By Ralph Chadis

When I was a kid in the 1950s, we would say, “High Holidays are coming” and started days of making food that was eaten after the services in our homes. There was not only a tzimmes of orange food but a tzimmes of talk – about people; about Israel; about the sermon (a good one got talk, a bad one got a shrug); about the chorus and organ; about what someone wore (“we don’t wear that - not in Temple”, “why not?”). I really liked it.

Everyone went to the services, which is where we reminded ourselves we were Jews. At my Reform temple, we all sat quietly in our seats while behind the bimah my friend played the organ, and the choir sang the music, while, on the bimah, the cantor chanted the ritual, the rabbi recited the liturgy, and the congregation sat quietly, responding where the prayer book said to. I really liked it. Yes, it was 1960s.

Then I set out to find my own way – like Jack in the Appalachian tales – knowing nothing. On the way I found Havurat Shalom. This was a whole new experience. I heard people I did not yet know say “Oy Joy, the chag is coming!” A committee brought the food.

Everyone went to the services, which is where we celebrated our Jewishness – crowding into the yellow house like the children in Mother Hubbard’s shoe. Technically there was no separate bimah. It was the whole house. There was no organ – except that some congregants hummed. There was no hazzan, just a congregation that set down their books to sing well remembered or improvised nusachim, piyyutim, and other music as if they were born knowing it, harmonizing and melodizing. Congregants led the liturgy, and the congregation joined in, responding where tradition or their own souls said to. I really liked it.

This was a whole new experience, a wonderful new experience, a welcoming new experience. So – I kept coming.

by Monica Holland

A new category has emerged in our library that we are calling “Lernen.” It encourages us to think about what we’re doing when we study together, and the role Jewish text study plays in Jewish life.
In addition to multiple copies of founding member Barry Holtz’s useful Back to the Sources, two works by social anthropologist Samuel C. Heilman stand out: The People of the Book: Drama, Fellowship, and Religion (1983) and The Gate Behind the Wall: A Pilgrimage to Jerusalem (1984). When Heilman wrote them, text study was the nearly exclusive province of Jewish men and boys. That, of course, has changed, but his insights into the nature of lernen strike me as nonetheless relevant.

People of the Book stems from the author’s involvement with six Talmud learning circles, two in the U.S. that were Modern Orthodox, and four in Israel, of various kinds. Each of these groups initially presented a different aspect or motive for involvement that the author then began to recognize in the other groups. Using his anthropological tool kit, he articulates what he calls “six angles of vision of lernen”  that penetrate the groups’ dynamics and explain why they are a mainstay for so many in the Jewish world.
Heilman’s use of the word “drama” in the subtitle tips us off to where he’s going, as he sees the activity in the groups as multilayered performative interaction: “I saw the shiur [Talmud class] as a drama, a performance during which the lerners became swept up in their action and set into motion their entire creative apparatus.” (25)

Four distinct types of drama emerge: (1) social, with established order and boundaries being tested and defended; (2) cultural, in which members engaged in performance of their Jewish identities; (3) game playing, in which participants engaged with the rules of Talmud explication and interrogation; and (4) speech play, in which members explored the interplay of languages used in the texts and in their discussion of them. Heilman identifies two additional draws: (4) fellowship; and (5) the observance of religious obligation.

Notably, all six of his groups were led by a rabbi. Havurat Shalom was founded on the idea of egalitarian learning, so it makes sense that none of our current Talmud study groups has a single leader. This combined with the de-gendered nature of the current lernen environment might alter the analysis in subtle or not-so-subtle ways. All but the first – testing and defending of social boundaries - seem relevant to what goes on in my own chavruse. I’m curious if others recognize Heilman’s elements in their own.

In The Gate Behind the Wall, Heilman draws on many of the experiences discussed in the first book, but he steps out of his role as anthropologist. He gets personal and recounts his sabbatical year in Jerusalem during which he dives into lernen in an attempt to bridge what is for him the uncomfortable gap between his modern Orthodox and scholarly selves. After what seem like a few false starts, he finds a chavruse of souls sufficiently kindred that he can both enter and remain.

