Our guest blogger today, Sharon Cores, is one of the best early childhood educators I know. She just has a special way with young children, and their parents, that makes them feel special, loved, appreciated for who they are. She creates community wherever she goes. Currently she teaches preschool at the Lexington (MA) Chabad. What she doesn’t tell you in this post, is that while we met in Andover, MA, the community she is describing is Grand Rapids, MI, where her mother and sister live. It is posted today in honor of her father’s yahrzeit.

Av in the year 5750 was to be one like no other. We had lost my dear father in law, of blessed, blessed memory just a few weeks prior on the 6^th of Av after a relatively rare neurologically degenerative condition took him from us. Just moving out of the 30 days of mourning for him, shloshim, and barely on our feet, we were cruelly thrust back into mourning when my own dad, my mentor, our love, went into a rapid decline and was gone in three weeks on the 14^th of Elul. We found out afterward that it was his second cancer but was not known to any of us…was it known to him? We will never know.

Staggering doesn’t begin to define the emotions, the anger, the confusion that all of us walked through that year. Why these two wonderful men, who only lived to support their families, show them love, teach patience, respect, and commitment by example? None of the platitudes helped, none of the prayers and psalms comforted…there was only numbness, disbelief, and moving forward barely one foot at a time.

It was then, during this month of Elul, that I learned about community…the community of saying Kaddish for one’s parent. While staying with my mom and sister for shiva and a while afterward I found community walking into two different synagogues, one Conservative and one Orthodox, for minyanim…entering as a stranger and being welcomed as a friend. People made sure I did not sit alone, invited me out to coffee afterward, asked if I needed anything. And yes, the first day I left my mother’s house after shiva to say Kaddish at an early morning minyan, there was a rainbow over the roof of the synagogue.

This was to be experienced over and over during the following year as I went to minyan as often as I could with a job and two sons at home. I found a support system among the familiar and the new, but the welcome was always the same, the prayer, always the same. This was community.

Sharon Cores

“More than Israel has kept the Sabbath, the Sabbath has kept Israel.” Ahad Ha’am, an early cultural Zionist wrote before the founding of the State of Israel. As we turn our attention back to Shabbat mode, we pause. What did Ahad Ha’am mean?

I think there are implications for our ongoing discussion of community. There is something about Shabbat that helps sustain a community. Having the routine is part of it. The rhythms. The familiar prayers. The melodies. The aromas from the kitchen. The warmth of the candles. The sweet wine. Family and friends gathered together.

Coming together is only part of it. Prayer is only part of it. Coming together to share a bite to eat is only part of it. It is what transpires in that moment. Those moments. Abraham Joshua Heschel, one of the leading Jewish theologians of our age talks about the Sabbath as a palace in time. It is the intersection of sacred space and sacred time. It is a foretaste of the world to come. It is heaven. Or heaven on earth.

Sometimes it isn’t a whole 25 hour Shabbat. I am a realist. And I liked the approach of Wayne Muller, who also wrote a book called Sabbath, after following Zalman Shacter Shalomi around for a year. For him it is not about the list of prohibitions on Shabbat. For him it is about creating that joy, that delight, that he experienced with Zalman. For him it is about creating Shabbat moments. I particularly liked the idea of the gratitude one individual expressed for a perfect glass of fresh squeezed orange juice, glinting in the morning sun. Ah, Shabbat!

But it is that coming together that creates that feeling of heaven. It is the extra soul we are given on Shabbat so we rise above the craziness of the week. It is the extra spice that is added to the food to give it that Shabbat flavor. It is rushing around (as I am supposed to be doing right now) and preparing the house for Shabbat so that when we sing “Shalom Aleichem” to the angels, the good angel says “May it always be so.” And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

In the process we create community. We eagerly anticipate seeing our friends at synagogue as we catch up with them over lox and bagels, or challah and a little schnapps. I have often said, the better the food, the more people linger, the more people share their lives. That’s community. This week in my community, we will celebrate a Bat Mitzvah. We will pray with those, or for those in need of healing. We will help someone say Kaddish for a loved one. All of those build community too.

