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Home Presentation for Yom Kippur Symposium 5765, September 25, 2004
First of all, I would like to thank Rabbi Block for giving me the opportunity to share my spiritual journey to Judaism, a journey that is far from over thirty years after it began. Putting together this speech has forced me to really reflect, in ways that would not have been necessary otherwise. My hope is that my words will be as inspirational as the words of those who have come before me in this honored company of symposium speakers.
During my extended summer vacation every year, I have the opportunity to read voraciously and this summer I had the pleasure of reading Under the Tuscan Sun by Frances Mayes. This is the story of a newly remarried, fifty-something San Francisco literature professor who impulsively buys a Tuscan stone mansion “fixer-upper”. What a task. But in reading this book I saw Ms. Mayes' story not only as an interesting adventure but as a metaphor for my journey to Judaism.
As Mayes and her husband worked through a series of anticipated and unanticipated situations, they worked to take something that had belonged to someone else and make it their own. This goal involved very hard physical labor and it took an emotional toll as well. But in the end, the reward was well worth it.
I loved her detailed descriptions of the Tuscan countryside which she compares to her “other world” of urban San Francisco. I too feel that I am existing in two very different worlds, the world of my childhood and the world of my adult life, and the effort to merge them is a challenge even today.
It wasn't supposed to be this way. I was born in upstate New York not far from where my Dutch ancestors landed in 1644 -- one family, the Veeders, out of 16, who were the original settlers of the the Albany area. As our family grew to eventually encompass four children, my father's business responsibilities also grew and necessitated several moves throughout New England and New York State
It was in New London, CT where as a six year old child, I first became aware of Judaism in an interesting way. We gave directions to our home using the synagogue as a landmark. Who knew that this little Christian girl was foreshadowing her adult life which would also be guided by a synagogue as a landmark but in a much more meaningful way?
A later move put us in the Mohawk Valley area of New York where my family joined the Dutch Reformed Church. Actually joined doesn't really explain it. My family was the church--whether we were Congregationalists, Baptists, Presbyterians, or Dutch Reformed. We were in Sunday School, church services, and choir every Sunday. I enjoyed the church and especially the music. The pipe organ preludes and postludes that filled the air with praise and joy, the choir connecting with the congregation through the hymns--these were powerful elements of my spiritual experience. I also loved the stories of God's involvement in the lives of our patriarchs and matriarchs. But as I grew, I realized more and more that I was developing a spiritual relationship to God while everyone around me was talking about Jesus.
In this context, our youth group paid several visits to the conservative temple in Amsterdam for Friday evening services and fellowship. Here I was exposed to a totally different type of religious experience. Rich in emotion and immediate in intensity, the plaintive chants and cantillations of the Torah all done without any musical accompaniment, touched my mind as well as my soul in ways that I can still recall today. I felt very close to God in that temple and it unnerved me.
It wasn't supposed to be this way. Another move, just south of Rochester, and it was time for college for me. My parents, still reeling from my recent decision not to attend a Christian college gladly accepted my decision to attend Wells College, a small, liberal arts school for women in Aurora, NY. At least I would be close to home. But Aurora was also close to Ithaca, NY, and it didn't take me long to discover the graduate school library of Cornell University, where I encountered a specialist in English Literature--Brooklyn born, politically radical, much older and very, very Jewish.
It wasn't supposed to be this way. Peter and I were married one year later in a civil ceremony in the Wells College Chapel and of course no rabbi would marry us. I had agreed that our children would be Jewish but neither one of us had any idea about what that agreement really meant. Peter had been raised with the Jewishness of Brooklyn: bagels, really sour pickles, public schools closed on the High Holy Days so that everyone could play stickball, the “out of context” Bar Mitzvah and religious “services” held every weekend at Ebbetts Field, home of Brooklyn's beloved Dodgers. This pattern, of course, was not unusual for the children of first generation immigrant families. Still, it created for us a good news/bad news situation. Bad news -no traditions or objects related to observance to pass down to us and our children. Good news-- no expectations. No niche that we had to fit into to please other family members. It was clear that we were on our own and would have to make our way.
We started small saying motzi before dinner and celebrating Hanukkah-- along with Christmas. We now had two toddlers and still no clear plan.
Then, suddenly, a crisis was upon us. My father in-law was diagnosed with lung cancer. Within six months we were planning a funeral. But how? We were not part of any religious community. I remembered back to the loving embrace of my family by our church when my grandmother passed away. There was no need for the minister to find out about her life in order to prepare a eulogy. He had known her for many, many years.
At the cemetery where we held a short, traditional ceremony for Peter's father, I felt frustrated by my inability to recite the Kaddish and know what it meant. But it wasn't just the Hebrew. Something was missing from our life.
