Preface written by Reena Kling ז’ל
​and Miriam Bronstein.

The siddur has been part of the consciousness and soul of the Jewish people for hundreds of years. Our prayers have challenged us, comforted us, served as a vessel for our longings and bound us together as a community. These prayers express a view of spiritual reality and reveal the community’s deeply held beliefs. The liturgy is also a spiritual tool to help us with our lives. In davenning with the siddur we strive to find a center of meaning; we strive to move ourselves along a path of holiness.
 
The traditional siddur is precious to us. We are profoundly attached to its words, its structure and its wisdom. In praying these words we move
beyond ordinary time; we participate in eternity. We connect with our ancient past and with our extending future. Yet some aspects of the
traditional liturgy present a barrier rather than serve as a vehicle in our religious explorations. We have found that we need to adapt the liturgy,
to give voice to areas of our experience which have been silenced, and to revise aspects of the tradition which trouble us. The issue which has
most engaged us in this process is the inclusion of women and women's experience. Other central issues we have begun to address include: ways
of understanding God, good and evil, the relationship between Jews and non-Jews, and views of human nature. We view these concerns not only as central to our particular community, but also as core ethical and spiritual issues for our people.
 
In taking a close look at the liturgy, we are addressing some of the most basic questions about ourselves, God and the world. We recognize that the language of the siddur has the potential to express not only our concept of how the world is, but our vision of how it ought to be.
Through the repetition of the prayers, we inspire and replenish ourselves with impressionistic, yet powerful, answers to our questions; we form
and reinforce a world view. How mindful we must be, then, as we choose words for regular, set prayer. As feminist Jews, we are committed to working for a world in which oppression is ever being undermined and transformed into justice.
Religion can be a powerful force in helping or hindering this process of transformation. It is important to us to be conscious of the values which are promoted in our davenning. If, in our davenning, we retain and create life-affirming images and practices, and move away from
damaging ones, we believe we can enhance our lives. The words and teachings we turn to and rely on in our times of need and openness have
great impact on us. As we examined the language of traditional prayer, we arrived at the same insight that has been evolving in many
communities: language that is politically inadequate is spiritually inadequate. We feel a need to integrate our political and spiritual beliefs, so that we can bring our whole beings to davenning, and not separate certain parts of our morality from our spirituality. Language affects
consciousness, even though we are often not aware of this fact. The changing of pronouns, for example, not only points to institutional
change for women (leading and participating equally in ritual), but also points to theological change, expanding our concepts of God in enriching and liberating ways. Our siddur, its words, its message, even its grammar, should affirm and strengthen our vision of a world which is moving towards redemption.
 
Our prayer is part of our pursuit of tikkun olam (the kabbalistic notion of repairing or transforming the world). The title of our siddur, Siddur Birkat Shalom, reflects our spiritual and ethical mandate. “Birkat Shalom” has a double meaning. It means: “the blessing or prayer of the (Havurat) Shalom community,” and it also means “the blessing of/for peace.” We hope our davenning with Siddur Birkat Shalom will instill within us a sense of wholeness (shlaimut), and will inspire us to seek shalom wherever we are.
 
Another term we use frequently in our siddur, “mutkan”, Hebrew for “adapted”, contains the same Hebrew root as does the word tikkun. We
use this word to indicate modifications we have made in the traditional text of a psalm or prayer. We selected this word to express our hope that
in our process of adapting the liturgy, we perform an act of tikkun. When we render a prayer or psalm “mutkan” we intend a reparation of what is
troubling in our prayers and in our consciousness, what is in need of transformation in our spiritual lives.
 
In preparing this siddur, we were also committed to freeing our spirituality from the “idolatry” of imaging God as exclusively male and
hierarchical. Our religious experience is diminished when we worship only a part of God as if it were the whole. As we include additional
names for the Holy One, we are expanding our understandings of God. We know that all human language is limited in its ability to convey
ultimacy. No one image is God; there are innumerable images or notions that could potentially express the various aspects of God. We have been influenced by midrashic (1) and kabbalistic teachings which present multiple images and experiences of God within an overarching framework of the unity of God. This pluralistic, yet monotheistic view of God is even reflected in two of our traditional names for God, Adonai and Elohim, which are both in the plural. (Adonai means “my Lords” and Elohim means “Gods”). As the poet has written, “Countless visions we have named You, through all visions, You are One.” (2) As the siddur continues to evolve, we hope that our explorations of God’s multiplicity and oneness will strengthen our sense of the unifying spirit and the harmony that is inherent within each of us and in the world.
We are responding to a changing world view. The sacred task we have undertaken is to integrate traditional and feminist Judaism in making the liturgy reflective of our highest values. We draw from the wisdom and spiritual power of the past and the present. We are seeking to find fresh meanings in the traditional liturgy, and to add new insights from the experiences of our lives and the wisdom of our time. We consider Siddur Birkat Shalom be a continuation of the tradition of
interpreting Torah. Though we were very reluctant to change the words of Tanakh (the Bible), especially Torah (the first five books), we needed to acknowledge our disagreements with the sacred text however painful it may have been. When we daven, we are not studying or quoting, we are making the words our own. Thus, we have maintained traditional teachings and forms as much as possible, in a creative balance and
tension with the evolving beliefs and values that we also hold sacred.