Ahad Ha’am was right. The Sabbath has kept Israel. It is one of our greatest gifts to humanity.

Our next guest blogger, Gretchen Vapner, is the executive director of the Community Crisis Center in Elgin, IL. The Community Crisis Center is celebrating its 40th anniversary this year. It offers shelter, hotline counseling for domestic violence and sexual assault, emergency food distribution, help with rent, utilities and transportation, and community education programs.

Always interesting subjects posed by you, Rabbi.  Always nice to be asked.

Community….for me, perhaps because of the political issues I face each day, begins with citizenship .  Being a citizen is being a part of the largest and most important community….and, it comes with great responsibility.  All other communities on each level are related to being a citizen.

Community is a shared experience….more than a group….shared beliefs , hopes and expectations.  I am a member of a community of activists working towards peace for battered women.  We understand each other; we speak the same language; we share similar visions and ethics.  We may or may not be friends….our purpose unites us, not friendship necessarily.

I believe being a member of a community is the only way we move forward….alone we cannot see or do what needs to be done. We cannot identify and certainly not solve problems.  I see communities as mostly positive, but I suppose they can be of negative origin and purpose. To be a part of a community one does not give up individuality but rather contributes it; combines with that of others; builds.

(Enough rambling for this morning.  Perhaps a useful word or two.  My community work calls.)

Gretchen Vapner

This blog post was originally published earlier this week by Ma’yan Tikvehhttp://mayantikvah.blogspot.com/2015/08/earth-etude-for-elul-10-guatemalen.html  and by Jewcology. http://jewcology.org/2015/08/earth-etude-for-elul-10-guatemalen-etudes-for-the-earth/ 

Ma’yan Tikveh is translated as Wellspring of Hope. It is a congregation without walls in Massachusetts that spends much of its time praying outdoors. Its founder, Rabbi Katy Allen, is committed to repairing the world, particularly the earth. For Elul, Ma’yan Tikveh sponsors 40 days of Earth Etudes to preparing for Rosh Hashanah. This one is mine:

An etude is a song, a song of praise. This summer I spent time bouncing on a bus as part of American Jewish World Service’s Global Justice Fellowship in Guatemala. Part of a two year program, we studied text together, we lobbied together, we learned organizing skills together and then we experienced Guatemala together.

It is hard to reconcile the beauty of the land together with the brokenness of the country. In 1954 there was a coupe organized in part by the United Fruit Company and the CIA to protect US interests and land ownership. There was a bloody civil war, a genocide really, with a peace accord that was signed in 1996. But these struggles are not yet over. On September 6, 2015, there will be yet another election and land rights and land ownership are some of the hotly contested issues.

For the Mayan people, the indigenous people, the land is very important. We were witnesses to several Mayan blessings to start our meetings. The first was at an NGO Codecut which trains Mayan women to be midwives. Their circle included colorful candles symbolizing sun, rest, water, purity, blood, transparency, air, sky and the green natural world. We told the story of Shifrah and Puah, the two midwives in the book of Exodus whose civil disobedience enabled the Jewish people to survive. I watched as the head of Codecut, Maria Cecelia, beamed as the story was told. Unfamiliar with the story, she understood the connection as her face lit up with joy and appreciation at the parallels. Their song was an etude for the earth.

Later in the week we visited CCDA. By now the candle ritual was expected and understood, but this NGO added a Maize Dance. During this dance we learned the importance of the struggle for the land. It is not unlike the story of Abraham buying a burial plot for Sarah and the struggle that has ensued ever since. This is the very land that grows maize and provides nourishment for the people through the ubiquitous tortillas, also made as part of the dance. Their dance was an etude for the earth.

CCDA is a grassroots organization of small farmers in 11 regions of Guatemala. They advocate successfully for land rights, help local farmers increase their yields and protect land from environmental damage. Those increased yields help members gain access to health care and education. They can track accounts of human rights abuses against the indigenous, mostly Mayan farmers.

