SYNABLOG: Temple Emanuel of Beverly Hills

Our Children, Our Builders

Talmud teaches:  
"The students of the wise increase peace in the world. As it says, 'and all your children shall be taught of the Eternal, and great shall be the peace of banayich' (your children)."
Isaiah 54:13 

"Read not banayich (your children) but bonayich (your builders)."
Brachot 64a

By trying a different vocalization, Rabbi Eleazar adds nuance to the meaning of these words from Isaiah.  He creates a connection between children (banayich) and those who build (bonayich).  In Rabbi Eleazar's interpretation, it is these children/builders who have the potential to bring about a peaceful world. 

What does Rabbi Eleazar mean when he equates children with builders?

This year several of our Fifth Grade families spent Sunday mornings uncovering what it truly means to give tzedakah.  They asked: Is it tzedakah to ask for a dollar as the car pulls up to Religious School on Sunday morning?  Is it tzedakah to save pennies in a piggy bank to give away later?  Is it tzedakah when parents allocate a portion of their earnings to organizations they care about?  Together, parents and children had these conversations.  Kids asked parents hard questions about how much money they give to charitable organizations.  Parents discussed candidly the challenges of talking to children about money.  We visited a number of organizations who are doing important work in the Los Angeles community, and eventually had to make tough decisions about where our tzedakahcould make the greatest impact.

Read not banayich (your children) but bonayich (your builders).

Last week, I went with a few of these families to deliver our tzedakah allocation to No Limits, one of the organizations they chose. No Limits works with underprivileged deaf and hard-of-hearing children, giving them opportunities to build skills and confidence. As our students presented the check, I found myself wishing that we could have given more, made a bigger difference.

And then I remembered: These are not just our children, they are our builders. Their experience at No Limits was one lesson in a life-long curriculum of what it means to give graciously and generously. The lessons we teach our children, the experiences we provide them are only the bricks and mortar. They will use them to build the world we leave in their hands. 

Rabbi Sara Mason-Barkin

A Book About a Book Led Me to Our Book

Experiencing cultures outside of Judaism can solidify one's identity as a Jew. In the summer of 1991, I spent five weeks as a counselor on a trip to the Rosebud Indian reservation in South Dakota, and we spent the first three weeks sleeping in tents in Albert White Hat's backyard. We were participating in drum circles and pow wows and sweat lodges, and helping to prepare the annual Sun Dance, a four-day dance in an area enclosed by a kind of shade barrier that is best described as an elongated horseshoe-shaped sukkah. We also woke early for a morning service circle each day.

As the trip went on, the high school students began to really appreciate the way that they expressed their Jewish spiritually by seeing it through the eyes of another culture. Basically, living on a Native American Reservation and participating in their rituals led the students to love their own heritage. The most fascinating aspect of the phenomenon of this Jewish identification through this experience was that the only reason we went on this trip at all was because we had to cancel a trip to Israel due to the Gulf War.

Recently, I read a book called "The Swerve: How the World Became Modern" by Stephen Greenblatt. It is about how the last copy of an ancient 1,500 year old text, the Roman philosophical epic poem, On the Nature of Things, by Lucretius, was rescued and copied by a Book Hunter named Poggio Bracciolini in the library of a German monastery, in 1417. Greenblatt brings the reader into the world of 15th Century Europe, the Papacy, and the intellectual circle of literature and art in Florence, Italy. An historical fiction, he claims that Lucretius' poem influences the thought of future philosophers, thinkers and scientists, whose ideas give birth to the modern world as we know it. Five copies in various languages were found in Thomas Jefferson's library, and could have been the ideas responsible for the phrase "the pursuit of happiness," found in the Declaration of Independence.

The book led me to be extremely proud of my Jewish Heritage. I felt proud of our literacy as a people. The world described in the book (in the decades before the printing press was invented) was one where only the aristocracy, clergy, and certain professions knew how to read or write. Consider over history the idea of a Bar Mitzvah, where a boy demonstrates he is ready to be a man in the community by reading from Torah, showing that he is literate. Throughout our history, all Jews have been taught to read and write from a young age. It made me proud.

