Oh, it’s hawwwwt out, my mishpotech, and I don’t mean like Hugh Jackman in a pair of Levi’s.
Savannah in the summertime is a little like residing within a steamy bowl of soup, except there’s less carrots and no lid to escape. Lawdy, have mercy on my sweaty soul.
Fortunately, there is a glorious respite from this scalding misery called frozen treats, and lookie what I just found on the interwebs: Chozen, kosher vanilla ice cream swirled with flavors to make your bubbie swoon.
Too bad for me and my real life of an overheated pug lapping at the sewage overflow washing down the alley, Chozen is currently only available in New York.
I had the privilege of hearing and watching the McIntosh County Ringshouters perform last night at Second African Baptist Church and I swear, sometimes I wish I was Baptist.
Not that I could ever be anything but loud, proud Jew or abide that whole “no drinking-no dancing” rule. But I deeply desire some more clappin’ and shouting in my worship. A little hallelujah and Gah-bless. Some “Thank you, Lord!”s and a bunch of “mmm-hmm, say it again!”s. Praising our Creator ’til I’m moved to my feet - as opposed to an atonal reminder to the congregation that it’s time to rise.
Judging for the emails I got from last week’s post about wanting more for my money out of my synagogue dues, I’m not alone. I love the Jewish traditions - the way the prayers feel in my mouth, the concrete wisdom of the Hebrew script, the covenant between humanity and Divinity. Yet in practice—with many exceptions, of course—it has about as much spiritual juice as a prune. To quote my own poem, sometimes I just wanna kick back my chair and shout out “Glory Hallelujah!” to my fellow Jews who know all too well the dangers of drawing attentions to themselves…
Standing in a white clapboard church stomping with a multi-ethnic crowd (I promise, no one said a word about Jesus, which is where I draw the line for interfaith worship,) I felt full-up of Love with a capital “L” for God and people, the seams of whatever holds our souls inside our bodies bursting. I long for such an experience at shul. Those of you who have it — in Chicago, in Winston-Salem, NC, in Berkeley — clap out one for me, brothers and sisters.
Those of us that don’t have it yet, well, we’ve got to keep up the Kosher Gospel somehow. I recommend lobbying for a visit from Joshua Nelson to our communities to show the dried-up prunies how it’s done:
To learn more about how the McIntosh County Shouters have preserved their Gullah-Geechee traditions for hundreds of years, read Dana Clark Felty’s excellent article in the Savannah Morning News.
Today is Tisha B’Av, and it’d be one mofo of a day if it was 586 BCE or the year 70, or even 1492.
Tisha B’Av is basically the Jewish Anniversary of Awful: On this day in 586 BCE, Nebuchadnezzar and his army of mad Babylonians destroyed the First Temple in Jerusalem, murdering 100,000 Jews and exiling a million. In 70AD, the Romans did the same to the Second Temple, only they killed two million and exiled everyone else. The anti-Semitic Spanish monarchs expelled all their Jews on this day in 1492 (yes, the same year their bitch Columbus was handing out syphilis to the indigenous people of the Americas.)
There are even more ugly coincidences on the ninth day of the Hebrew month of Av: officially being kicked out of England in 1290, the deportation of Warsaw’s Jews to the Ghetto in 1942, the bombing of the Jewish Community Center in Buenos Aires in 1994 (technically, it was the day after the ninth, but it was still Tisha B’Av on the West Coast) and in 2005, the beginning of Israel’s withdrawal from Gaza the forced expulsion of the residents of Gush Katif (no matter whose side you’re on, that was not a good day for anyone involved.) And yet, impossibly, there are even more calamities listed here.
Observant Jews commemorate this day with a fast and restriction on anything that smacks of work, play or sex. Portions of “Lamentations” are recited at synagogue along with special elegies–sometimes there’s crying as our people bemoan all the really heavy sh*t that’s come down on us and pray for better times.
Jews like me–that is to say, those who do not take the time out of our lives to participate in this communal mourning–might be at work, clicking around the ‘net, feeling a vague blue moodiness and promising ourselves that we will light a yartzeit (memorial) candle when we get home tonight for all of those who endured horror on past ninths of Av.
While there’s still time for Ahmedinejad to push the button or Hamas to throw another PR flotilla party, I’m thinking 2010 won’t appear on the Tisha B’Av list. May getting rained on be the worst thing that happens to any of us today.