Some of this has come with the sale of their organic coffee beans, Café Justica, to global partners. Some of it is even more local. In their Patio Systemes, there was one woman who explained that with just one chicken on her patio, she was able to put her daughter through 6^th grade and now she is entering high school. The woman herself does not read or write. “We’re not just in the business of buying and selling coffee,” said Leocadio Juracán, Coordinator of CCDA. “We are using the resources we have to work for justice in our communities.”

What CCDA is doing is building community. We watched as the women tended to their children together. As the older kids went to school. As the dogs played on the lawn. As the members of CCDA work together to protect their land rights, learn better farming techniques, provide education to their children, advocate for themselves, they are building community.. One pound of coffee at a time.

This advocacy comes with risk. There are 84 arrest warrants out for leaders of CCDA. Yet, they are making a difference in protecting their land rights, frequently from large multi-nationals who would like to engage in strip mining or who would like to put in large hydro-electric dams which would flood their homes and villages.

When Rosh Hashanah comes, I will be proud to be serving CCDA honey on my table, and Cafe Justica in my cup, making it an extra sweet new year. And I will remember the Guatemalan etudes for the earth.

Our next guest blogger, the Rev. Dr. David Ferner, retired Episcopal priest, living in southwestern NH near Keene. Together, we have engaged in social action projects for decades.

I’m late posting a response to Margaret’s request because of two weekends I believed might bring some new insight into an understanding of community. I participated in a Pilgrimage to Hayneville, Alabama, to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of the martyrdom of Jonathan Daniels. Jon was from Keene, New Hampshire, a graduate of Virginia Military Institute, and a seminarian at Episcopal Theological School, who heard Dr. King’s call to come to the south and help with voter registration. The web is full of stuff right now, so you can get the story, especially through thorough coverage in the Keene Sentinel and from the website of the Episcopal Diocese of Alabama.

I wondered if I might experience community in a new or different way, spending four days with many former strangers, but also interacting with some who have been part of the struggle for civil and human rights for half a century. This included the one Jonathan saved by pushing her out of the way of a deputy sheriff’s shotgun blast and one who was seriously injured in the second blast, eventually carted to a hospital in Montgomery atop Jonathan’s dead body. The pilgrimage was followed by a celebration of this anniversary back home in Keene, with some of the same heroines and heroes of the cause who came north to Jon’s hometown and parish to remember his witness and sacrifice.

With such a preamble, what did I learn about community in these two back-to-back experiences? The first thing I relearned is that when I’m thrown together with a bunch of folks, formerly known or not, it doesn’t take long for me to figure out who I’m attracted to and who I relate with less easily. I also relearned that when thrown together in a community of people who have some common purpose – in this instance learning, commemorating, and reflecting on how things have and haven’t changed these fifty years in matters of race and poverty – ‘liking another’ is low down in the hierarchy of what makes community. Rather, it’s the acknowledgement of a shared desire that becomes the organizing principle. In this instance it’s a desire to remember Jonathan and the other martyrs of civil rights – eleven in Alabama alone. It’s a desire to struggle with the reality that even though things have changed, they haven’t changed so much that a white power structure has been dismantled in a manner that offers economic opportunity, education, housing, health care, and the right to vote (the reason Jonathan was in Lowndes County, Alabama fifty years ago) equally to people of color. It’s a desire to develop an affinity for and relationships with people who are different from us, honoring and respecting their humanity. It’s a desire to overcome the fact that, left to our own devices, even as those devices include some important legislation meant to change the way our society works, we haven’t done especially well with bringing a common vision for our society to fruition. Perhaps, it’s even a desire to wonder why people of faith haven’t embraced a common purpose, a common understanding, organized around what G_d has in mind for the human community.