The story climaxes with something like his senior project in which he explains in the face of his chavruse the meaning of Rabbi Yochanan’s perplexing statement: “Anyone who grasps the Torah without its mantle will be buried without his mantle.” His interpretation relies on the medieval Tosafot:

  ...he who does not learn the Oral Tradition will     be buried by the dense weight of Scripture... If   we listen only to the condensed words of the   written Torah, if we do not surround it with the   mantle of Oral Tradition, if we do not lern the  Gemara, here shall we be buried. We cannot   comprehend the full meanings of each verse of   the Bible, we cannot fathom its depths without   the light of Talmud. Without it we are like the   dead; you are as good as buried. That,   gentlemen, is what is meant when Rabbi   Yochanan says that if we try to grasp the Torah   without its mantle we shall be buried without   our mantle. (183-84)

The chavruse’s rav takes the point further:

  ...If you have not put on the mantle of Talmud,     you will understand the Scripture as do all other   nations; you will be like them. The Talmud,   gentlemen, is our Jewishness; it is our mark of   distinction, the emblem of our understanding.     We do not lern Gemara simply to acquire   knowledge; we do it to preserve our Jewish lives.   (184)

Listening later to his recordings of the lernen sessions – tapes which could never be erased due to their sacred content – he came to a further realization: “... the social context in which the lernen occurred was in many ways as important as the substance of the study itself, for it was an opportunity for us all to express our solidarity with one another and through them the Jewish people.” (187)

I invite those of you reading this who engage in group Jewish text study to comment on what, if any of this, rings true, what does not, and what meaning it holds for you.

by Larry Rosenwald

I'm a member of a translation collective called di khalyastre ("the gang"), run by the distinguished Israeli Yiddishist Efrat Gal-Ed, who writes in German.  We meet nearly once a week, on Zoom, and work together on translating Yiddish stories and poems into German.  The experience of doing collective translation is itself fascinating, a challenge to my usual ways of thinking about translation as a solo activity, and I've written an article about that;  what's at issue here, though, is something I learned about in our conversations that was new to me.
           
That something is a name for God, a Yiddish name:  kavyokhl, "as if it could be."  Sometimes it's added to the word got ("God"), got kavyokhl, "God - as if it could be -" and sometimes it stands alone, as in the poem by Yisroel Shtern in which I came across the term:  - "As-If-It-Could-Be walks through hospital rooms."
           
I gather that this name, though new to me, was familiar to many in the Yiddishist community;  so also for its Hebrew equivalent k'viyakhol;  Havurah alum Michael Fishbane has written some seventy-five pages about that Hebrew equivalent, in an appendix to his 2003 Biblical Myth and Rabbinic Mythmaking. 
           
As noted, though, it was new to me.  Here are the lines from Shtern's poem:
 
iz a vunder, az di kranke zenen greyt zu vern heylik |
un vartn op di mes-lesn mit simkhe vi men scheydt op mayser … – |
iz a vunder – ven kavyokhl shpatsirt in roym fun di shpiteler, |
vi s’hot zayn gayst a mol geshvebt afn flakh fun ershhtn vaser!
 
Is it a wonder, if the sick are ready to become holy
and wait day and night with joy as one pays the tithe -
is it a wonder - if As-If walks through hospital rooms,
the way his [sic] spirit once hovered over the surface of the first water!
 
(My translation, though based on the German translation the khalyastre was making that day.)
           
I love this name.  Many of our God-names, the ones collected on pages 69-70 of our siddur Birkat Shalom, name particular aspects of attributes of God - the creator, the Creator, the Source of Life, the shechinah.  Some challenge the idea of naming at all: "I will be-there as the one I shall be-there as," Hashem, the ein sof ("there is no end").  But none, at least for me, is quite as playful and as challenging as kavyokhl, challenging in grammar as in reference, playful as if in a conversation full of shared jokes - "God - so to speak . . . "  Or even: "So-to-Speak created the heavens and the earth."  Kavyokhl is for me an extension of experience and an unpretentious challenge to belief.
           
In our first discussion of how to translate Shtern's poem, the one in which I first encountered the name, we ended up rendering it only with the German word Gott, "God."  I was too timid to object, and my German, though good, isn't always good enough to dissent from a majority.  But I thought about the word the whole week following, and in our second discussion I proposed that we render the meaning of the name as best we could.  We ended up with Als ob, "as if," which is the way I've rendered the name in the English translation above.
 
As-If.

by Aaron Brandes

by Aliza Arzt

People who choose to engage in a regular activity, which could include going to work, exercising or preparing a meal, often confront the repetitive nature of what they’re doing, but still manage to find it worthwhile. Attending davenning regularly is also in this category. Shabbat morning davenning at the Havurah extends roughly from 10:00—12:30 on Saturday mornings and, even though we have different leaders each week, the content of the service varies little. It’s very hard to muster the kind of kavvanah (spiritual intention) that we’d like to have for that amount of time, and I’m constantly searching for insights about what I can do to have more kavvanah (and less boredom!) during davenning. Here are 3 thoughts about what makes community davenning, especially the prolonged Shabbat morning davening, a meaningful and special experience:
 
