Category Archives: High Holy days

High Holy Days in the Pines, 2020

On the morning of Erev Rosh HaShanah, I came out to Fire Island, where I have been leading services for the last 22 years. Even though our services are on-line this years, I still wanted to be in the place where the congregation is based. Being here in this physical place for the High Holy Days every year is part of my own personal introspection and reflection practice of the holy days. Without an in-person congregation to interact with, to my surprise and delight I found a congregation in the natural beauty of this unique landscape. One part of my personal practice for many years has been to write a High Holy Day poem, and here is this year’s.

 High Holy Days in the Pines, 2020
 
A congregation of sea-oats rustle and sway,
bowing to the rising moon.
Amen, amen they whisper, a wafting of supplication. 
The wind roars across the sky and 
whitecaps scatter their greetings across the bay.
 
Like us, the birds have not yet 
departed this island for the winter
and in this twilight they sing, full-throttled and eager
to fill the empty spaces between us
in this strange year of distance,
comforting us with their eternal chant. 
 
The pine trees show off fresh growth,
their bright, exuberant boughs
stretching out with faded tips.
If only it was this easy for us to demarcate 
our old ways from the new.
 
The still-open gates stand ready to allow us entry.
This season beckons us to unscroll,
to shed the brittle membranes of last year’s self.
Come, let us slough off the unrealized and unfulfilled, 
the unloved and the unresolved. 
Let us become undone
in order to start anew. 

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We’re All In This Boat Together – Rosh HaShanah, 2017

This is my sermon from the Rosh HaShanah evening service at Congregation B’nai Olam in Fire Island Pines, NY. I’m posting it here by request, with thanks to my readers and editors, to those who provided inspiration, and to those who listened to it with open minds and hearts. 

IMG_1085It was finally time. Shlomo and his husband Shimi had been planning this trip for so long. And they both really needed a vacation. The day of the trip, they were so excited they could hardly wait to board the ship.

They got to the port easily and boarded. Everything was going well – the sun was shining, the water was a sparkly blue, the seats were comfortable, the view was spectacular.

Shlomo leaned back against Shimi and smiled. “This is so lovely,” he said. “Thanks for making this happen.”

And Shimi smiled back. “It will be so nice to relax for a while.”

They were far out at sea when Shlomo looked over at a man across from him. At first he thought he was seeing things, but then he realized, no, the man across from him indeed had a drill. And he was drilling a hole beneath his seat.

Shlomo leapt up and called out, “Hey, what are you doing?”

The man turned to Shlomo and said, “Don’t worry, I’m only drilling under my own seat, not yours.”

Shimi saw what was going on, and jumped up too. “Please, don’t do that!”

The man ignored them and kept at it.

“Stop that right now!” Shlomo yelled.

The man turned to Shlomo and Shimi. “What business is it of yours what I do to my seat?” he asked.

“Please stop,” Shlomo pleaded.

Again the man brushed him off. “I like to see the water underneath me when I travel. What do you care? I’m not touching your seats.”

Shlomo turned to Shimi. “What should I do?” he whispered. “I want us to have a nice vacation.”

“I know,” Shimi whispered back. “But we have to get him to stop.”

So again Shlomo tried to stop the man. “What you’re doing makes no sense. It’s dangerous.”

The man still went on drilling. “Stay out of my affairs!” he yelled at Shlomo and Shimi. “This is my seat, I paid for it, and I have the right to do what I want to it!”

Again, Shlomo and Shimi exchanged looks.

“Sir, you must stop right now!” Shlomo said.

The man looked up. “Go enjoy your vacation. Go find other seats. Go do whatever you want, but mind your own business. Why can’t you leave me alone?”

“But don’t you realize,” Shlomo asked, “That if you drill under your own seat, the water will rise up through the hole and flood the whole boat. What you’re doing endangers us all.”

(adapted from Midrash Rabbah, Lev 4:6)

This ancient Jewish story comes to us from the midrash – with a little modern spin of course. But I didn’t choose it just to share a sweet Jewish folktale – there’s something profound embedded in this story.

Jews have long understood that we’re all in this together. We understand that the hole under your seat in the boat will sink us all. Over and over, throughout the Torah, we are told to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and care for the orphans and widows. Thirty-six different times the Torah tell us to love the stranger, for we were strangers in the land of Egypt. In the context of the time it was written, the Torah teaches that everyone in a society is bound up together, that the fate of some is the fate of all, and that the powerful have a responsibility to help the powerless. Our sages understood that when one suffers, we all suffer.