Jonathan was ‘converted’, if you will, when singing the Magnificat, Mary’s Song from Luke (1:46-55), at Evening Prayer. Mary’s song for those who don’t know it, and it might be a bit foreign to folks at CKI, is a prophetic hymn much like Hannah’s song (I Samuel 2:1-10), much like the songlike quality of Isaiah’s many calls for love and justice (i.e. see the peaceable kingdom, 11:1-10). In it, as well as in its precursors from Hebrew Scripture, the lowly are lifted up and the rulers—read oppressors, are cast down. The world is turned upside down. G_d’s intention of a community of justice and love is an almost realized reality. Isn’t this the prophetic trajectory of biblical history? In some sense we don’t need so much to define and create community. Rather, we need to join G_d’s community – a community that has at its core justice, equality, and, above all, love. In this community, relationship is summoned from the very reality that we share our humanity with others. This organizing principle is not only common to the Abrahamic faiths, but to all world religions. It’s greater than our particular faith’s generally more parochial understanding of community. Jonathan’s ethics professor and mine some half dozen years later, Joseph Fletcher, said justice is love distributed. The Holy One who loves us so very much has given us the gift of human community. Grounded in the heart and mind of the Creator, we are invited to be part of it. We don’t have to create it. We are invited to join it. When we do, the mighty will be cast down and the lowly will be lifted.

The woman whose life Jonathan saved that hot August day in Hayneville, Alabama, Ruby Sales has concluded that she was saved for something. She has spent her life working for justice, fighting poverty, and educating those who would organize others to those ends. In a sermon, remembering Jonathan, yes, but more specifically looking toward G_d’s dream of human, humane community, Ruby challenged us all, and especially those of us privileged by virtue of our color, our education, and our opportunity to embrace life in a world, in a society, in a human community that in some sense already is, waiting only for G_d’s people to enter in.

David Ferner

A tribute to my husband, Simon L. Klein, on the occasion of his birthday.

This past weekend, we read the words, “Tzedek, Tzedek Tirdof, Justice, Justice shall you pursue.” It is the clarion call to make the world a better place. It is perhaps the guiding principle of our family. Our families have a long tradition of participating in social action. When I met my husband he was the chairperson of Temple Emanuel’s Social Action committee. His family has been extensively involved in refugee resettlement work in Tucson. So when we got married, it is just what we did. We worked on hunger, on homelessness, on peace, on domestic violence. And somewhere along the way, we learned that working with others was fun. And it builds community.

When you work at a soup kitchen, it takes more than just two. Some people need to cook the Chicken Divine. Some people make salad. Some people make rice. Some people go get the bread to distribute. Some people set up. Others serve. Still others might be on clean up. During the course of the time, there is much laughter. Much sharing of stories—both amongst the volunteers and the guests. There is a genuine caring that develops. That is community.

When you swing a hammer or paint a house, and you spend 8 hours on a Sunday volunteering with Habitat for Humanity, you stabilize a neighborhood, provide housing for people who need it and build your own organization’s community.

When you organize for justice, with an organization like Merrimack Valley Project, and you identify the top three issues in the community, and you then figure out how to achieve your goals, that builds community, and it empowers people.

These are just three examples. And it is not just me who makes this point. Rabbi Sid Schwarz in his book, Finding a Spiritual Home, examines four successful synagogues across of the American streams of Judaism. In each case, the congregation had a robust social action program and many times the social action program is what drew new members in.

Two weeks ago I was in Guatemala with American Jewish World Service getting a first hand glimpse as to how community is built with social action. There will be more of that discussion on Yom Kippur. But one of the texts we studied was this week’s portion. On Shabbat morning, Ruth Messinger, the president of AJWS, taught about what happens if a body is found out in the open, not in a town, the Torah asks who is responsible. The question is really about who needs to provide the burial. The elders of the town perform a complicated ritual and then proclaim, “Our hands did not shed this blood, nor did our eyes see it done.”

Sotah, a section of the Mishnah explains.

Mishnah Sotah 9:6

The elders of that town washed their hands in water at the place where the neck of the heifer was broken, and they said, “Our hands have not shed this blood neither have our eyes seen it.”  But could it be that the elders of a Court were shedders of blood?  But, “He came not into our hands that we should have dismissed him without sustenance, and we did not see him and leave him without escort!”  And the priests say, “Atone for your people Israel whom you redeem to God and do not allow for there to be innocent blood spilled amongst the people of Israel.”