I felt proud of our biblical text. I couldn't help but notice that many of the ideas presented in the poem (except for the scientific idea of the world being made up of atoms that combine to make all matter), were found in the wisdom literature of our canon. Many of the same ideas expressed in Lucretius' book are also found in the book of Ecclesiastes, about life and our relationship to other beings in the world, and the concepts of life in relation to our mortality. I felt proud that our bible had so many differing theologies and philosophies in its books.

In many ways the book is about how literature is transmitted over a long period of time, how ideas are saved and cherished. I am proud of the Jewish tradition of preserving Jewish ideas since we first brought the Torah to the Jewish people. I marvel at the ongoing conversation between our ancient texts and the sea of interpretations and writing that have tried to explain the texts. Of course, I'm sure that there have been many Jewish writings that have been lost over time, and there have certainly been books that were frowned upon and not preserved. But reading this book, which had nothing to do with my Jewish heritage, led me to be incredibly proud of the commitment of our people to celebrate words and books and ideas. 

On Shavuot, this Tuesday night, we continue the tradition of celebrating our receiving the Torah. We will learn together from our teachers Rabbi Sara Mason-Barkin and rabbinic intern Sara Abrams. We will celebrate our literacy, and our books, and our community together.

Rabbi Jonathan Aaron

Thunder, Lightning...Music!

There is thunder and lightning.  A flame reaches up to the sky.  The mountain shakes.  As the trumpets sounds from on high, the ears of more than 600,000 people are filled by the sound of an accompanying voice floating down with a sublime melody.  Without question, the tune is the Kol Nidre...or maybe it's the Great Aleinu. When we celebrate receiving the Torah in a few weeks on Shavuot, we will also be celebrating the extensive body of melodies that are said to have been received at that same time and place. This music, which has been embraced and perpetuated by Ashkenazi Jews for generations, is known as MiSinai, or from Mt. Sinai, having been given to us by God.

 

I really love our MiSinai Melodies, from the simple motif we use for "l'shana tova" to the soaring Kol Nidre or the haunting melody for the prayer for dew on Passover or rain onSh'mini Atzeret.  Shavuot is a time to express thanks for the musical depth and richness of our heritage. When I take in the wide range of our prayer services at Temple Emanuel, I also see this as a time for musical reflection. What does it mean for a melody to beMiSinai?  Where do the dozens and dozens of new settings and musical approaches fit in?  How do we reconcile a piece by Louis Lewandoski (High Holy Day Kedusha) written nearly 150 years ago, with music written by former congregant Roy Zu-Arets (Shir Chadash, S'fatai) for Shabbat B'Yachad, or even newer pieces composed by Rabbi Aaron that we've recently been using at Shabbat Unplugged? (V'shamru and Aleinu)

 

MiSinai melodies don't actually come from Mount Sinai or even from biblical times. Rather, it is widely accepted that their origins can be traced to Rhineland between the 11th and 14th centuries. Some can even be traced to musical material from medieval German Minnesingers. Very few scholars accept the idea that MiSinai melodies literally came from Sinai. The concept simply means that the music is old enough and treasured enough to be deemed unchangeable. It's like an honor badge that shows that a certain melody has helped to shape us, give us our identity and must not be lost. So, the concept of MiSinai is in some ways, a fluid one. There must have been a point where a composer, cantor, choir director who had grown up in Germany, listening to German music, introduced musical ideas from the host culture into Jewish prayer music. That caught on, and eventually the term MiSinai evolved.

 

Today as Americans, we are a host culture. Our parents, grandparents and great grandparents have listened to decades upon decades of American music. And our music has evolved just as it did centuries ago in Rhineland. Our temple music has changed and evolved a lot too. Some of the changes are small -- like the use of a piano or an organ. Other changes are more radical, like the onslaught of full rock bands that has recently swept through liberal Jewish synagogues. Either way, we are now experiencing a wide array of American styles which represent a broad overview of Jewish American Culture being introduced into prayer settings not just as a novelty act, but as a way of deepening our prayer experiences and allowing us to connect to our texts in an even more meaningful way.