Comfort: Those of us who attend Shabbat morning davenning regularly find a degree of comfort in the sameness of the service. There are melodies that we love, psalms that may have significance to us and enjoyment of being with people that we may only see on Shabbat. Engaging in a routine activity can be a kind of comfort food, especially in a world that has been frightening and unpredictable lately. We know the rhythms of the service and may even have consistent places where we tune in or tune out. The year that the community spent davenning exclusively on Zoom during the pandemic made many of us aware of how important the in-person experience of seeing our friends and singing with them was to us. Even though we could see each other in our little boxes on our screens, we couldn’t sing together. This sadness was especially poignant for the parts of the service where we were used to singing rounds or hearing harmony. I’m so grateful for the in-person shared activity that we’ve been able to resume!
 
Insights from others: Our davenning encourages the leader to bring in other readings and personal insights during the service. This could be a poem, a new melody, a reading sparked by the liturgy, even an off-the-cuff reaction to a psalm that we recite every week. When someone points out that the end of Psalm 147, where we read that God brings snow and ice but then melts it all with a word, mirrors early spring in New England, we may feel a jolt of connection with an ancient poem, written far away from where we live. Sometimes the leader asks a question during davenning and we spend a few minutes considering it and responding. The leader may get reactions that they never thought of before and something that one person says may evoke a reaction in another person that they couldn’t have imagined would occur to them. It’s kind of like opening little presents that we weren’t expecting to get!  I’ll add here that some of the changes we’ve made in the davenning can add a spark when those of us who are familiar with the traditional davenning mentally compare them. In the traditional paragraph that ends in “Or Chadash” (“Shine a new light on Zion”) one of the appellations in the list of God’s attributes is “áÌÇòÇì îÄìÀçÈîåÉú”, “Master of wars”. We have changed that to “îÀòåÉøÆÍøÆú ùÀÑìåÉîåÉú”, “awakens peace”. Every now and then, when I read what we say in this paragraph, I think about what we no longer say and feel grateful and excited that we were able to come up with something new and true about how God should be in the world.
 
Personal Insights: It’s easy to get mired in the same-ness of the davenning.  My mind often wanders even if my eyes and my mouth appear to be engaging in the service. Every now and then, unprovoked by anything that anyone else has said, I’ll make a connection on my own that I never thought of before.  It’s astonishing to have a new thought or insight about something I’ve been saying every week for almost my whole life. I’ve had that experience when preparing for reading Torah. You’d think that after more than 50 years of leyning, nothing in the Torah could surprise me, but periodically I read a verse and think “Why haven’t I ever notice that before?” In the Shabbat davening, I will sometimes notice phrases and realize that they connect in some way with another part of the service. How could I have missed that all these years? Here’s an example: We were davenning Psalm 124, which focuses on how God rescues us from our enemies as a bird in a trap could be rescued. In the middle of the psalm are two lines about water: “. . . Then the water would have crashed over us, would have swept our souls away. The storm would have washed away our life.” How come we’re suddenly talking about water in the middle of a poem about a trapped bird? All of a sudden, the words of Psalm 93 came to mind: “Greater than the din of rushing waters, greater than the power of sea waves breaking, God’s limitless power is alive in the universe”. The metaphor about God’s power in Psalm 93 provided the key to the apparent off-topic reference to water in Psalm 124. The psalms are talking to each other! Or maybe the author of Psalm 124 is remembering the power of the water in Psalm 93 and evoking this image to explain God’s ability to rescue us.  Now I’m in the mind of a psalm poet, sharing their realization!
 
I realize that I have certain advantages in the area of personal insights into the liturgy: I’m extremely familiar with the text, I understand the Hebrew and I’ve worked on the liturgy for over 40 years. Still, this is not out of anyone’s reach.  How should you go about preparing to experience the three elements I’ve discussed above? Here are my recommendations:

• If you aren’t familiar with the Shabbat morning davenning (or another service you’d like to get to know better) come to davenning regularly!  In addition to Shabbat morning, the Havurah has a short Kabbalat Shabbat every Friday night on Zoom. Be present, let the words wash over you, sing, read, ruminate.
• Listen to what the service leader and other people at davenning are saying when there is an opportunity for discussion or for hearing a new reading or insight. Take it to heart. See if it sparks any thoughts or feelings for you.
• Free associate with the texts you’re reading during davenning. This can be done using either the Hebrew or the English text. Look for lines that you particularly like, lines that don’t seem to fit the rest of the paragraph or poem, words or phrases that remind you of similar words or phrases. 

 
Make the investment of time and thought. It’s more than worthwhile.