What Ruth went on to teach is our responsibility to be proactive. To see the person. As a person. Because they didn’t see him, they didn’t provide him with food or security so he left the town. That is a sin of failure to act. It is a sin of omission. “We are bound not only to intervene to protect people against danger but also to anticipate potential dangers and work to prevent them.” If they had seen the man and failed to provide him with food and security, then they would have been responsible, even if they didn’t directly kill him.

She sees a direct connection to Heschel: “In a free society where terrible wrongs exist some are guilty but all are responsible.

Today is my husband’s birthday. His 75^th. This year he has attended the March on Selma. the Religious Action Center’s Consultation on Conscious in Washington, and the Walk for Hunger. He spoke about his trip to Selma on Shabbat and how inspiring it was. He routinely writes letters to elected officials and signs petitions. He attended the American Jewish World Service meeting with Representative Peter Roskam. He has worked together with me on countless food drives, soup kitchens and Habitat Houses. It is what we do as a family. In truth, his commitment to social justice, to tzedek, tzedek tirdof, is a large part of why I married him. That, and his deep blue eyes.

Our next guest blogger, Dr. Beryl Rosenthal, is an anthropologist, a museum executive, a non-profit fundraiser. At one stage, we raised our middle school kids together and became fast friends. At another stage, at Congregation Beth Israel she was my boss, as the chair of the education committee. She hates it when I describe her that way. Now rarely a day goes by without me talking to her. She is the sister I never had. Her take on mechitza, the traditional separation between the men’s section of prayer and the women’s section,  is particularly relevant after a week of shiva minyanim with a mechitza and somewhat surprising for both of us. And written before this past week.

In conversation with my friend Rabbi Margaret on the role of women in Judaism, I noted that for me, a mechitza was not necessarily an anti-feminist structure. I had the pleasure of attending an orthodox shul in St. Louis that was different from any other I had ever been part of. No, I am not orthodox, but it was close to our house and we had very young children who were welcome there.

Bais Abraham was an old European-style shul with a forward-thinking, brilliant and compassionate Polish rabbi who had been through some of the worst of the 20^th century. There was a high mechitza as well, segregating the women and young children from the men. It marked complete separation, of “otherness”. I kept thinking of my old, worn copy of “Purity and Danger”, and how under ultra orthodoxy, women were seen as something to be kept separate, as they were distracting, perhaps dangerous.

The feminist in me should have bristled, but I found it strangely comforting. The structure was a symbol of something else. It marked the boundary for a female community. Many of us were mothers of young children, and we watched out for each others’ toddlers as they ran up and down the aisles. We babysat each other’s kids. We ran all-female Rosh Chodesh services together, supported completely by the rabbi who was constantly being reprimanded by St. Louis’ chief rabbi for being so open-minded (!) Someone was always shushing the few matrons that sat in the back and talked through services. The same two elderly ladies were in charge of the kitchen for years. There was definitely an underground “power elite”.

We could talk freely about supposedly “Female Stuff” – not “plumbing-related”, but how to discretely help someone who needed financial help, who was organizing a shiva meal, and who would pick up an elderly congregant who could no longer walk to shul. It was about taking turns babysitting and reading to the youngest children downstairs during the High Holidays. It was about asking the men to build a ramp for aging congregants.

In point of fact, it wasn’t “Female Stuff” at all, it was the stuff of Judaic ethics. It was about taking care of people, of maintaining someone’s dignity. It was about being a mentsch in a very natural, “don’t-have-to-think-about-it” way. It was about walking the walk.

That, is the nature of community, and in that context, perhaps the mechitza helped maintain it.

While the men were at a shiva minyan, the women had a spiritual experience of their own this week. We went to deli for dinner. Food builds community, we learned in the last post. If you feed them, they will come. So nice conversation over dinner of matzah ball soup or sweet and sour cabbage and a pastrami, corned beef or tongue sandwich.