Another story. It’s a Friday night at the synagogue. An angry mob marches by. The synagogue calls the police and asks for protection, but are turned down. The police have their hands full and protecting the synagogue doesn’t really seem like a big deal given what else is going on. But as this mob marches past the synagogue, they chant “the Jews will not replace us” and “blood and soil.” They threaten to burn down the synagogue. That evening the synagogue goes on lock down until they can safely get everyone out the building. Thinking the worst is over, on Saturday morning the congregation gathers again for services – there’s a bar mitzvah. And meanwhile, armed militants carrying swastikas on flags march around the building yelling “Sieg Heil.” And more of the chants of the night before – “Jews will not replace us.” “Blood and soil.” And as the mob outside swells in numbers, the synagogue chooses to quietly, carefully, take the Torahs out the back door and drive them away to safety. Havdalah services are cancelled because they decide it is too risky for Jews to gather together. This story is not from Germany, circa 1937. This happened a few weeks ago, in Charlottesville, Virginia. This story happened in 2017, here, in this country, land of the free and home of the brave.[i]

I’m not an alarmist. In my almost 20 years as a rabbi I have never given a sermon about antisemitism. But things have changed so much since we were together here a year ago. I never in my life thought something like what happened in Charlottesville could ever happen again, and certainly not in this country. And yet what was unimaginable a year ago has happened.

Antisemitism is alive and well in an America in which racism and bigotry are becoming more and more mainstream and normalized. Along with the national rise in hate crimes, this past year has seen there has been a tremendous rise in antisemitic incidents in schools, playgrounds, cemeteries, and synagogues across America. Suddenly it’s become clear that we’re in the boat too, that this boat is surrounded by racists and misogynists and homophobes and transphobes and science-deniers and white supremacists and the KKK and antisemites, and that it’s taking on water. And we have a choice to make about how we’re going to respond.

It’s not that I didn’t know antisemitism existed. But I naively felt that, for the most part, at least in the United States, antisemitism was part of history. Unlike the world into which our parents or grandparents or great-grandparents were born, as Jews most of us experience tremendous privilege and great opportunities. I’m not saying that everything about our lives is good and easy – not at all – but it’s probably fair to say that for most of us, being Jewish has not been the thing that’s gotten in the way.

I didn’t raise my children to be afraid as Jews and I didn’t raise them to define their Jewish identities in relationship to anti-Semitism. That is, as a rabbi, as a Jew, as a mother, I’ve always felt strongly that Jewish identity should be based on pride in Jewish values and history and accomplishments, in the enjoyment of living a Jewish life of holidays and rituals and yes, good food, and not as a response to the ugly reality of anti-Semitism.

Jewish identity should be about joy, about love, about pride – about how the foundational values and customs of Judaism enhance our lives and give it meaning, not about how we’re hated, not about our suffering. “Because they hate us” is not a good enough reason to be Jewish. We should be proud to be Jewish for the positive reasons: because being Jewish brings us joy, because it brings meaning and purpose to our lives, because we love the music or the sacred texts or the food or the jokes or the culture of study and question-asking or the tradition of storytelling or the drive to make the world a better place.

I put it to you that in these precarious times, just to be proudly Jewish is a form of protest. In this new year, even as we work to keep the ship from sinking, fight antisemitism on a personal level by owning your Judaism, by taking pride in it, by being a Jew publicly. Even as we work to help others stay afloat, find a reason and a new way to claim your Jewish identity. Even as we reach out a hand to the drowning, use core Jewish values as a way to frame the choices you make in your life. For that too is a form of resistance.

But these steps are not the end of what it means to own our Jewish identity.

That day in Charlottesville tore the lid off the quiet contagion of anti-Semitism in America that had been festering in the dark. Anti-Semitism doesn’t exist in a vacuum. Where’s the antisemitism, there’s white supremacy, racism, homophobia, and bigotry of all kinds.

When rights are taken away from anyone, they’re taken away from everyone.

When hate is allowed to flourish, it pollutes us all.

Intolerance and hate and the deliberate diminishing of equality under the law are infections that threaten the freedom of us all.