By Shifra Freewoman 

It was 1983, and I finally was able to be a member of the women's group at Oberlin that was putting together a feminist haggadah. I can't remember ever wanting so deeply to be a part of something like I wanted to be in that group. Judaism, liberation and feminism meant the world to me, and I knew I had so much to learn and contribute to a group like this one. It had my name on it. 

I had asked Miriam Bronstein if I could join.  Though Miriam, a former Havurah member, is a very friendly, welcoming person, she was hesitant to let anyone else into the group.  Jewish events at Oberlin were not good.  Whether traditional or not, they lacked kavannah/intention and ruach/spirit. This group was gelling and felt good, and she did not want to disturb that good spirit of the group.  

However, a story I had written, called "A Crust of Bread at the Seder Table," settled the question, and I was in!  Once I showed Miriam and everyone that story, it did its magic. They wanted the story, and I came along with it. The rest is herstory. 

I had come across a very short piece of news in 'The New Womens Times', a feminist newspaper. It was around 1982.  A group of Jewish women had asked a Rabbi, what was the place of lesbians in Judaism.  He answered that the place of lesbians in Judaism was like chometz, unleavened bread, at the seder. The women responded by putting a crust of bread on the seder table to symbolize the inclusion of lesbians. 

Very taken by the story, I decided to embellish it, and make it in a literary tale, while still keeping the basic story intact.  I did so and loved the story.  I did not know at the time I wrote it, that the story would become so influential.

Our women's group, in the spring semester of 1983 put the story into our haggadah, and we then had to decide, what do we do? Would we put a crust of bread on the seder table for our seder? Or not? 

There was a halachic debate about this among our group.  Initially women said we should follow their custom and do as they did.  Other women disagreed. Just because this rabbi says lesbians are like chometz, does not make it so; actually, one woman said,  the rabbi, with his puffed up and arrogant judgements, is chometz. There was a real concern about how we should proceed.  Other women felt that we should not abandon all distinctions, that some were important to keep, like the difference between matzah and chometz. 

Finally, one woman came up with a beautiful solution.  She suggested we leave an open place on the seder plate, Makom, which means place, and also is a word for God, the Place of the World.  This open place is to welcome and include anyone and everyone, including lesbians, who have been left out or excluded.  Everyone loved this beautiful, elegant solution. And so we decided to add Makom to our seder plate. 

A year or so later, Susannah Heschel, a Jewish Feminist theologian (and daughter of Abraham Joshua Heschel, a Rabbi, theologian, writer and civil rights and anti-war activist,) came to Oberlin for Passover.  She thought we had put bread on the sseder table, (which was a misunderstanding- we had never done this), and she was uncomfortable with this.  She proposed putting an orange on the seder plate to include lesbians. And this custom stuck, and many people now put an orange on the seder plate. 

Then apparently, some people were uncomfortable with lesbians, so the orange on the seder table got changed to women rabbis on the the bimah, or lectern, in the shul. Apparently, someone said women have as much place on the bimah as an orange, ie. we women are totally irrelevant.

It is quite fascinating to see how a story can change so much over a relatively short period of time, 40 years, let alone hundreds or thousands of years, like the span of Jewish history. 

In fact, someone did more research, and apparently, the women had not asked a rabbi what the place of lesbians in Judaism was.  They asked a rebbitzen, a rabbi's wife.  She said, "Oh its no big deal, it's like chometz at the seder table," To her, apparently, lesbianism was not a big issue.   

Rabbi Rebecca Alpert actually wrote a book by the title, 'Like a Crust of Bread on the Seder Table,' about Jewish lesbians. 

We ended up writing our own Jewish feminist haggadah, which eventually made its way around the country. 

The haggadah featured gender inclusive Hebrew language, female names for God, including
Go-alteynu, a feminization  of Goaleynu, meaning our Redeemer, which is used in the traditional  Haggadah, and Miriam and I came up with a special name,  Rachamaimah, a combined word made up of Rechem, womb and Emah, Mother, that we translated as Compassionate Womb Mother.

Like the Havurah and its Siddur Project which aims for gender inclusivity in Hebrew for both God and people, we sought to include women and to use both female and male God language.  Our haggadah also included original songs about Jewish women throughout history, midrashim about women, and already published materials, like a poem from Rabbi Lynn Gottlieb, EM Broner's writings about the 4 daughters, as well as traditional haggadah material. We also focused on general issues of justice for all, including standing up to racism, ending poverty and working for peace with Palestinians and promoting freedom for all.

The story I wrote helped many people who were excluded.  In particular, it helped a Latinx Jewish man to come out to his parents.  It's always nice when one's writing goes out into the world, like a child, and in its own way, helps people. That was the point of the story, to make the world more just and inclusive. 

