Struggle

I often find myself, lately, inspired by the words of Kay Warren.

For those of you who know me, you might find this quite surprising, since she and her husband, Rick Warren, are the founders of the Saddleback Church. Most of her words are theologically Christian in nature, and don't quite fit with all of my own ideas.

But then....those of you who know what Kay and Rick have experienced in the last year and a half will not find this entirely surprising at all. Their son, Matthew, committed suicide in 2013. 

Since then, Kay has been remarkably public about her grief, mostly on her Facebook page. I've been touched by many of her words, and while it's not exactly the same as our situation, her most recent post resonated with me so strongly.

She wrote:
But when Matthew died, church became a strange and unfamiliar place – not because of our congregation, but because of ME. The worship songs fell on my broken heart like sharp knives that cut me open even further – the words of healing and hope and victory contrasted with the bitter reality of Matthew’s violent death. The crowds were frightening and overwhelming – I could barely access comfort for myself, let alone come up with up one shred of energy to comfort anyone else. I felt like everyone was staring at me, watching my every move (whether they were or not), and on more than one occasion I climbed over friends and family in a frantic scramble to get outside before my sobs turned into wails.

Kay goes on to explain that eventually she figured out how to go back to regular services. She wrote about choosing not to sit in her former front row seat, but near the back. And eventually, she found her way back to the front of the church, mainly to support her husband, the preacher.

Her words resonated with me because, unlike Kay, I don't always have the luxury of sitting in the back. I've worked so hard over these last 400 days to be able to put myself in the front of a worship service, to read and lead the words that have been a part of me for as long as I can remember. I can lead a congregation through prayers of praise, words of blessing, and yes, even prayers of healing and remembrance. 

But I haven't found it easy to be a participant.

One of my teachers pointed out to me that these two sides of the prayer service require different muscles. And it's so true. My prayer-leading muscles still work. I can read the words and sing the melodies, and be a part of the community as I'm doing so. It's not an act. I can lead with intention and focus, even with joy.

Oh, but participating in my own right is a whole different story. Just as Kay explained about her worship songs, it's the same for me -- no matter what the prayer's meaning, I can find a way to lift it up in sharp, angry contrast with the Sam-shaped hole inside of me. I can sit in a prayer service, I can let the words of others wash over me. I can find the music to be lovely, heart-warming, a blessing. But the challenge....I find it so difficult to open my mouth. I find it so hard to have only the task of myself, my own prayer. The intention and focus drifts....leaving me sad, frustrated, angry, and empty.

Kay found her way back to her "regular" place in worship, returning to the front row because her husband asked her to be his supporter, his guiding light. Although she didn't frame it this way, I wonder if that is for the same reason that I am able to stand in front of the congregation and lead with intention. It's because my role in that moment of prayer isn't only about me. It's about guiding and leading and helping others to prayer, helping others to find their own way to God.

When my own children sit beside me, I can open my mouth and sing or say the words. I am their mother, but I am also their teacher. Even a sliver of the role helps me to find my own way in. 

But alone....

Perhaps I'm still really not on speaking terms with God, as I've often quipped to my friends.
I'm willing to help bring others along to have their own conversations. 
I'm willing to be present when those conversations are happening.

But as I said back in June, I'm still not particularly interested in inviting God back into my own conversation. And I'm continuously grateful for a tradition that defines us as "ones who wrestle with God," because I know that this internal struggle, this fight within me and this painful path of trying to find my place...this too is holy. 

This picture was taken when I was part of the Women of the Wall prayer service on Rosh Chodesh Tevet.

Fragility and Strength

Fragility and Strength: A Litany of Hope for Sukkot

The Sukkah is a symbol of fragility.
We build the temporary structure each year and know that it is only meant to last for the week-long holiday. It sways in the breeze. The raindrops land inside. The animals nibble at our decor. We know it could come crashing down on us.

The blessings of our health is so fragile. The vibrancy of our children sways in the breeze, and sometimes the raindrops hit our lives. A diagnosis...it all comes crashing down.

The Sukkah is a symbol of uncertainty.
We don't know what tomorrow will bring. We only know that here and now, we stand together in our uncertain structure. We build without looking at the weather forecast. Will this be the year that snow keeps us inside?

What will tomorrow bring? Will the next test show a new worry? Will the next day bring pain and tears or will smiles rule the day? Day by day, each one is different. We don't know what we don't know.

The Sukkah is a symbol of hope.We build the structure, knowing that we will celebrate even if its isn't perfect. We know that it will be messy and there will be bugs and breezes and leaves floating in the soup. And yet we call this time "zman simchateinu," the time of our rejoicing. We celebrate.

