabbi pointed out in his Shabbat sermon a couple weeks ago, metaphorically each individual Jew is like a branch connected to the main trunk (the People) and drawing spiritual energy from our roots (Torah and the Jewish communities we’re connected to. In a neat linguistic twist, “shevat” shares the same root in Hebrew as the word for “tribe”). 

When a branch is cut from a tree, it loses its vitality and becomes a dead stick. The same thing can happen to an individual Jew who is cut off (deliberately or unwillingly) from our source. 

Tu B’Shevat falls in a season when the branches of many living trees are bare and stark against the winter sky. These branches appear lifeless, but deep within the tree, life-renewing sap is forming and it’s flowing outward through them.

Winter is naturally a time of introspection, and Tu B’Shevat is a great opportunity to reflect on our connection (however firm or tenuous) to Judaism and the Jewish people, and decide what we want to do to strengthen it.

In English, we speak of “branching out.” But before we can do that, we need to go deep within, drawing on the source of our strength and vitality. Tu B’Shevat is the perfect holiday to think about how we want to grow spiritually this year and what type of fruit we want to bear. If you’ve lapsed in your new year’s resolutions (who hasn’t?), here’s your second chance!

This Tu B’Shevat, turn over a new leaf. Or go out on a limb…

“Information on how to approach a synagogue or rabbi for the purpose of furthering one’s education would be much appreciated. Which folks are more open to converts? Perplexingly, it sometimes seems the more conservative, the more open.”

In Pirkei Avot (“Chapters of the Fathers”) — a book of incredible Jewish wisdom, insight and inspiration — the Talmudic sage Yehoshua ben Perachyah advises: “Asei l’cha rav,” which means, “Provide yourself with a teacher.” Unfortunately, good old Yehoshua doesn’t give us any “how-to’s.”

So I’ll try to fill the breach.

You ask: “Which folks are more open to converts?” Ideally, everyone should be, whether they’re Reform, Reconstructionist, Renewal, Conservative, Modern Orthodox, Traditional Orthodox. We are instructed in Torah to welcome the “ger” in our midst (the literal translation of “ger” is “stranger,” but it’s traditionally understood to mean a person who has converted). 

In reality, however, some communities are more open than others because they aren’t hung up on narrow ideas of who “belongs” at their synagogue. Other places are so locked into preserving their “identity” that they really don’t want any “new blood.”

The only way to find out is to go shul-shopping. Visit synagogue offices on a weekday and ask about the community. Does the staff eye you suspiciously or do they seem overjoyed to see you? They should load you up with a schedule of events, a copy of the newsletter, a few pamphlets about their classes and then introduce you to the rabbi, if he or she is available. 

Then go back to the synagogues on Shabbat. Are the congregants welcoming (during my first visit to the synagogue I eventually joined, a woman walked up to me and said, “Hello. Are you new? Are you married?”), or do they bury their faces in their prayerbooks and ignore you? How does the service feel? Not to sound hokey, but what’s the vibe? Are people davening (praying) with earnestness and sincerity? Or do they seem listless and bored? Do they smile at you and one another? Are ordinary congregants actively involved in the service (i.e., leading the singing, reading from Torah)? This is a sign of a Jewishly literate and educated congregation that could connect you with capable teachers.

Which brings us to finding a ”rav.” Of course, you could use the cold calling method, in which you contact a rabbi out of the blue. I don’t recommend this approach. Many years ago, I called a rabbi about conversion. He was the head of a community about 15 miles from me. “Do you plan to move here and join my congregation?” he asked. When I said no, that I was just looking for someone to study with for conversion purposes, he suggested I call a rabbi closer to home. He told me he only worked with candidates  who would eventually become members of his community, so that he could make sure they continued to live a Jewish lifestyle after conversion (hey, at least he was upfront).

I suggest that you hold off on approaching a rabbi until you’ve seen him or her “in action” a few times. This is the safe way to scope them out. Every rabbi has his or her own unique style, which is determined by age, gender, personality, upbringing and Jewish life experiences. Finding yourself a rav is a little like dating — you don’t want to commit until you have a good sense of who the person is.

And with all due respect to Yehoshua ben Perachyah, why confine yourself to just one rav or one synagogue (I belong to a Conservative and an Orthodox shul. And I go to Torah class at a Chabad house). Jewish learning takes many forms and happens in many contexts. I believe you can learn something from every single Jew you meet. Take lots of classes and workshops with lots of rabbis and with knowledgeable lay leaders too. If you’re lucky to live where there are a lot of choices, sample them all. Take a class at a Reform temple one week, then go to your local Chabad the next. And if there’s a Jewish community center (JCC) in your town, that can be another place of learning for you.

Wherever you go, I want you to know that you do not have to say you converted to Judaism. Not that it’s a deep dark secret, but if the conversion process is complete, you are a Jew and should be accepted as one. Any synagogue in the world is your spiritual home. You have a right to be there, as much right as someone born into Judaism. Don’t feel that you have to explain how you arrived at the threshhold.