We had a very successful and beautiful seder for about 60 women. We had made the difficult decision to have the seder be only for Jewish women, because this was our first time, and we wanted that focus for this one occasion.

In fact many women who were not Jewish had helped with the Haggadah, by providing beautiful illustrations and spiritual and emotional support. 
There were also Jewish men, like the Hillel Rabbi and the professor of Judaic studies that were very supportive of us in every way, and they also provided funding for the haggadah and seder. They were very proud of us and really could not have been more encouraging. 

So to be inclusive, which was always our intention, we had a workshop after the seder, that was open to everyone. In this way, everyone who wanted to, could be a part of our ongoing project.   

Looking back, now that Pesach is coming, I feel so glad to have been part of that group. There was such a a good feeling among us, a love of Judaism and a deep desire to be empowered and free as women, for the liberation of women to be an integral part of Judaism and to help create a Judaism, that is committed to women's liberation and the liberation and freedom of all human beings. 

Just as the story of our ancestors' liberation from bondage inspired so many generations of Jews, Enslaved Africans, African Americans in the Civil Rights movement, campesinos in El Salvador and Guatemala, and many other groups, we wanted women to have liberation as well. 

In a similar way, the Havurah has dedicated itself to inclusion, liberation and justice for women and men, for LGBTQIA people, for those with disabilities, to feeding the hungry, working for housing justice, promoting racial justice, standing up for the rights of immigrants and working for peace between Jews and Palestinians. 

I am glad to have been a member of Miriam's Timbrel, the Oberlin Women's Haggadah Collective and equally glad to be a part of Havurat Shalom. Both groups embody a living, ongoing commitment to justice, peace, inclusion, equality and liberation. 

Living as we do in these deeply challenging and troubling times, it is my hope and intention to be a part of this community and others that actively work for the liberation and transformation of our society and world into one that is humane, just peaceful and loving for all beings. 

It has never felt so sadly true, that as the Rabbis say, in each generation Pharoahs and tyrants rise up against us, and our "us" must include all people,  immigrants, African Americans, the People of Gaza and Palestine - everyone.  And we can continue to use the seder and The Story of  Yitziat Mitzrayim, the Exodus from Egypt, to promote liberation, inclusion, justice, love and freedom 

Next year in a just and loving world for all beings. Next year in a Jerusalem/Al Quds at peace. Maybe it be so! 

by Monica Holland

In the bracha-sphere of daf yomi, learners around the world, and perhaps in other realms, planetary and otherwise, study the same double-side page of Talmud on a daily basis. Those of us who dip into this world have been occupied for some time now with the Temple-service-oriented tractates of Zevachim (animal sacrifices) and Menachot (grain offerings).

One of the recurring themes is that the service vessels used by the priests to collect various elements of the offerings – כְּלֵי שָׁרֵת  klei shareit - have a very cool property: as long as they’re used for the right type of thing, e.g. flour-based stuff for menachot vessels, etc., they sanctify whatever goes in them. I like that idea. As long as it’s the right type of thing, the service vessel sanctifies it. Many errors in handling and intention can be corrected by placing an offering in its designated service vessel. Whew, that’s a relief!

The service vessel can sanctify any item that’s supposed to go into it. Still, I puzzle over what exactly sanctification meant, either to the Rabbis of the Talmud, to the Torah texts they were citing, e.g. Exodus (30: 29), or to the later commentators in the medieval period. They were all probably trying to understand what the sources before them meant, too. Not only what ‘sacred’ means, but exactly how does a dish or a cup make its contents sacred and fix many sorts of mistakes? How does that work?

When I first encountered Talmud, the concept of tumah, ritual impurity, fascinated me for similar reasons. What is it? Clearly, it’s transmitted through some kinds of contamination, but the Rabbis weren’t thinking in microbial terms. What did they think it was? We sometimes jokingly refer to ritual impurity as “kooties.”
 
Back to service vessels. The Temple was destroyed long ago. We no longer have to worry about executing very complex sacrificial protocols and figuring out which mistakes can be fixed by the service vessels. Though we can admire the executive functioning of those Kohanim. You think your job is demanding? Ha!

This brings me to a few questions: How do we regard sanctification today? Do we possess things we might regard as post-Temple Period service vessels? If so, what do we think they might be? Do they (we?) have something like the ability to “make holy” m’kadesh, as Hashem makes holy Shabbat, the Festivals and the Jewish people?
Plausible candidates include our homes, perhaps our vehicles, our bodies/selves, all of which contain, or can contain, in some sense, acts of tzedakah and hessed.