There can be no moral equivalency when it comes to hate and its accompanying violence – it is simply wrong and must be condemned. When a moral equivalence is made about groups whose mission is hate and intolerance and exclusion, and those who protest such groups, we are all harmed. There is no excuse and no context that makes that kind of comparison acceptable in a democracy founded on the principles of equal rights for all.

Even as we respond to antisemitism by living our Judaism out loud and without fear, we must also find common ground with others who find themselves on the receiving end of hate, racism, and suspicion, even if we don’t completely agree with their outlook or values. It is our responsibility to remember that there are people with fewer resources than we have, and less recourse than we do, who rights are threatened or being taken away. Our tradition is clear:

Im ain ani li, mi li? If I am not for myself, who will be for me? – We must speak up for ourselves.

And if I am only for myself, what am I? – But we can’t only be for ourselves. We have a responsibility to help others.

So in this new year, it is time for us to show up for others as we also commit to showing up and speaking up for ourselves. As we enter this annual period of reflection and self-examination, we must ask: How can I fight antisemitism by taking pride in being a Jew? Or, because I know we have many beloved participants here who aren’t Jewish, what role can you play in eradicating this disease of anti-Semitism? But it doesn’t stop there. Because we know what it is to be hated, to be feared, to be oppressed, to be a stranger, and because Judaism demands of us that we respond with compassion and justice, we must go on to ask: what more can I do to fight hate and intolerance against all people? What role can I play in speaking up for the powerless or voiceless? If not us, then who? And if not now, when?

[i] https://reformjudaism.org/blog/2017/08/24/you-think-it-couldnt-happen-your-synagogue-so-did-i

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Honey Cake for a Sweet New Year

14470609_10154465613400822_6699187027675087114_nPart of my sermon writing and service preparation ritual is baking. Though I am not a congregational rabbi, this is the one time a year when I regularly have congregational responsibilities. For the last 18 years I have served as high holy day rabbi at Congregation B’nai Olam in Fire Island Pines. For the weeks leading up the holy days, in addition to my regular work responsibilities, I spend a good chunk of my nights and weekends preparing to lead the congregation.

I bounce between the computer and the oven, trying to be productive on both fronts. The baking helps ground me as the high holiday prep sets me aloft – it’s a good balance. Both activities are different aspects of the holiday observance. One is about the soul and the intellect, the other about the worldly sphere of taste, smell, and visual pleasure. I have never tested this theory but it often seems that I could not do one without the other; they are two sides of the same experience, a sort of necessary duality. Food for the soul and inspiration for the body.

Every year, as I enter the process of soul-searching that is part of my sermon writing and preparation, I also search cookbooks and blogs for the best honey cake recipe. And as I’ve done so, I’ve tweaked and added to various recipes. I’m not a fan of dry, practically tasteless honey cake (or dry, tasteless sermons either, for that matter). So I’ve been going for a moist, dense, savory-sweet cake with depth. The recipe has got to include strong coffee, brandy or applejack, and crystalized ginger.

I think that I found it this year. The following recipe may just hit the spot. To give credit where credit is due, it is based very loosely on a recipe from Mimi Sheraton, but it is adapted quite a bit. Whether you are a sermon-writer, t’filah leader, outline-preparer, storyteller, cantor, rabbi, chanter, shofar-blower, communal leader, or communal participant, may your service to the community be sweet, full of depth, and nourishing. Shanah tovah u’metukah. 


The Best Honey Cake

 (Adapted from Mimi Sheraton)

2 cups dark honey

¾ cup black coffee, brewed double strength

3 tablespoons mild vegetable oil

1 cup crystalized ginger cut up into small pieces

4 extra-large eggs

¾ cup sugar

3½ cups sifted all-purpose flour

Pinch of salt

1 teaspoon baking soda

1½ teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon cinnamon

½ teaspoon ground nutmeg

½ teaspoon ground cloves

¼ cup brandy or applejack (I prefer applejack)

½ cup ground almonds

  • Preheat the oven to 325˚ F. Oil 2 small loaf pans.
  • Put the honey in a large, heavy saucepan and slowly bring to a boil over low heat. Add half the ginger and mix it into the honey. Let the honey mixture cool, then stir in the coffee and oil.
  • Beat the eggs with the sugar in a large bowl until they’re lighter in color and thick in texture. Stir in the honey-coffee-ginger mixture. Add the flour, along with the salt, baking soda and powder, and spices, into the batter. Add brandy and mix in.
  • Pour the batter into the oiled pans. Sprinkle almonds and cut up pieces of crystalized ginger on top.
  • Bake until the top is golden brown, about 1½ hours. The edges will brown a long time before the centers are done so insert a knife or toothpick to test. Cool in the pans, or wrap in foil and pans refrigerated for up to two weeks before serving.