 

As we celebrate the giving of Torah later this month, let's cherish and preserve the musical heritage of Eastern European Jews. But let's also marvel at how God's voice at Sinai is echoed here in our own community, as we continue to write the musical stories that shape our lives. 

 

Cantor Yonah Kliger

Sacred Conversations

A recent article in The Huffington Post described a new phenomenon called a Death Cafe, a place to discuss difficult questions connected to the end of life. Last week the front page of the LA Times ran an article called "Death Cafe: passing thoughts."

 

Though I wouldn't use the term, a synagogue should also be a "death cafe," a safe place to have the difficult conversations we all need to have about end of life decisions. Too often I sit in a hospital room with a comatose congregant surrounded by adult children locked in battle over what mom or dad really wanted. Sometimes the one most committed to heroic intervention is the child with the most unresolved issues; finally she or he can be the one who proves her or his love. But that moment is clearly a disastrous time to act out this unresolved family drama. Too often the time for the funeral comes with the adult child unclear about cremation or burial. Too often I see families totally destroyed because wills were not discussed openly in advance of death and one of the adult children is devastated by a perceived or real injustice, with no opportunity to work through the disappointment. Too often I see missed possibilities for healing old hurts through honest conversation.

 

Jewish tradition offers powerful tools for facilitating these conversations. One is an ethical will, a tradition that goes back to biblical times where individuals write a letter to those who live on after them describing the legacy they hope to have left them. The process of writing an ethical will is both difficult and powerful; it asks that an individual reflect on the meaning of his or her life. It is a document one writes and then rewrites years later, continually reviewing what matters and what is important. Writing an ethical will at age 50 helps a person think about what he or she needs to do going forward in order to be the person who can leave the legacy he or she describes -- and reviewing and rewriting again at 60 and at 70 and at 80 helps one continue to do the work that self-reflection demands. Sharing that ethical will with those who matter most as part of a ritual around a significant birthday can be the beginning of an important conversation.

 

Where better to have the conversation than connected to your synagogue and connected to ritual? Rabbi Elliot Dorff suggests that synagogues ought to incorporate into the Confirmation curriculum for 10th graders the requirement that they prepare an end of life directive before they get their drivers licenses. What a powerful way to remind young people that driving a car requires responsibility and that casual behaviors like texting or drinking can be lethal. What better place to confront the truth we all know but spend our lives trying to deny: each of us will die. One could argue that all spiritual traditions begin with this truth...and offer us spiritual practices to, in the words of Psalm 90, "teach us to number our days so we may acquire a heart of wisdom." The psalm challenges us to make every day count, to be present in every moment, to pay attention. And at the same times it reminds us that our lives will end, and it is also a spiritual practice to share with those we love how we want to die when that time comes.

 

At Temple Emanuel, these conversations are not called "death cafes" but rather "Sacred Conversations about End of Life Issues." They challenge congregants to ask: "What do we want others to know about our physical and spiritual care as we approach our death? What are the life lessons we wish to impart to others? What can Jewish tradition teach us about doing this with compassion and dignity?

 

And just as these conversations challenge congregants, the conversations also challenge Jewish tradition. To ask, as we do, how we want our bodies to be treated after death gives us the opportunity to learn what Jewish tradition has said for generations -- that our bodies are a temple and should be treated with respect. Jewish tradition assumes burial, but as a liberal Jewish congregation, more and more members of our community believe that treating a body with respect includes the possibility of cremation. That too is a conversation we need to have with each other.

 

Join us for the next conversation: Wednesday night, April 24, 7:00-9:00 P.M. in the Bess P. Maltz Center with our congregants Dr. Warren Roston, Dr. Richard Tuch and Emily White. As Ecclesiastes wrote: "There is a time for silence, and a time to speak." Now is the time to speak -- and to listen.