But the real reason for the “field trip” was to go to the Community Mikveh in Wilmette. Housed at Beth Hillel Congregation B’nei Emunah, it was one of the first mikvaot in the country to be more inclusive in its welcoming. 18 years ago, the Conservative rabbis in Chicago wanted a mikveh they could have easier access to. One that would recognize women rabbis and converts warmly. One that wouldn’t question tattoos and body piercings but would still uphold halacha. One that would be available for women practicing the laws of family purity during their monthly cycles. What they discovered is that there are many reasons people want to immerse. Any time there is a transition moment, there can be a reason to immerse. High Holidays (which is part of why we went now at the beginning of Elul). Passover. Shabbat. Starting a new job. Graduating from high school or college. Retirement. A milestone birthday. Marking a yahrzeit or a period of mourning. Starting chemotherapy. Ending chemotherapy. Healing. Domestic abuse. Rape.

And men immerse too!

There is just something about the water. It is something that resonates with me—but I have always been attracted to water—the Big Lake (Lake Michigan), Walden Pond, Ogunquit. Bar Harbor. Sunrise on the Atlantic. Sunset over the Pacific. There is something about immersing and allowing the water to envelope me that I find comforting. Calming. Peaceful. Invigorating. Energizing.

But mikveh is highly personal. How does this build community? It takes a community to support a mikveh. When a new Jewish community forms, it is incumbent upon it to build a mikveh, a school and a cemetery even before a synagogue or purchasing a Torah! Once the mikveh is built, it takes the community to support it. The mikveh lady, like Carol, the women who are the primary users, the people who support it financially. But more than supporting it, what The Community Mikveh has discovered, and places like Mayyim Hayyim in Boston, is that the mikveh supports the community, sustains it and enables it to grow.

What I learned working at a mikveh, Mayyim Hayyim in particular, is to create a non-judgmental, safe space where people can explore their Judaism. I learned about intentionality. When you walk through the gate of Mayyim Hayyim and are greeted with Enter in Peace and stroll through the beautiful gardens to the light filled atrium, that is intentionality. When the Community Mikveh welcomes you with a tour with Carol’s calm, soothing voice, and all the toiletries you need complete with plush purple towels, that is intentionality. When a mikveh has hours that support conversions during the day and women’s needs at night, they become an important place to refer people to increase their spirituality, to celebrate, to heal. It builds community.

So eight women went on a field trip. We ate. We laughed. We learned. And we built our own community. Just a little bit stronger.

Our next guest blogger, Nori Odoi, is a long time friend, all the way back to Simon’s days at Wang Laboratories. She was one of the first people Simon introduced me to and it is she who baked our wedding cake. She has been featured in Yankee Magazine for her baking—including her hamantaschen. After leaving the high tech world, she became a professional baker and caterer, delighting many with her noshes. She is also a published poet so her writing about food and community, is evocative. I can almost taste the cookies! It seems like the perfect post between the food of the shiva minyans and funeral lunch and the celebrations of Simon’s upcoming birthday this weekend. Both sadness and celebration, as Nori points out, involve community and food.

I often bring food to meetings. Sometimes chocolate chip cookies — crisp, melt-in-your-mouth, with pools of still liquid chocolate — or maybe lemon bars — tart lemon curd cradled in butter rich shortbread — or even small squares of flourless chocolate mousse cake — dark, bittersweet, rich with chocolate, naturally without gluten for those who care.   When I open my offerings, people gather around; some gasp as the aroma of fresh baking awakens their senses. Later we may argue about the proper way to solve a problem or disagree about issues, but for a few moments everyone is smiling and nibbling, and sharing the pleasure of food. For a few moments, we are a unified community.

When we join in community, we each bring our samenesses and our differences. A healthy community thrives on both. Our differences enrich each other, create a greater perspective on the world, teach us about other ways of being. They can make a community stronger and more able.