Throughout the generations Jews have davenned, yearning for closeness with the Holy One. We have sought to praise and thank the Creator, and to open ourselves anew to the wonders of creation. We have expressed our joy, our pain and fear, and our hopes for a messianic era of
justice and peace. Through prayer, we strive to perceive the sparks of the holy in every aspect of life, and to sense our connection with the
universe around us and with the deepest parts of ourselves. We want to be inspired to fill our lives with good deeds.
 
We are grateful to the Holy One for giving us life and the capacity to reach out through our prayer and song. We join with the ancient psalmists, with our ancestors and our living communities in singing to God a new song. May davenning with Siddur Birkat Shalom draw us close to the One in whose presence we live; may it be a gateway to holiness for all who enter.
​
1. For example, see Pesikta Rabati, chapter 21.
2. Rabbi Yehudah Ha-Hasid, “Hymn of Glory”
 

by Todd Kaplan

Gleaning is a Jewish value, rooted in our texts. It appears in the Humash in several places and in each place, it is clear that no matter the famer’s yield in the field, there is enough for those in need too.

In the Book of Ruth, we read how Boaz instructs his workers to leave behind some crops in the field for Ruth.  Ruth 2:2–2:2.

In Deuteronomy, we learn that these crops are for “the alien, the orphan, and the widow,” and we leave some of the olives behind (Deut. 24:20-22, trans. Everett Fox) Elsewhere in the Torah, we learn that we must leave the crops that were accidentally not harvested (Deuteronomy 24:19) and to leave the corners of edges of the field behind as well (Leviticus 19:9) and finally, to not strip the field bare and leave some behind for this in need. (Leviticus 19:10).

What we “glean” from these writings is that indeed there is enough food in our world for all, but it is not an accident how it gets into the hands of those in need.  We have to make it happen.  That is why for over a decade, I have volunteered with a local crop rescue program called Boston Area Gleaners (BAG).  This small group has, on a shoe string budget, harvested an incredible amount of local produce and distributed it to families in need in the Boston area.  In 2019, the total amount harvested was almost 1,000,000 pounds! Nearly all of these crops would have been plowed back into the ground, mostly because it was not cost effective for the farmer to harvest these crops peak season.

When the pandemic hit, volunteer opportunities dried up and BAG’s staff pivoted to distributing produce to food pantries under a USDA contract. I saw that no matter how much BAG was able to accomplish, the need was even greater. I started to volunteer stocking the Somerville Community Fridge, located in Union Square at 35 Prospect St.  The fridge is similar to a traditional food pantry in that it offers food to community members in need. Rather than being open for short periods each week, it is open 24/7. The fridge is run by an ad-hoc group of volunteers and it is also completely and informally reliant on community members to stock it. This system trusts that those who use the fridge will take what they need and the anonymity and absence of bureaucracy help ensure the dignity of those using it. The fridge has been tremendously successful.

Boston Area Gleaners is fundraising for a permanent home for their operations, to help out, for more information or to sign up to glean with go to: http://www.bostonareagleaners.org/

For more information about Boston area community fridges go to:
https://www.thebostoncalendar.com/events/community-fridges-in-and-around-boston 

Editor's note: you can see that the Havurah and the community fridge groups both value a non-hierarchical power structure, volunteerism and doing-it-yourself.

Reflections of a Screen Sharer
​by Jacob Lipton

Aside from the year saying kaddish for my father, I have not, as an adult, managed to achieve a sense of personal obligation to attend Shabbat services every week. My attendance has waxed and waned, and I have been happiest at its most frequent, but I have never felt the internal (let alone divine) compulsion to be a weekly attendee. That changed in March 2020 when Havurat Shalom’s services moved online, and I became the community screen sharer.

Since that moment, with few exceptions, I have felt obliged to be at every minute of every service, and to be engaged throughout, sharing via Zoom the pdf siddur from which others read. The result has been that in this year of virtual services, I have felt more connected to my community and my Jewish practice than in any other.

It feels odd to turn the pages of an entire community’s siddur. Turning one’s own pages is usually so personal, especially in the crucial parts of the service in which everyone dovens at their own pace. I feel a real responsibility to get my screen sharing right, despite unavoidable tradeoffs.

For example, I try to minimize the number of scrolling movements: it’s difficult to read a text that someone else is moving. That means sacrificing some scrolling as we go, even when it would display more transliteration on the screen – important for those who rely on it. And when I know that the service leader is reading from the screen and not their own siddur, I prioritize their position over my own sense of the room’s.

Screen sharing has also taught me service leading styles that I would normally miss. Ruth likes to dive into the next pages when she takes over leading, while Cindy defers to the screen sharer about when to move on. Larry exits full screen mode on his zoom app to see more people, which can cut off the page’s margins: adjustments must be made.