 

Rabbi Laura Geller

A version of this message appeared in Huffington Post

Click below to view Rabbi Geller's interview on Prayer Stories as part of HUC's Kalsman Institute on Judaism Health and Cedars-Sinai's Jewish Wisdom & Wellness: A Week of Learning. The Week of Learning is an interdisciplinary community-wide series of events, lectures, workshops, and experiential classes examining Jewish traditions and their impact on our well-being. Additional videos from the event are available here. Don't miss this exciting series! Click here for more information.

 

Healing What Is Broken

What gives you strength to be present for someone you love who is ill? In the season that our Torah portions focus on healing, Cedars-Sinai and the Kalsman Institute at Hebrew Union College are kicking off a week of Jewish Wisdom and Wellness. This video is part of that program, as are the workshops we are offering at Emanuel. 

The first, on Sunday morning April 21, from 9:00 A.M -11:00 A.M., is called "Honoring Your Parents: Choices, Challenges and Community Resources." 

Please take a minute and watch this short video where I share a Jewish image that helped me honor my father as he descended into Alzheimer's.  Then click on this link to see the other programs during the week of Jewish Wisdom and Wellness. 

 

Rabbi Laura Geller

 To view all of the videos from the series, click here. 

Counting Up to Counting Down

Sometime in the year 2008, I began to count the days until my wedding. I kept a ticker on my computer screen and while I took notes in class, I would simultaneously day dream about standing under the chuppah and calling Josh 'my husband' for the first time. As the numbers decreased to single digits my excitement increased as it meant the moment of marriage was drawing closer. Day by day we marked off of both our logistical and spiritual checklists to prepare ourselves: from finalizing menus and seating charts, to immersing in the mikveh. All of this helped Josh and I prepare to become a married couple. 

What's funny is the ticker still runs on my computer screen. At this moment, Josh and I have been married for 1,775 days. Counting up to forever doesn't quite hold the same sense of anticipation as counting down to zero. But marriage is still made of moments both mundane and holy: everything from the paying bills and doing dishes, to welcoming our son to the world and watching him grow. The count-up from our wedding is slower and steadier than the countdown. 

As Jews we are currently in an anticipatory moment of counting, marking each day between Pesach and Shavuot (known as 'counting the Omer') as we ready ourselves to stand once again at Sinai and receive Torah. There are logistical aspects: like remembering daily to say our count out loud. There are also spiritual aspects: like associating each day of the Omerwith an inner personal attribute, using the Omer as an opportunity for reflection and self-awareness. The mundane and the holy aspects of our count build to Shavuot, measuring our anticipation. And as it is said, at the stroke of midnight the heavens open and God hears our prayers.

Counting, anticipation, and preparations both mundane and holy heighten important moments in our lives. Building up to a moment highlights the moment itself, and allows the sanctity of that moment to inform into the days that follow. 

The way I approached my wedding day is a reminder of the way I want to approach my marriage. The way we approach the counting of the Omer is a reminder of the way that we regard Torah in our lives. 

As we prepare to open our hearts to Torah on Shavuot, may the sanctity of that moment carry through into each and every day that follows, as we count eternally onward.

 

Rabbi Sara Mason-Barkin

So Much Music, So Much Time....

Passover is here! Families and friends, young and old will gather around a festive table for the Seder. We'll retell the story of the Exodus from Egypt. We'll eat, and we'll eat, and probably eat some more. And if you are like me, you'll probably spend lots of time singing. For me, one of the greatest things about the Passover Seder is the huge repertoire of music that keeps our evening lively, fun, and gets everyone involved. You most likely know that according to tradition, the longer the Seder, the more praiseworthy. So, in truth, we aren't bound by time (even though it's always nice to start eating a little something as soon as possible!) The more music, the better. And since we have the luxury of staying up late, we can sing sing sing!

 

Like me, I'm sure you have some classic favorites like "Had Gadya" and "Dayenu," and those songs are important, powerful and evoke lots of different emotions.

We still sing things like "Had Gadya" and "Dayenu," but seldom are they as memorable as the songs that come from the heart.

 

My friend and colleague, Jewish Musician/Composer/Performer, Craig Taubman, wrote about his three favorite Passover songs, and interestingly they were hardly what you'd think of as traditional Passover songs. By now, we've all seen the cute and mostly silly Passover parodies that you can find all over the internet, but Taubman offers a different take on songs for the Seder. His song choices and more importantly, his reasons for choosing them, really resonated with me . 