The longer the cake waits uncut, the more flavor it develops (within reason). It can last a few weeks if refrigerated.

It’s also easy to double (or triple or quadruple). Make a bunch of small loaves to give as gifts at Rosh HaShanah.

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Rosh HaShanah in the Pines 2015

IMG_2389
Every year I write a new poem for Rosh HaShanah to share with the community I lead in Fire Island Pines. Below is this year’s poem. I’m also including the poem from 2014 since I never posted it last year. 

Rosh HaShanah in the Pines, 2015/5776

The sea pushes back off the shore,

yielding to gravity with a sigh,

not a leaving but a letting go,

a retreat into its own deep fullness.

The sun relinquishes its hold on the sky

only to rise once more at daybreak

as the tide rolls back in,

a different kind of letting go,

an unspooling across the expanse.

And we creatures of earth are granted a fresh start,

a chance to gather the debris

and shape a whole new world.

 

Wholeness is a kind of holiness,

the stasis of perfection.

But brokenness demands re-creation,

a churning cycle of endings and beginnings,

the act of pulling hope and brightness from the wreckage,

taking the jagged shards and making of them,

if not wholeness, a new sort of sacred splendor.

 

(Copyright (c) 2015 by Hara Person)


 

Rosh HaShanah in the Pines, 2014/5775

 

We gather, poised at the edge of time,

hearts teeming with intention.

Like the tide, we expand and contract,

unsure of how to proceed.

 

A tenuous new moon tilts in a Tishrei sky,

while below the ocean roars.

Trees dip and sway in the darkness.

Wind rolls in off the sea.

Swells churn dangerously

as the deluge approaches landfall.

 

Accept our burdened hearts, we plead,

our broken spirits,

our yearnings for redemption.

 

Like the moon, let us begin the work

of rebuilding our selves anew.

Help us find shelter from the storm.

 

(Copyright (c) 2014 by Hara Person)

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A Story for Rosh HaShanah

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Once upon a time, in a little town very far away from here, there were two neighbors. Let’s call one Shmulik, and the other Yossel. It’s hard to know who started it or why, but for years the two had been locked into battle. It wasn’t just that they didn’t like each other – they hated each other. They really had it in for each other.

If Shmulik had a good barley harvest, Yossel told the rest of the village that the barley was infested with rot and that they shouldn’t buy it from him. If Yossel had a good grape harvest, Shmulik told the villagers that the grapes were so acidic they were not worth tasting. When Shmulik tried to sell some of his acres of land so that he could provide a dowry for his oldest daughter, Yossel told people that the land was haunted by demons and that no one should live there. When Yossel’s ox fell on the side of the road and broke his leg, Shmulik told everyone in the market that it was because Yossel mistreated his animals.

Things got worse and worse between the two of them. The accusations flew back and forth, back and forth. The villagers didn’t know what to think. They didn’t know who was right and who was wrong and what was what with these two, and so more and more, not wanting trouble or bad luck, they just stayed away from them both.

Finally, one morning, just as Rosh HaShanah was approaching, Shmulik sat up in bed and said to his husband Chaim Yankel, “This craziness has to stop. I can’t go on. When I go to market, no one wants to talk to me any more. No one wants to buy from me, or sell to me. I don’t even remember why I’m so mad at Yossel, but when I see him, I just start to burn up.”

Chaim Yankel nodded. “It is time to stop,” he agreed. “But how will you do it?”

Shmulik shook his head. “I don’t know. But this can’t keep going. Every day I have a headache, I have a terrible rash, and my ulcer is acting up. I’m a nervous wreck. If this goes on any longer I won’t have any friends left, and we won’t have any more shekels to our name. Plus, the high holy days are coming. It’s time to put an end to this nonsense.”

“You know what you need to do,” said Chaim Yankel. And Shmulik nodded his head, for indeed he did. He got up out of bed, and headed to the rabbi’s house.

Shmulik explained the situation to the rabbi and poured out his heart. The rabbi nodded and paced back and forth, thinking. Finally, the rabbi got a ladder, climbed up and pulled down a big book from one of the highest shelves.

