JewBu

Last night I attended an 8th Night Jewish Buddhist Passover Seder at a synagogue in the Hilltop neighborhood.  The venue really did sit about 1/2 way up a hill and afforded a view of the southern front range maximally obscured by an ugly power station.  Temple Rodef Shalom was located on the north side of George Washington High School in what was once one of the most Jewish neighborhoods in early Denver.  This 'hood is home to the Jewish Community Center, BMH and Temple Emanuel, and the large Greek Orthodox Church, you know the building  with the massive gold dome.  If you grew up like I did, in a diverse cultural neighborhood, you will know that being Jewish, Greek or Italian is pretty much the same.  We talk loudly, love our respective heritages and eat a lot of food.

As soon as my daughter and I parked, I recognized a friend's car in the lot.  Not only did I find my people, I found a couple of girlfriends as well.  As luck would have it, as soon as we entered the banquet hall, my two fellow writing friends were at the first table, and we settled in with them.  These ladies are very interesting.  One was raised Orthodox, has lived in Israel and is fluent in Hebrew.  She frequents an Episcopalian church as that is what currently calls to her.  The other gal is a convert.  She once shared how she felt Jewish at the age of 12 and self converted without telling her Lutheran family.  Later in life she did the actual rituals of converting and now is a full-fledged MOT.*

And then there is me.  Raised by two Jewish parents in a bucolic suburb of New York City.  I had no formal religious training, but always endeavored to find the afikomen.  I remember my dad being very active in the fundraising aspect of the temple building committee.  It was a nice building and I still feel guilty smashing my bubble gum into the carpet behind the podium.  Perhaps that was my first act of religious rebellion.  My brother made his Bar Mitzvah, but my sister and I did not.  Memory says that my parents didn't think girls did that, but I had plenty of classmates who made Bat Mitzvah between being a tomboy and their first menstrual cycle.

This service had a beautifully stapled Haggadah - the official guide book of the Seder - peppered with a healthy dose of literary license.  My kind of writing, my kind of service.  There were 91 individual reading lines, and we soon learned that there would be a handheld mic passed as a way to give as many voices as possible a chance to participate.  This resonated with me as I strongly believe that everyone has a voice, a story, that deserves to be heard.  It is democratic.  And a bit like Al-Anon.  My half Jewish, non Hebrew speaking daughter was the lucky recipient of the first mic opportunity.  Her line was short with only two words that weren't English.  She did great and passed the mic to her right - to my Jewish/Episcopalian friend.  Next was the tween convert.  Both spoke beautifully, no hiccups in the Hebrew.  As the mic wended its way around the table, it dawned on me that when my turn came around I would be reading a poem.  By Rumi.  Now I referenced Rumi in my blog post yesterday.  And I am a poet.  So this portion had my name on it and it made me happy.  I must also mention that the nine and eleven year old future mensch's at the table also read beautifully.  Here's the poem:

Out beyond our ideas of wrong-doing and right-doing,

there is a field.

I’ll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass,

the world is too full to talk about.

Ideas, language, even the phrase “each other”

doesn’t make any sense.

-- Jalal Al-Din Rumi (13^th century Persian Sufi poet)  

The organization that hosted this occasion is Judaism Your Way.  This is just the second event I have attended that was sponsored by them; I like the vibe, and the feel of returning to my Jewish roots, so I see more of their way, my way in the future.  A short hello, some general housekeeping hints and the Seder was underway.  Unlike the long nights of my youth, with lots of moaning and wondering why my brother knew Hebrew but I did not, this service was engaging and the perfect amount of time.  As the youngest in my family I reveled in the four questions, but little else.  Last night the sprinkling of Buddhist concepts and quotes from Pema Chodron and Thich Nhat Hanh engaged my spiritual side and kept my interest. 

I had unnecessarily warned my daughter not to expect much from a Kosher catered meal, and I am happy to report that I was wrong.  Our dinner was delicious!  The Seder plate had all the usual components; roasted egg, shankbone, bitter herbs, haroset... as well as orange slices.  There was a side note in the Haggadah that explained:

• The addition of the orange to the Seder plate was conceived by Dr. Susannah Heschel as a symbol for the full inclusion of gays and lesbians in Jewish life.  The orange has evolved to symbolize the inclusion of all who are not yet fully recognized and celebrated in the Jewish community.

          The orange as a symbol of rebirth is the teaching of Rabbi Arthur Waskow.  The connection  of

          zera (seed) with the traditional Pesach symbol of zeroa (the shankbone of the Seder plate) is an

          insight of Rabbi Brian Field.

The caterer offered vegan, vegetarian, and gluten free options.  My main dish of a spicy stuffed Portobello mushroom was tasty and filling.  The best part though was a matzo meal, apple cake that was dense and moist and warm and yummy.  Other guests were coveting the centerpieces, but I boldly grabbed a half-full plastic plate of this dessert masquerading as a side-dish as my take - away. When I passed the armed security guard on the way out, my index finger was pressed to my lips as if to tell her hush!  She laughed and my daughter and I absconded with a culinary delight!

One more note.  We finished the Seder a few minutes early, and the caterers needed another moment to finish up.  (as a former caterer - I know this scenario well!)  The musicians filled the space with Jewish favorites and before anyone could stop me and my cohorts, we were up and dancing and then more people joined in as we joined hands and weaved our way through the chairs of hungry guests!

Time to Write,

Jane

*MOT - Member of the Tribe