 

According to Craig Taubman: 

 

My three favorite Passover songs are:

1. Leaving On A Jet Plane

2. Dance Me to the End of Love

3. Sounds of Silence

 

Since I am a musician, most people assume that I lead incredibly musical sedarim. While they are very celebratory, they are not particularly musical.

 

Since I make a living making music I try not to make music my life. I like to make a distinction between my role at work and my role at home. With that in mind we have created a tradition that allows the Seder to evolve on its own, with less intervening and frontal leading on my part.

 

My favorite Passover songs illustrate the point.

 

1. Leaving On a Jet Plane. Every holiday I ask my 84 year-old mother-in-law to free associate and share a song from her life's journey. She loves musical theater; the Beatles; Peter, Paul and Mary; and Simon and Garfunkel. Last year's free association was travel songs. Let me tell you, it is pretty cool to have everyone chime in on this classic new Passover song!

 

2. Dance Me To The End Of Love. Tradition suggests that we share love songs from Shir Hashirim (Song of Songs) at the first Seder. Last year we chose this classic Leonard Cohen song that had half the table in tears and the other half swooning!

 

3. Sounds of Silence. In truth, we did not sing this song, but it does reflect an important aspect of our Seder. Music is not just the notes. It also is the silence between the notes. The only thing that can bring a group together as well as song is silence. We make room to sit quietly at our Passover festivities so that we can hear and feel the love of self, family, community and tradition.

 

Inspired by Craig Taubman's list, I offer three Passover Songs of my own that I'm going to think about incorporating into my Seder next year.

1. Me and Bobby McGee -- Janis Joplin. Joplin's voice has echoed on with the classic line: "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose." It reminds us both how sweet freedom can be, and just how much we have to lose. Kris Kristofferson wrote the song after burglars trashed his home and stole "what little he had to steal." He found it liberating, which helped give rise to the spirit of the song. He says it's about "the double edged sword that freedom is." 

 

2. Time After Time -- Cyndi Lauper. Cyndi Lauper's most enduring masterpiece hits at the very essence of commitment. Lauper captures real romance in the most simple and straightforward of lines: If you're lost, you can look and you will find me, time after time.

 

3. Where the Streets Have No Name -- U2. "Streets" is the musical equivalent of lighting a candle and saying a prayer. A great song to play before commencing any major journey. The organ opening is so ethereal, it is almost other-worldly, while the jangly guitar riffs root you firmly to earth. By the time Bono has finished lamenting tearing "down the walls that hold me inside," I am halfway out the door.

What would your new Passover songs be? Let me know at cantorkliger@tebh.orgfacebook.com/YonahKliger or on Twitter @Cantoryonah

Here's a link to "Seder Songs," a compilation CD featuring nearly 50 Passover hits: http://www.urjbooksandmusic.com/product.php?productid=12367&cat=542&page=1

Chag Sameach!

Cantor Yonah Kliger

A portion of this piece was originally published before Passover of 2011

Dayenu

Passover ends tonight at sundown for Reform Jews and Jews living in Israel.  There is so much work at the beginning: cleaning, changing dishes, putting away chametz, cooking for our seders.  But it ends...with almost nothing. No big ritual, no loud family gathering, no singing, no telling the powerful story of our journey out of Egypt, out of the narrow places.

Why not? Maybe because the journey doesn't really end.

Passover challenges us to look upon ourselves as though we really had come out of Mitzrayim, out of a narrow place. But that is just the beginning. Where are we going once we have come out of Egypt? What is that Promised Land that we are working to create in the larger world?  What steps are we taking to get there? What is this journey of ours?

 

We raise this question in our seders when we sing Dayenu.

 

It begins: " How many maalot,  how many favors, how many steps, has God bestowed upon us?"  There are fifteen in all, in a traditional hagaddah. The first section begins with God taking us out of Egypt and then continues with God exacting revenge against the Egyptians. The second section speaks of God taking care of us in a physical way. The third section is about the spiritual gifts God gave us:  God gave us Shabbat, brought us to Sinai, gave us Torah, took us into the land of Israel, and built the Temple for us to atone for our sins.