“Hmmm,” the rabbi murmured. “Ah, yes, here it is.” She looked up at Shmulik and smiled. “Our tradition teaches: If others speak ill of you, let the worst they say seem to you small. If you speak ill of others, let a small thing seem to you big (BT Derek Eretz Zutta 1:6). Do you understand, Shmulik?”

Shmulik thought about it. “Yes, I think so. Make little of the terrible things Yossel says about me, even though they hurt me. And take responsibility not to be someone who speaks badly of him in return.”

“Right.” The rabbi nodded. “Exactly. And then the text continues: Go apologize to the person of whom you have spoken ill. That is how the cycle will truly be broken.”

Shmulik shrugged. “But what if he doesn’t apologize to me?”

“You have no control over his behavior, only over your own. That is the point. He will do what he will do and so be it. But you do have control over your actions – make sure you do the right thing and do your part to put an end to this.”

“Ok,” Shmulik said. “I don’t think this will work, but I’m willing to give it a try.” And he started on his way home.

Meanwhile, in a different house in the village, Yossel too had woken up with the headache. He too had declared, this has to stop. This has gone too far! And he too set out to see the rabbi. But he took a different path, so that just as Shmulik had left the rabbi’s house, Yossel was approaching it from the other direction, and they did not see each other.

“Rabbi,” Yossel implored. “I need your help.” And he explained the situation at length.

The rabbi thought about it, and paced back and forth, and climbed onto the ladder to pull a big book off of a high shelf. She searched through the book and finally found what she was seeking. “Here it is,” she said. “The midrash teaches: If someone has received an injury, then, even if the wrongdoer has not asked forgiveness from the one who was wronged, the receiver of the injury must nevertheless ask God to show the wrongdoer compassion, even as Abraham prayed to God for Abimelech (Genesis 20:17) and Job prayed for his friends (Job 40:10).” The rabbi paused. “And then Rabbi Gamaliel said about this: Let this be a sign to you, that whenever you are compassionate, the Compassionate One will have compassion upon you (BT Baba Kamma, 9:29-30). Do you understand, Yossel?”

Yossel thought for a moment. “So I’m supposed to ask God to be compassionate toward Shmulik, regardless of how he’s treated me, and even if he hasn’t come to ask me for forgiveness?”

“Yes, exactly,” said the rabbi, smiling. “Though you should try to ask for forgiveness as well. That is how the cycle will truly be broken.”

So Yossel nodded and went on his way home.

Much to their great surprise, later that afternoon the two men found each other on the road between their two houses. Shmulik was carrying a chicken, and Yossel was carrying a basket of apples.

Yossel took one look at Shmulik and let out a shriek. “What have you done?!” he yelled. “You’ve brought me one of your sick chickens, to poison me and my family, is that it? Do you want to infect my whole flock? Are you crazy or just evil? Leave right now, and take your sick chicken with you!”

“And you!” Shmulik screamed. “What disease-ridden waste do you have hidden in that basket, what leftover that you couldn’t sell in the market and won’t even feed to your own livestock – better that you should throw it at me?”

Suddenly both men looked at each, and looked at the items in their hands, and become very quiet. Both started to speak at the same time.

“I’m sorry—” said Shmulik.

“I’m sorry too,” said Yossel.

“I’ve come to make peace,” Shmulik said, holding out the chicken.

“As have I,” said Yossel, holding out the basket of apples.

After a few moments of looking at each other, Shmulik said, “Well, what do we do now?”

Yossel shrugged. “I guess I have a tasty chicken dinner, and you have some delicious apples.”

“I guess so. And maybe we can stop all this fighting?”

“Maybe, but it will be hard.”

“Yes, it will be. Very hard.”

And now Yossel shrugged. “We can try.”

“Yes, we can.”

“I forgive you and wish you well.”

“Thank you, and I, you.”

So they shook with their free hands, and each man went back to his home with a gift in his hands, and a gift in his heart.

 

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Cognitive Dissonance: An Elul Reflection

IMG_0682I was just asked via my High Holy Day pulpit’s Facebook page if I can guarantee that we’ll have a minyan of ten men for someone who wants to say Kaddish on Rosh HaShanah.  My first thought was, you know it’s a gay congregation, right? That is to say, we will certainly have ten men.  We will have way more than ten men.  Praying with ten men will not be a problem.  But my second thought was, you know that the rabbi is a woman, right?