But I’d like to draw attention to a service vessel candidate that’s more closely associated with avodah than g’mliut hasadim. Here’s a hint: some of us are fond of pointing out that in our siddur, the Kedushah is on page 113. The big deal of the morning service occurs at 113. Got it now? Perhaps our big yellow house at 113 College Avenue is a giant service vessel.

What is contained in our service vessel in any given year?

• Weekly Shabbat celebrations, including song-filled services, and sometimes oneg or lunch, afternoon Talmud study, singing sessions and game playing
• Liturgical and social celebrations of Jewish holidays throughout the year
• B’nei/b’not mitzvah celebrations
• Baby namings
• Celebrations of conversions
• Monthly Kabbalat Shabbat potluck dinners for each of two local independent minyanim, Kavod and Minyan Zayit
• Weekly babysitting cum Talmud study sessions
• Social justice seders
• Weekly Purim-to-Pesach classes on some aspect of Judaism
• Seasonal text-based study sessions and extended drashes
• One-day Jewish meditation retreats
• Jewish musical performances
• Siyyum celebrations upon completion of a Talmud tractate by chavruta
• Four times a year, in-person business meetings where members attend to the nuts and bolts of running Havurat Shalom
• Twice-daily filling of our Little Free Pantry with supplies from the third floor to assist neighbors dealing with food insecurity
• Support for local community fridges in the form of next-in-line refrigerators stored in the basement
• Winter wear drive to support Somerville Homeless Coalition
• Month-long summer camp for literacy development and teacher training
• Annual program in fulfillment of our commitment to the Communities Respond to Extreme Weather (CREW) network

Do you experience activities in the house as sanctified, or perhaps sanctifying? If so, what does this mean to you? Do various sorts of mistakes get worked out and fixed in the house, like some kinds of mistakes with the sacrifices were fixed by the service vessels? What sort of activities or behaviors are not of the right type and so don’t get sanctified? What other sorts of things could our vessel sanctify for the benefit of a stronger, better-connected local Jewish community?
 

by Inna Pasternak

Just over 6 years ago I hosted a Siyum Hashas at Havurat Shalom. I was my second time finishing, and I was eager to have others share in the celebration. We learned the end of Meseches Nidah together, and then the entire first amud of Meseches Brachos. The room was full and I greatly appreciate so many people turning out to support my accomplishment. As we finished, I joked to the assembled crowd, who were not yet "doing the daf" as the kids now call it, "Wasn't this fun? Don't you want to do it every day?"  

To my very pleasant surprise, a few of them said yes. We stared meeting once a week to review the content of that week's dapim and diagram out the flow of what we'd learned. Two months later, we planned out our first group siyum. We'd planned to meet in the Havurah and learn the end of Brachos and the beginning of Shabbes together, and celebrate with a nosh and a l'chaim. Unfortunately, that was March of 2020, and I ended up missing the event while quarantined for COVID-19. I figured I'd be back to joining the weekly reviews when my 2 weeks of isolation were up, but Hashem had different plans.

Soon, we all found ourselves locked down and navigating life on Zoom. But suddenly we also had a lot more time on our hands. The weekly in-person review sessions were replaced by daily Zoom group learning sessions. On Shabbes, we'd meet outside in the Hav's backyard, sitting twelve feet apart and wearing masks as we hunched over books and printouts. Occasionally another Havnick would happen by on their afternoon walk. "What are you all up to here?" they'd ask. And slowly our group grew.

Over time, as vaccines rolled out and furloughs ended, it got harder and harder to meet every day as a group. We started to split off, some learning in pairs or threes, others studying on their own. For a while we'd still meet as a whole group on Shabbes afternoons at the Hav, but over the years that has also faded away. The whole group now only regularly meets for siyums.

Other things changed over time too. New learners joined while others dropped off. My havrusa and I started dating, got married, and had our first child. Now, a regular feature of our siyums is me pacing around with a sleeping baby, or gently holding their hands to keep them from ripping pages.

Tonight, we are meeting for another siyum as we finish meseches zevachim. B"H, in just another year and a half we'll celebrate the Siyum Hashas again, this time as a group of learners. Who knows what the next year and half will bring, or the next seven and a half year cycle, for that matter. The text is always the same, but the readers keep changing. G-d willing, we'll meet again to toast life and learning!

by Ruth Abrams

Chronic insomnia is a health problem in the United States, even when we aren’t consciously worrying about specific developments on the news. There is research evidence that insomnia increases the risk of anxiety and depression, and conversely, people with chronic anxiety or depression are also very likely to have insomnia as a symptom.

When we need to rest, we need peace. Sleep hygiene advice is all about creating a dark cool environment, reducing stressful input before bed, and setting boundaries to keep our beds a special sleeping zone and night a special sleeping time.
 