 

Dayenu does what the seder tells us we are supposed to do in telling our own story -- we are supposed to start with degradation and end with glory: it starts with Egypt and ends with us as free people worshipping in the Biblical Temple in Jerusalem.

 

In the traditional hagaddah...the journey ends with the Temple. But of course that isn't the end; Jewish history continued beyond the Temple, beyond the destruction of the Temple.

 

The  first Reform version is quite different. It not only omits all the steps that speak about revenge against the Egyptians, but  continues beyond the Temple:  God brought us prophets of truth and made us into a holy people charged with the responsibility to repair the world.  The "Open Door"  Reform Hagaddah adds more: that God has been with us in our trials, kept alive our hope for return to Israel, made the dream of return to Israel a reality and given us strength to create a vibrant diaspora. 

 

Notice the different ways we have of telling our story, our reflecting on our journey...and imagining where it ends.

 

Where does the journey end? How you answer that question tells a lot about how you understand what it means to be Jewish, what your being part of the story requires of you. To be part of a people charged with perfecting the world is no easy task. That responsibility is part of our story. To celebrate Israel requires that that we do something real to connect ourselves to that land and its people.  To be grateful for a vibrant diaspora challenges us to make sure that Jewish spiritual, cultural and intellectual life here where we live is rich and meaningful.

 

Dayenu does more than ask where the collective Jewish journey ends.  It  challenges us as well in a deeply personal way. Dayenu means: it would have been enough.  It seems to suggest that wherever we are along the way is actually enough; that the goal of the journey is the journey itself. 

 

If God had taken us out of Egypt, but not divided the sea for us...it would have been enough. If God had split the sea for us but not taken us through to dry land, it would it have been enough.  But would it have been?  Where would we be? We'd be dead!   So how are we meant to understand what dayenu is teaching? Would it have been enough...  what is enough?   How do I live my life with the consciousness of the many blessings that are already in my life without always wanting more?  If my personal story were to end right now,  would I be able to say dayenu about my life? What would it mean to relate to any given moment, this moment, right now, right here, as if my whole life revolved around it... to really say dayenu?

 

And when would it be wrong to say dayenu, to settle for less that we should demand, to give up too soon? I look around our imperfect world, is it dayenu? I don't think so. There are always other steps.  The journey never ends. The world is still waiting to be repaired. Lo Dayenu... not enough.

 

But still... if I stop along the way and pay attention, here's what I see: so many blessings that have been bestowed on us as a people... and also on me. And that consciousness gives me strength and vision to continue the journey...and the work of repairing the world.

 

Where does the journey end? Maybe it never does. But we need to stop along the way, and be present in this moment.... this very moment.

 

Rabbi Laura Geller

Had a Ball at the Beverly Hills Purim Ball

Last Wednesday was one of the highlights of the year at Temple Emanuel of Beverly Hills. It was our 6th Annual Beverly Hills Purim Ball, honoring our co-presidents Scott Shlecter and Elisa Newman-White with the Humanitarian of the Year Award, and the Markowitz family of Factor's Deli with the Community Award. Over 350 congregants and Beverly Hills community members packed the Greer Social Hall (we had to open the wall between the social hall and the sanctuary there were so many people) for this Brazilian themed party, where we danced and partied until 11:00 in the evening. It was our Temple Emanuel community at its best. Cantor Kliger began the festive event with a parody of "The Girl from Ipanema," last year's recipients, Toni and Bruce Corwin presented the awards to our co-presidents, Los Angeles Councilmember Dennis Zine presented the award to the Markowitz Family, Bruce Resnikoff led our live auction, and the Debbie Allen Brazilian Dancers got everyone up, dancing the Samba. The food, catered by The Mark (Factor's Deli's catering), was delicious, and the room looked fabulous.