I’ve often kvetched about the high cost of being Jewish. From synagogue dues to the JEA membership to Sunday School tuition to tzedakah to summer camp, it adds up to many thousands of dollars a year, and don’t get me started on the projected costs of hosting a bar mitzvah in a few short years. Sometimes I add it up mentally and fantasize about the fabulous vacation the family could take (to Israel, even!) or what I could contribute to the kids’ college funds.
Living in a community where it’s clear from the plaques on the walls that the generations who came before paid for entire wings of buildings, I often wonder how the institutions will survive. While there are several generous families around here upon whose philanthropy the Jewish community depends, it seems like most people grumble when membership goes up ten bucks. Us Yentas pay our bills and keep the children clothed, but we’re not really in an income bracket that gets our names etched in stone on the walls of the synagogue.
But that’s how it is, right? We’re all used to High Holiday speeches from the temple president, even if visitors are appalled (read an account of the outrage expressed at Yom Kippur a few years back.) If we want to participate in communal Jewish life, we’ve got to “pay to play”—a phrase borrowed from Lisa Miller’s column in Newsweek this week.
Miller points out that these giant, ornate synagogues and community centers were built at a time when Jews, “in a very real sense, nowhere else to go. The country clubs wouldn’t have them; their community, religious, and social life revolved around the temple. Today, American Jews have all kinds of choices about where to spend time and money—Jews no longer need a Jewish pool to swim in—and the buildings have become a burden.”
Many JCC’s are trying to offset the burden by welcoming non-Jewish members to the pools and fitness centers and day camps to keep them going, even opening on Shabbat to accommodate them (please tell me—where do YOU weigh in on this?), so let’s leave that aside for a moment. What about synagogues? One person in Miller’s articles suggests that Jews will band together to “reduce costs to families through something like corporate downsizing: making alliances across denominations, sharing spaces, rabbis, and staff.”
Huh, maybe, but I’m don’t want to sit in on that board meeting. But I’m all for it if it means getting back to the basics. Mostly, I’m frustrated with the high cost of temple dues because I haven’t been particularly thrilled with the return—I want simple, meaningful rituals sung in tunes I can follow led by a compassionate, thoughtful, learned person. Unfortunately, the politics of synagogue life have overshadowed my experience of spirituality there—the factions, the whispering, the lashon hora (gossip, negative speech-of which I’m totally guilty), the lack of focus on, well, God.
Miller mentions the “wild success” of Chabad, which uses the church-y business model of “come pray, come eat” before anyone asks for cash. I’ve never been to a Chabad house, but I’ve met couples who run them and have always been impressed by their generosity and enthusiasm. You may not agree, but I would gravitate towards this if it was available—which it’s not, perhaps for territorial reasons. Savannah’s a small place and there are already three synagogues, none of which I feel particularly comfortable in.
I find the most fulfillment (and believe my children do, too) in creating a Jewish home, which costs less and El Yenta Man doesn’t have to wear a tie. Yet that’s incomplete for us fast-and-loose Jews who need a rabbi to teach us the stories and rules (even if we’re not going to follow them.) On the other hand, who wants to shell out thousands of bucks for mediocre spiritual leadership when you could be on a Disney cruise?
The Yenta household has been blessed with an amazing bounty of cucumbers this week - some almost two feet long!
A girl can only take so much Israeli salad, so I’ve tried my wannabe-homesteading hand at “putting up” these long green gifts from the garden. (I just love the cozy spin the phrase “putting up” takes on when it refers to food. So unlike it’s regular usage, as in “I’m not putting up with this bullsh*t for another minute.”)
After researching a couple of thousand concoctions that required special spices and such, I finally settled on this super easy recipe that requires no cooking - although I recommend the additional step of soaking your sliced cukes in ice water to keep ‘em crisp.
The result is several giant jars of crunchy kosher dills that take up the entire bottom shelf of the fridge - perfect on a burger or just to nosh alone.
“Year of the Pickle” t-shirt is from JewishZodiac.com–if you were born in 1937, 1949, 1961, 1973, 1985, 1997 or 2009, “You’re the perfect sidekick: friends love your salty wit and snappy banter but you never overshadow them. That shows genuine seasoning from when you were a cucumber. Marry a Pastrami later in life.”
Enter your birth year here to find out your cheeky Jewzo sign!