It’s much harder for me to follow the rules of sleep hygiene than to keep Shabbat.  Giving myself permission once a week not to be productive is much simpler than trying to get to bed at the same time every night. How can I put down my devices and stop scrolling? Except on Shabbat, of course, I do.  God asked us to rest. God told us to rest! God commanded us to rest. God modeled resting.
 
But now, when Shabbat comes, or when I’m celebrating any Jewish holiday, I’m reminded of all the bad things Jews are doing in the world these days. There’s a technical term for violating commandments that are universal moral principles. It’s “hillul hashem” or “desecration of the divine name.”

I don’t think I’ve ever understood so well the problem of Jews doing evil deeds. I fear it will drive all our children away from Judaism. Or maybe it will drive me away. I say that even though I’m doing some Jewish study every single day! It doesn’t matter. Every day I’m flooded by the contradiction between the lives we’re trying to live and support, and the actions of some Jewish people in Israel and in the Trump administration.
 
When the news is bad, it gets harder to sleep. Maybe you can’t sleep for other reasons than my reasons. It’s not like it feels so safe in the world right now. I drafted this right after the shooting in Australia.

After spending my youth trying to understand the causal relationships in history, I can’t help thinking about how things happening now will affect the future.
 
There’s a technical term for this kind of thinking. We call it “worrying.” This “worrying” is one of the key reasons why we can’t freaking sleep.
 
Yet what if we don’t worry? Will the planet stop spinning? Can we make things better with our thoughts? Is worrying the same as praying? Some people read Psalms or learn Talmud but you could just make a list of people you are worrying about. My sister let slip that she has one. (I think it’s mental and not on paper. She has a good memory.)
 
How does this relate to Shabbat? Can we have a taste of the world to come if we are worrying? Can we call Shabbat a delight when we can’t stop thinking about whether Judaism has somehow caused Jews to do bad things? But if I only see people once a week on Shabbat–and now that I’m active in two synagogues, I see the Havurah people more like once a month–how can I avoid sharing my worries? How can we not talk about this when we see each other?
 
In my adult life, I’ve always had a period of frantic anxiety and rushing before Shabbat starts. Once I’ve lit the candles, I observe restrictions that prevent me from continuing to work. There is a stop and it’s there to force me to rest. I can’t censor my thoughts, but I have learned to say “gut Shabbes, gut Shabbes, gut Shabbes,” to stop myself from talking about money and business.
 
I might never learn to have good sleep hygiene, but I do try to make sure I’ve done whatever I need to do during the day to allow myself to attempt to sleep. I experiment to find out what exactly must be done for me to shut off my brain. It doesn’t always work. I have learned to let go of needing every single idea to solve the problem.

I want to suggest that we find times that are not Shabbat to express our worries about the future, our anger and fear and grief about the present, and just to tell the truth about how we feel.

This isn’t to shut down our attempts to connect authentically when we see each other on Shabbat. We can be real with each other without giving up our rest. Since we are a community of people trying to repair, heal and improve ourselves and the world, it might be OK to try to do this together on a weekday sometime.

That way, Shabbat can be the place where we land to rest, the time when we experience breath, Jewish time, and delight.
 
Anyway, think about whether that’s something you might want to try.

by Aliza Arzt

When I was a child and car odometers were mechanical rather than electronic, it was always exciting to watch the digits change as they slowly turned during the last tenth of a mile on their way to a new number.  It was especially exciting when we were privileged to watch the transition from 99,999 to 100,000.  Since I was born at the end of the calendar year, I’ve had a similar experience, watching 2025 roll by with plenty of time to reflect and anticipate my approaching entrance to my eighth decade.
 
To me, 70 seems a more weighty milestone than any of the big digit changes that have arrived in the past. In order to help me process it, I’ve thought about what Jewish tradition has to say about this number, as well as my personal thoughts about what this milestone means to me. 
           
One of the most famous references is from Pirkei Avot (Ethics of the Fathers) where, in chapter 5 verse 21, Rabbi Judah ben Temah discusses what characterizes each age:

He used to say: At five years of age the study of Torah;
At ten the study of Mishnah;
At thirteen subject to the commandments [i.e. B’mitzvah age];
At fifteen the study of Talmud;
At eighteen the bridal canopy;
At twenty for pursuit [of livelihood];
At thirty the peak of strength;
At forty wisdom;
At fifty able to give counsel;
At sixty old age;
At seventy “שֵׂיבָה”
(translated as “fullness of years” and also as “white haired old age”). . . 

This does sound as if we are near the end of the line at 70!
 