We believe that he will return to health. We must hold on to the hope of the skilled hands of his doctors and nurses. We fight and fight and fight because we see the future in his eyes. We talk about tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. We plan and prepare. And we celebrate today.

The Sukkah is a symbol of our strength.
We build, knowing that we are vulnerable. We build, knowing that it may all collapse. But we still build. And that is our strength. Year after year, we build and re-build. We share our fragile strength with others and we grow stronger.

We are strong because we continue the fight, and we are not alone. For Jack and Ian and Jake and Eric and Bo and Carli and Hannah and Cara and Ari and Mia and Mya and Aidan and Donna and Blake and Sam and...Day after day...we build, knowing that we are vulnerable. We build, knowing that it may all collapse. But we still build.

Zman simchateinu - each day of life is the time of our rejoicing.  

Traveler's Prayer

I am NOT a nervous flier.

While I don't get to do it all that often, I do love to travel. I like the whole thing, from the packing to the waiting in the airport (although not beyond normal wait times, please!) and the people watching and the little cups of coffee on the flight and the feeling that I'm doing something special and fun.

But I also like to have a little personal insurance:

Each time I get onto a plane, as the captain announces that we'll be taxiing to the runway, I pull out my trusty Tefillat haDerech, Traveler's Prayer. I actually carry two of them - the traditional Hebrew text, and a more modern interpretation of the prayer. And I say both, quietly to myself. If I'm traveling with someone else, I usually place my hand on them (today it was my sweet husband) as I say the prayer.

Let's be honest here. Do I think that my saying of the prayer has any impact on the safety of the flight? In truth, I think it's doubtful. But it has an impact on me. It sanctifies the journey, even a simple vacation or family trip. It reminds me that each and every step of my life, even if I don't always remember it, has the potential for holiness.

I'm heading to San Francisco for the 121st Annual Convention of the Central Conference of American Rabbis. I have the honor of participating in the group blog for the convention here. I will also be tweeting, using the hashtag #ccar10. When rabbis get together, we talk a lot of shop, learn together, pray together, and generally try to have a great time!

(Plus I'm taking advantage of in-flight wi-fi to write this post. How cool is that?)

Prayer for the Economy?

Can you pray for a bailout?

In today's New York Times article about Detroit churches praying for a bailout:
The S.U.V.’s on the stage, a Chevrolet Tahoe, Ford Escape and Chrysler Aspen on loan from local dealerships, were all gas-electric hybrids, and Bishop Ellis urged worshipers to combat the region’s woes by mixing hope with faith in God.

Is this really how prayer works?

Certainly we can pray for the strength to make it through tough times. We can pray for the ability to help ourselves and others. We can even pray for wisdom - for ourselves and our lawmakers.

Prayer, I believe, is within us. God is not a magic candy dispenser, giving us a gumball for a quarter, a bailout for a prayer. Faith must, I believe, be coupled with the inner work of the self and the outer work of culitvating our connection to humankind.

My prayer for today:
May difficult times bring us the power to help each other. May we all be blessed with the prosperity of spirit that will bring us together and uplift us even in dark days. May we find inner peace and outer community.
May we all be blessed.

Some Related and Possibly Useful Posts:
Human Rights
Change the World, One Sandwich at a Time
Growing My Own
Gifts of Tzedakah
The Obama Family Thanksgiving

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Spirit of the Kotel

Visiting the Western Wall of the Temple Mount (Kotel in Hebrew) in Jerusalem is, for me, a most spirited and spiritual experience. It's spiritual because this place, while merely a wall of stone, is in truth the central focal point, the closest we can stand to the Holy of Holies, an connection to the past that cries out with a sacred intensity. It is spirited, because each moment there is fraught with political and social complexity...I do have to focus myself and breathe in the stones deeply in order to find the peace I desire in this place because I am so easily distracted by the (sometimes) technical aspects of the visit. Men and women are not allowed to pray together at the Kotel and this frustrates and annoys me...I must remind myself to be in my own moment, in my own circle, and find my own peace.

Many people wash their hands before approaching this holy site. This is not about cleanliness, but rather about ritual purity. I love the image of washing away the rest of the world to step into this place.
There are many old women who spend their days at the Kotel, giving blessings and collecting tzedakah, money for the poor. This woman blessed me and my children, asking about my husband, my life, and offering her prayers in exchange for my tzedakah money.

The stones of the wall are old and worn, from generations of caresses and kisses.
It is customary to place notes in the cracks of the Kotel, personal prayers that are too precious to be said aloud, too precious to let float away on the wind, but rather clutched tightly in the hand and then wedged tightly into the holy stones.

God is everywhere, but I am different wherever I go. At the Kotel, I feel a difference in me as I stand shoulder to shoulder with the past...and I find a different connection, a different spirit.

See what others find spirited this week...