It was one of those moments when Rabbi Akiva's words rang true - "Do not separate yourself from the community." It was a time to embrace community, to take pride in the very special synagogue that we have, to talk with old friends and make new ones, to praise those members of our community who have given us so much, and, most importantly, to be together to celebrate being a member of Temple Emanuel.

To plan and implement such an event takes a tremendous amount of work from dedicated volunteers who devoted a tremendous amount of time and energy to make sure that everything went well at the event. We need to thank our event chairs, Simone Friedman, Devorah Hankin,  and Sheryl Weissberg, and to also our co-chairs, Shelley Blumenfeld, Janis Gurnick, Rochelle Maize, Sandra Olivencia-Curtis, Stacey Raskin, Scott Redston, Lindsay Schwartz, and Marilyn Weltman-Wizenberg. In addition, we'd like to thank Tova Larsen who staffed the event, and all of the staff and maintenance personnel who helped to make sure that this was one of the most successful Purim Balls ever. 

A special thanks needs to be said once again to our Honorees, Scott and Elisa, and the whole Markowitz family. They didn't just show up to the event, they worked hard to ensure that the event didn't just happen, but that it was a special night, and their efforts were greatly appreciated. But most of all we'd like to thank all of you who came to the Ball and contributed to the inspirational energy and community feeling that was in the room. When we come together to share special moments, whether they be of a spiritual and religious nature, or an evening like this, where we come together to dance, drink and socialize, it invites the divine presence to dwell, and truly allows us to live up to our name, "Emanuel," God is among us.

Rabbi Jonathan Aaron

Our Teens Leave Home to Find Camaraderie and Inspiration at NFTY Convention

A few weeks ago I spent Shabbat morning at the NFTY (National Federation of Temple Youth) Convention where 900 Jewish high school kids from all over the country descended upon the LAX Hilton. In the halls of the hotel, there were kids hugging, dancing, strumming guitars and sitting on the floor with heads bent in deep conversation.

Temple Emanuel was represented at the convention by 11 of our own students (pretty incredible, considering that two years ago we didn't have our own youth group). According to our TEmTY teens:


It was great to see all of our friends again! The guest speakers were really good, and the concerts were even better. Getting to connect with more NFTYites from across the nation was good too, but getting to experience the feeling of camaraderie between old friends was the best part.
        - Zach Fouladian, 12th Grade

I don't even know what the best part was, it was all just so amazing and fantastic and fabulous. I met so many new people and learned not only from the speakers, but from my fellow NFTYites. I thought it was so cool how all 900 of us were from different parts of the country, and went to different schools and led completely different lives, but our Judaism and NFTY connected us all, giving us a lifelong bond.
        - Ariana Garrotto, 9th Grade

Everyone there was nice and supportive... My favorite part has to be the fact that they let me play clarinet on stage during the huge Torah hakafah during Shabbat services.
        - Arya Boudaie, 12th Grade

NFTY Convention was a beautiful experience -- I not only saw my closest friends, I was amazed by the sheer size and amount of energy from our movement. The curiosity and enthusiasm created from those five days still shock me, as I picture 900 NFTYites in a single room, stomping and clapping simultaneously. I felt proud to be a NFTYite and a LA native, being able to show all of these people my hometown for the first time EVER. 
        - Natalia Garrotto, 12th Grade

Developmentally, teenagers understand themselves as the center of their own worlds. It can be unsettling when they notice how much world there is out there that doesn't include them. NFTY gives our teenagers a place where they can be a part of something larger, a place where they can be accepted in all of their quirks and vulnerabilities, a place where Judaism is a uniting thread between a kid from Beverly Hills and a kid from the Bronx.

I smiled to myself when I spotted our TEBH teens in the crowd, singing and dancing down the halls with their arms around their friends. In that moment, Temple Emanuel was the home that they had left behind to find their place in the greater world.

At some point, they will leave this home for more than a weekend as they join the universities and jobs and new cities that are waiting for them. Both they and we will be glad for the experiences, foundation, and opportunities for connection they had through Temple Emanuel. And as they explore and discover the world, we will know that the best part about home is the family and friends waiting with open arms to hear all about the adventure.

Rabbi Sara Mason-Barkin