I can still take some comfort from what Proverbs (16:31) has to say about this milestone:

  עֲטֶ֣רֶת תִּפְאֶ֣רֶת שֵׂיבָ֑ה בְּדֶ֥רֶךְ צְ֝דָקָ֗ה תִּמָּצֵֽא׃

Gray hair is a crown of glory; it is attained by the way of righteousness

Even though our ancestors in Genesis seem to have lived extraordinarily long lives, by the time we reach the book of psalms, the prediction is much more realistic:

 
יְמֵֽי־שְׁנוֹתֵ֨ינוּ בָהֶ֥ם שִׁבְעִ֪ים שָׁנָ֡ה וְאִ֤ם בִּגְבוּרֹ֨ת ׀ שְׁמ֘וֹנִ֤ים שָׁנָ֗ה וְ֭רׇהְבָּם עָמָ֣ל וָאָ֑וֶן

כִּי־גָ֥ז חִ֝֗ישׁ וַנָּעֻֽפָה׃
Although we may live to be seventy, perhaps eighty granted strength,
our best efforts are but toil and foolishness;
they quickly come apart and drift away (Ps. 90:10)

In this part of our country, many of us are blessed with decades of a healthy and productive life.  If we have children, they are often home with us for a total of 2 decades or more and during that time, our lives settle around the rhythms of child-rearing.  When our children leave, we have more decades of productive work and community engagement.  This activity comes to feel familiar and eternal to us. I find, as I reach the age of 70, that I reflect more on the “end game” of life.  I have more years of productive adulthood behind me than ahead of me.  Things ache that didn’t hurt in the past and thoughts flee from my mind more quickly than they did before.  I find myself asking myself questions that I have no need to ask at this time, though they arrive in my mind periodically anyway:  What will I do when I can’t get into my claw-foot bathtub anymore? What’s going to happen to my books? My pets? My “stuff”?  Believe me, this is not a useful line of inquiry to take given the fact that I have no significant health or cognitive challenges at this time, but they come to mind anyway.
 
In my opinion, the most important question to consider at this time of my life is how to walk the boundary between reveling in the productivity of my current life now that I don’t have to spend time raising children and working while at the same time putting my affairs in order for my eventual demise?  Once again, I turn to Psalm 90 for comfort and advice:

 
לִמְנ֣וֹת יָ֭מֵינוּ כֵּ֣ן הוֹדַ֑ע וְ֝נָבִ֗א לְבַ֣ב חׇכְמָֽה׃
 
Teach us to apportion our days,
that we may come to have a heart of wisdom (Ps. 90:12)

The key word here is “לִמְנ֣וֹת” which is usually translated as “to number”, but more accurately means “to portion out”.  What is still meaningful to me in my life to do for my own edification and to help my community? As I review what I’ve accumulated in knowledge and wisdom during the decades of my adulthood, what legacy do I want to leave and to what extent can I take an active role in crafting that legacy?  Each of us has a different answer to these questions.  To my mind, the most important thing is to ask these questions and to contemplate the answers that arrive.
 
My response to these questions has been fourfold:

• to enjoy and connect with my family.

We are fortunate to be free of significant interpersonal pain and conflict.  I have a spouse and children that I admire and respect and we work together to make sure that we have time to enjoy and engage with each other.

• to continue to learn and explore new pathways.

Although I don’t have the memory skills of my youth, I study Cantonese and Arabic every evening, spend 2 days a week studying the Qur’an and reading meaningful non-fiction books about which I take copious notes in order to be able to access the content at will.  I continue to teach about topics that interest me and that seem to interest the community as well.

• to devote time to my close and extended communities.

            My strong engagement with the Havurah continues. Of necessity, within the last year, I’ve increased political action and community care by driving people to appointments, writing letters, making phone calls and patrolling my city in case there’s a need to witness and document kidnapping and assaults on my neighbors.  I’m finding ways to productively express my distress about what’s going on in Gaza along with my hopes for an Israel of my dreams.

• to preserve the results of my learning in a form accessible to interested people.

            I’m writing about topics that I’ve taught about in the past, for which I currently have only a source sheet, in order to produce a document that explains my train of thought, ideas and conclusions in a way that’s accessible to anyone who’s interested.  I’m still hoping to write an annotated Siddur Birkat Shalom to explain about the changes we’ve made in the liturgy during the past 40+ years.
 
There will come a day when carrying out some or all of these activities is beyond me, just as running up and down the stairs or carrying a 50 pound load is no longer an option.   I continue to hope that when this happens I’ll have the insight and understanding to pivot to other activities that are within my reach and to always be able to fulfill my goal of living a meaningful life