Shortly thereafter the time came to choose a preschool for our first child, Rebecca. We were fortunate to join a co-op along with several other observant Jewish families. We became friends and have remained close to this day.
This friendship led us quite naturally to consider joining the conservative temple in Ithaca, the only temple in town. My Christian background had been reminding me that something was still missing from our life. This feeling led to my insistence that our family have a spiritual focus. Our children would have the opportunity to develop a spiritual life, to understand their heritage and to take into adulthood a solid framework for adult observance whether or not they chose to practice that faith. God would exist in our family life. This resolution then meant that both Peter and I would have to commit to learning Jewish observance.
We became active in Temple Beth-El, Ithaca. I worked on the religious school board and the children attended religious school. We also attended services regularly, observed all the holidays and instituted the very controversial Friday-night-rule. No phone calls, no going out with friends, just family time. We were finding our own way.
As the girls grew we decided that a Bat Mitvah celebration would be a part of our family's observance and we needed to prepare in advance. Since the children were not considered Jewish, we would have to go through a conversion ceremony which included a visit to the mikvah in Rochester. At this point I still had not completely addressed the question of whether or not I wanted to adopt Judaism for myself. In that regard we attended services at the Presbyterian church in Ithaca on Christmas Eve and the following spring on Easter. That was all it took. I had crossed a spiritual line and no longer felt comfortable in a church. So we threw out the Christmas tree, and all the decorations, and prepared for our conversion. Our Rabbi even got us the first ever group rate on the mikvah. His only question for us was “So, when do you want to celebrate your Jewish wedding?”
The idea took us by surprise but we immediately embraced it. Our entire extended family threw themselves into the preparations--yes, that includes my parents and siblings. Our daughters were thrilled to be bridesmaids in Mommy and Daddy's wedding. In fact, our seven year old, Rachel, even told her teacher. Needless to say I was in that classroom the very next morning explaining that we really were married already and this was just a religious ceremony.
1988 brought a major change for our family. My husband accepted a position at Trinity University as Chair of the English Department. Even before we arrived we investigated the Jewish community. On our trip to buy a house we visited with the rabbi at Agudus Achim. We inquired and enrolled our fourth daughter, Risa in the JCC preschool. We had several choices of congregations to attend and this necessitated an examination of our beliefs. Where would we feel comfortable?
Our second weekend in town as residents found us in the chapel of Temple Beth-El, San Antonio, attending the Saturday morning service. Midway through the service I noticed that our third daughter, Reika was quietly crying. When I asked her what was wrong she said “I miss our old temple.” Success. While I was not happy that my child was crying I was happy that she had internalized the whole temple experience. The Ithaca temple was her home and she missed it.
But for me the real excitement began on Rosh Hashana morning--sitting in the sanctuary as the service began--with the full power and glorious singing of our High Holy Days choir. My spirits soared as the music touched my soul in ways that combined my early church praise music experience with the Jewish chanting to create a focused and enriching spiritual experience. This temple was where I belonged.
Shortly thereafter I became a member of the choir and discovered a new way to explore worship and enrich my Jewish experience. You see, we do not merely sing notes. Whether it is the High Holy Days Choir, the Intergenerational Choir, or my beloved Sisterhood Choir, Jean White and Dr. David vanAbbema teach us the music. We learn about the composers and what forces were in play in their lives as they created their music; we learn about correct pronunciation and expression so that our voices assist others towards meaningful worship; we learn about when and how certain prayers differ among the many services. We also have the opportunity to work with current composers on their own music through Shabbat Shira.
Another experience that has helped me to grow spiritually has been my role as a lay leader. The first time I led services it felt natural. I actually felt as though all my years of growth had led up to that point, for the lay leader perfectly combines the music with the prayers and psalms and ritual.
This past summer my relationship to worship was further enriched during my weeks as Dr. David vanAbbema's Saturday morning substitute. I was called upon to learn and lead the chanting of the V'Hafta, the Avot, and the G'Virot. Now I really know what my daughters went through in preparing for their Bat Mitzvahs.
At the end of Under the Tuscan Sun, Frances Mayes reflects:
Like fanning through a deck of cards, my mind flashes on the thousand chances, trivial to profound that converged to re-create this place. Any arbitrary turning along the way and I would be elsewhere; I would be different.
This is my firm belief.
It wasn't supposed to be this way. I am here today as an American Jewish woman, a direct descendant of the earliest settlers of our magnificent country, possessing a spiritual background distilled through years of Jewish observance and growth, having raised daughters who observed Christmas in our home as well as a daughter who never experienced anything but a Jewish life--that would be our youngest and only native born Texan, Renna. I am here today because of the continued, non-judgmental support of my parents and in-laws, the flexibility of my husband and daughters and my own personal need for spiritual fulfillment. It wasn't supposed to be this way-but I will be forever grateful that it is.
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