But the word community derives from “common” — it is our samenesses which joins us. And one of the most basic things we humans share is our bond with food. We need it to survive — we all know the pain of hunger. But we also know the pleasure of filling that hunger.   In fact, satisfying our hunger has been made into an art form, an entertainment we can enjoy together.

Throughout history, communities come together over food, to celebrate, to grieve, to join one another. And as we eat together, we acknowledge both our common vulnerability and our common strength. In giving food to each other we can express love and caring in a wordless yet profound way.

Our holiday foods are more than just sustenance. They have history that go back to our roots. Often recipes survive from those who have left us. In my family, it is traditional to have 24-hour salad, a fruit salad that requires creating a lemon custard and peeling numerous grapes. It was a recipe that my Aunt Sue always made for us, but now she has passed on. When we eat this, we feel her here in spirit, and our hearts are warmed with memories of her. She is still part of our community.

So in this time of reflection, of coming together, I wish you foods that sustain you and give you hope, foods that tell stories of the past and speak of the future, foods that join your spirits in joy and love, foods that bind you ever to the human community.

— Nori Odoi

My congregation is a congregation that has as part of its Vision Statement a pillar that proclaims, “Embracing Diversity.” It is the hardest pillar to describe and to meet its invitation. I believe when it was conceived it was about welcoming interfaith families. But it actually is about much more than that and I have challenged the community to live up to it—or to live into it.

Diversity also means that we welcome people with physical and mental disabilities. We have recently completed the remodel of one of our bathrooms so that it is accessible. We partner with Keshet so that our teachers can better handle a ranges of special education needs. We welcome members of the LGBT community. We welcome members who were not born in this country and in fact have individuals who were born in 17 foreign countries!

Diversity also means we welcome a wide spectrum of Jewish thought and practice. As our president is fond of saying “We are all just Jews.” Sometimes navigating that range of practice is challenging. We have some members who always stand for Kaddish and some who rarely if ever do. We have some members who love instrumental music on Shabbat and some who feel its not Jewish. We have some members who like to wear a kippah and some who never have had that practice. And with lots of discussion and lots of reminders from me—it is all within normative Judaism. It is like the old joke, “Two Jews, Three Opinions.”

This week I participated in a funeral for the mother of a member. The funeral was held in Skokie at a Jewish funeral home and the service was Orthodox. I spoke both at the service and at the graveside. The rabbi officiating called me rabbi. The rabbi had been the family’s rabbi for many years and knew Sharon long before she got sick so it was most appropriate for this rabbi to take the lead. In actuality there were at least four rabbis present representing a diversity of Jewish expression.

The family elected to do seven days of shiva—the most traditional option. And the minyanim would also be Orthodox. That meant that there would be a mechitza, the dividing line between a men’s section and a women’s section. In order to say Kaddish we would need 10 Jewish men over the age of 13. This took some people out of their comfort zone. Why are we doing it this way instead of the way most of our members are used to? Why is the daughter not saying Kaddish?

Shiva allows a family to grieve. To tell the stories of their loved ones. To have their needs taken care of. To not have to think about what the next meal is. To pray–in a community–and to recite Kaddish for their loved one. To experience the deep pain of mourning. Unfortunately it can also be exhausting and stressful. That’s where community steps in.

Our congregation would be handling the logistics. Now our congregation is really good at at shivas. We know how to bring baked goods and deli platters. We have several people who can lead a shiva minyan. We know how to show up.

And that’s what we did. Each night. Some nights were harder than others. One night the recent Bar Mitzvah boy had to call his friend, another recent Bar Mitzvah boy to make the minyan. And he goes to another congregation entirely! In the process, we comforted the mourners, because that is what it is about—comforting the mourners–even if sometimes some were not comfortable. And in the process, we built even deeper connections in our own community.

We are a small congregation, about 120 families. Counting on people to show up four nights in a row when it is the end of summer, the first few nights of school, lots of people had prior commitments, or are out of town, is tough. But that’s what people do. That’s about community. That’s part of what community is for—to share good times, like a Bar Mitzvah, and hard times, like a funeral and the subsequent shiva.