It’s always interesting to learn what people hold on to.

The pulpit that I have been honored to serve for the last sixteen years is in Fire Island Pines. The Pines is a summer beach community, both famous and infamous for its gay culture and party life. Religious services are not the primary reason people go there, and yet, there we are, a lively, wonderful congregation offering services for Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur.

We are, perhaps, an eclectic congregation. The congregation is not affiliated with any particular movement, though we use a Reform machzor and I am a Reform rabbi. But I respect the fact that our congregation comes to services with many different backgrounds and comfort levels.  Some congregants did indeed grow up Reform, but many were raised in Orthodox or Conservative homes. Some were even raised ultra-Orthdox. Some were red diaper babies, raised in Jewish socialist families. Some are non-Jewish partners or friends of Jews. Some are seekers who find a meaningful experience with us regardless of their personal religious background. Some belong to year-round synagogues off the Island and some don’t.  And that is all great – we are a diverse community open to all.

We are a synagogue in a mostly male gay community led by a straight woman rabbi but there are also plenty of gay women and straight people and queer people and gender non-conforming people who come to services.  It works.

All of us have traveled a distance from our backgrounds, though certainly some farther than others.  We stretch for each other and are flexible and do our best to accommodate different practices and customs. Some people stand for the Kaddish despite not being in mourning, and some don’t. Some recite the Amidah out loud and some pray silently.  Some add in the names of the emahot, and some don’t.

Every year during Elul, as I focus on my preparations for the holy days, I’m reminded that there are things we hold on to no matter how far we’ve traveled.

IMG_0700One year I was heckled from the kahal when I called up the first aliyah for a Torah reading because he wasn’t a Kohein – it wasn’t a mistake but rather my deliberate practice. Whenever Rosh HaShana falls on Shabbat I have to remind the congregation of the textual support for blowing Shofar, which is partly because we only do one day of Rosh HaShanah anyway – if I don’t explain I get questioned. Some people are offended if we don’t end Neilah at exactly the right time.  Some people miss musaf, though plenty have never heard of it. And then there’s the question I just got, about whether we’ll have ten men for a minyan.

All of this raises fascinating questions. Where do we bend, and where do we insist on sticking to what we understand to be the right way to do it? In a gay synagogue with a woman rabbi where everyone is welcomed, what is acceptable innovation? We are clearly not a “traditional” synagogue, but how do we define what “tradition” means? What practices do we keep and what do we discard? What do we do because we find it meaningful, and what do we do out of habit?  What do we question and push back against, and what do we accept because that’s the way it’s always been? What elements of halachah do we purposely and thoughtfully hold on to because we believe it, or believe in wrestling with it, and what do we hold on out of nostalgia, or inertia?

The reality is, all of us Jews on the liberal side of the spectrum make choices, whether consciously or not, about what we hold on to and what we don’t, where we accept change and where we don’t.  In the home in which I grew up, we weren’t allowed to drink milk with our ham and cheese sandwiches because my mother had been raised in a kosher home and couldn’t fathom serving a glass of milk with a meat sandwich (I later chose to keep kosher, but that’s another blog altogether).

I wasn’t offended by the question about ten men for a minyan because I understand where it comes from.  As I rabbi I teach that if we are to build lives of Jewish meaning, we must be intentional and not arbitrary in the choices we make.  But everyone has their own sense of “tradition” based on their background, and the pull of those connections is strong, meaningful, and real.  A request of ten men for a minyan might be about nostalgia, or a result of a certain kind of childhood education, or loyalty to a more traditional parent – I understand that it is not necessarily a deliberate attempt to exclude women or deny us a presence.  It is a practice at odds with the reality of our eclectic congregation.  But so be it.  We bend for each other even as we try to determine our own personal practices and comfort levels, even as we struggle to understand what makes sense to us and why.  So we will have a minyan for kaddish this Rosh HaShanah, and it will include ten men as well as many other people, and it will be led by a woman rabbi.

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Rosh HaShanah in the Pines 6 – A Poem for the New Year

Since 1999 I have served as Rabbi of Congregation B’nai Olam.  B’nai Olam is a unique and special congregation in Fire Island Pines, a beautiful summer community on Fire Island, a barrier island off the Coast of Long Island, which meets only  for Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur.  In 2007 I began writing a new poem every year for Rosh HaShanah – feel free to also read 200820092010 and 2011.  Here is the sixth, from 2012.  Shanah tovah u’metukah.