An increasing challenge has been maintaining focus. My mind wanders, especially when computer notifications pop up: not a concern in physical services. Sometimes I can’t resist checking a sports score or responding to a text message during the service, and suddenly realize that everyone is waiting for me to continue scrolling. And often it’s all I can do to keep us in the right place, and my own engagement with the prayers takes a back seat.

But, on balance, screen sharing has aided me tremendously, which is why I’ve been eager to do almost all of it. The reason is obligation. Lacking personal obligation, I don’t know how much I would have attended virtual services this year, absent my screen sharing role. But that role has replaced my generally weak feeling of obligation to attend Shabbat services with a stronger, more specific obligation to the community to help keep services running. It’s really doubled, because my obligation to the community rests on our shared commitment in this time of social distance to not only maintain weekly services, but to increase them with a weekly Kabbalat Shabbat. This inspiring communal commitment to keeping the (virtual) show on the road, for all of our benefit, lets me embrace a commitment to my own particular role, to my own great benefit.

A few weeks ago, we had an engaging d’var discussion about na’aseh v’nishma: (roughly) we will do and we will obey. I’ve often thought about doing begetting obeying; build a habit of weekly shul attendance, and you start feeling obliged to continue. On a personal level, I haven’t quite managed that. But this year I have instead achieved a sense of obligation to a community which, even when encountered only in pixels, is a far more tangible conduit.

I don’t know how I’ll maintain that purpose when we meet again in person and my screen sharing services are joyfully redundant. But I do know where to look: the obligation I desire is to a community, and anything else can flow from there.

Havurah member Jacob Lipton is Associate Director at Justice Catalyst, where he works to push the legal profession and system towards justice. He lives in Somerville with his partner Emily and their cat Lulu. 

by Larry Rosenwald

As we got closer to Purim 2021, it was impossible not to remember Purim a year ago – the last time we were together as a community, urging one another to wash hands of course (I added a verse to the purimshpil prologue: “ the usual opening now expands/by urging you to wash your hands!”), not hugging, minimizing contact – but we were there in our space, our house, we were reading from our megillah scroll, we could sing and shout and jeer and hiss together.  Then at the end, with Haman’s plots foiled and the Jews triumphant, we went home.  That was the last time we were together as a community in that wonderful, storied space, with the aron on the wall and the sifrei torah within it, singing together, hearing together, seeing together.

What we have done in the last year, in the world we went home to that night, the world of the pandemic, has been extraordinary – an astonishing up-springing of creativity, loyalty, supportiveness, sacrifice, commitment.  What we could do within the constraints we are subject to we have done, and maybe more even than we imagined we could do.  We made our observance of the High Holidays radiant.  We found on the second day of Rosh Hashanah a way of multiplying and diversifying our non-liturgical musaf service, and the outdoor blasts of the shofar were heard across much of Somerville.  We developed our technical skills to allow us a hybrid ne’ilah service on Yom Kippur, with Ruth Abrams leading from the back porch for those in the back yard and also for those at home.   We developed new forms, new activities:  anti-racism discussions, women’s midrash discussions, Talmud study, even an evening for studying Yiddish poems about fruit, with a learned poet Zooming in from Baltimore.  Our business meetings have never been better attended.  We have new leyners and new davening leaders, new givers of divrei torah, with people stepping up as need and inward prompting called.  Our services draw in members, associate members and alums from across the country, and curious visitors from across the Atlantic.  (I list only what I have experienced or been told about, and no doubt have forgotten some manifestations of our persistence and creativity, for which I ask forgiveness.)  It has been – I’ll end where I began – extraordinary.
           
But it has also been, for me at any rate, a privation.  Zoom allows us to speak together, to see one another (and not to be seen if we so choose), to deliberate together, to study together.  What it does not allow us to do is to sing together.  In another congregation, where singing together mattered less, that might be a smaller privation. In ours, where singing together is der iker, as they say in Yiddish, the heart of the matter, it is a larger one.  We can sing as individuals, we can harmonize with the leader if we choose, we can say the sh’ma together in all its wonderful non-simultaneity, but we cannot sing together, and that is – for me - a constantly felt, never diminishing privation. 

The voices that we hear through the speakers are not quite the voices we hear face-to-face, ponem-el-ponem, some of their resonances and complexities cut off by the admittedly amazing technology.  We cannot leyn from the scroll, we are not in physical contact with the Torah, we are neither face-to-face nor shoulder-to-shoulder, we cannot bless one another with our hands on the shoulders of our neighbors, we cannot feel, or at any rate I cannot feel, the real presence of others as forcefully as we did, as I did, that night of Purim last year.
           
The pandemic has brought out the best in us, and all honor to all who’ve contributed to what we’ve accomplished.  But the pandemic has also been a privation, a set of privations. “My soul waits for God more than they that watch for the morning,” says psalm 130.  I hope it won’t seem impious if I say that my own waiting for our return to our house, and for a diminishing of our privations, has some of that intensity.