Rosh HaShanah in the Pines, 2012/5773

 

WaterWe emerge, quiet and subdued,

into the darkening night of new year.

Across the dunes the ocean roars into the wind.

 

The tide tugs at our souls, a beckoning.

The pounding surf calls us to attention

and we turn, alert and yearning.

 

Tomorrow, under the bright sun of a fresh day,

seagulls will grab our handfuls of transgressions

tossed with great hope into the foamy spray.

 

But tonight the sea is dark, roiling and rough.

Waves beat against the shore,

then release, churning, back out to the horizon.

 

We are small, inconsequential in the infinite universe

yet even in the dim light of the setting sun

we cast a shadow on the sand.

 

As evening descends the air is crisp, bristling with possibilities.

Above, the sky fills with bright bursts of monarchs

making their annual pilgrimage home.

 

Copyright © 2012 by Hara E Person

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Rosh HaShanah in the Pines 5 – A Poem for the New Year

Since 1999 I have served as Rabbi of Congregation B’nai Olam.  B’nai Olam is a unique and special congregation in Fire Island Pines, a beautiful summer community on Fire Island, a barrier island off the Coast of Long Island, which meets only  for Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur.  In 2007 I began writing a new poem every year for Rosh HaShanah – feel free to also read 20082009, or 2010.  Here is the fifth, from 2011.  Shanah tovah u’metukah.


Rosh HaShanah in the Pines, 2011/5772

 

IMG_0251Darkness settles, slowly, across the horizon.

The new year rises before us,

its fragile moon awaiting our embrace.

 

Heaven and earth entwine

in their annual dance of re-creation.

A fissure appears in the firmament tonight,

an entranceway into new beginnings.

 

Out beyond the swales

the sea expands and contracts,

keeping time to the thrumming of the universe.

 

Under this Rosh HaShanah sky

the path before us is uncertain.

All we can do is hold each other tight

as we make our way home.

 

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Rosh HaShanah in the Pines 4 – A New Year’s Poem

Since 1999 I have served as Rabbi of Congregation B’nai Olam.  B’nai Olam is a unique and special congregation in Fire Island Pines, a beautiful summer community on Fire Island, a barrier island off the Coast of Long Island, which meets only  for Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur.  In 2007 I began writing a new poem every year for Rosh HaShanah – feel free to also read 2008 or 2009.  Here is the fourth, from 2010.  Shanah tovah u’metukah.

 

Rosh HaShana in the Pines 4

Fire Island 2010/5771

 

IMG_3272The taste of summer is still

sultry yellow, bright and sparkling.

Seasprayed and sunsoaked,

sated with pleasure,

we move with reluctance

as change quietly beckons.

 

The water has its own cadence

a rhythm under the surface

pulling in and releasing with an outstretched hand.

 

The quickening of the moon calls us to return

and we gather, seam-dwellers on the edge of the earth.

As the sun lowers itself into the sea

introspection rises.

A sliver cracks the heart of the firmament,

the vast blackness an invitation

to write ourselves anew.

 

@ 2010 by Hara E. Person

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Rosh HaShanah in the Pines 3 – A New Year’s Poem

Since 1999 I have served as Rabbi of Congregation B’nai Olam.  B’nai Olam is a unique and special congregation in Fire Island Pines, a beautiful summer community on Fire Island, a barrier island off the Coast of Long Island, which meets only  for Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur.  In 2007 I began writing a new poem every year for Rosh HaShanah.  Here is the third one, from 2009.  Shanah tovah u’metukah.

Rosh HaShanah in the Pines 3

Fire Island Pines, 2009

 

IMG_3121Under a cerulean sky

we gather together

cloaked in the warmth of mid-September sun.

 

Renewal comes heralded by the screech of seagulls.

Houses decked out in summer finery

offer dappled turquoise pools for self-reflection.

 

The still-rowdy sun of early fall

is tempered only by the vigor

with which we approach our appointed task.

 

Faces bared to the breeze off the sea

we allow ourselves to open,

turning toward the sweetness of beginning again.

 

We stand on the shore of the new year,

feet awash in the fragile foam of creation,

cleansed and purified by the embryonic ocean brine.

 

Copyright © 2009 Hara E. Person

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Filed under High Holy days, Judaism, Poetry