As we move into Adar, we are reminded to find those things in life that bring us joy. This month’s blog post, from longtime KSS member Yutan Getzler, highlights the joy we find at home – with our own families and when we invite community in to join us.
I know now as an adult that Judaism is, at its core, a communal religion. There is so much that our tradition teaches we can only do when enough of us are together. I am reminded of this countless times a day as I walk past a series of ten photographs, a piece called “Do We Have A Minyan, by the Israeli artist Dov Abramson. In each of the ten black and white portraits, the subject holds a word, together forming the scrap of psalm some folks use when enumerating for prayer without counting (הוֹשִׁ֤יעָה אֶת־עַמֶּ֗ךָ וּבָרֵ֥ךְ אֶת־נַחֲלָתֶ֑ךָ וּֽרְעֵ֥ם וְ֝נַשְּׂאֵ֗ם עַד־הָעוֹלָֽם, Deliver and bless Your very own people; tend them and sustain them forever. Psalm 28:9).
I met Dov on the last day of sitting shiva for my father, Yoram Dan Getzler, z”l. On each of the days prior, the house on Moshav Aminadav had been packed with friends and extended family, crying and laughing and drinking and telling stories. On this last night, it was just immediate family. We had waited a bit later than prior nights, thinking that someone might show up, before circling the chairs to begin the service. As Andrew began the prayers, one man walked in and joined us. Together we made our way through ma’ariv, moving inexorably towards kaddish yatom. This was the Judaism I grew up with – at home and with my family.
I was born and grew up in rural western Colorado. A lot of Jews only go to shul for the high holidays, but we had a better excuse than most. The nearest synagogue was over an hour away in Grand Junction, the largest city in that half of the state. That booming metropolis of nearly 30,000 people had enough Jews for a building. Not so in Delta county, whose entire population was a good bit less than the big city. I’ve joked before that I think we may have known every member of the tribe in the county. It’s possible that if we had gotten them all together, depending on who was counting, we wouldn’t have made it to the end of the psalm. So our community was at home.
This is how I remember it. Every erev shabbat we would sing the same four prayers together – candles, fruit of the vine, raising of hands, and bread – and every havdallah we kids would be sent out to look up into the crisp, clear, high desert sky to look for stars until we saw three. And that is the Judaism I came to love – gathered together in humble surroundings to mark the passage of time with those closest to me.
So it could not have felt more natural to be together with family in a home saying those words of praise on the last night of shiva. When the final amen was said, we did as we had on preceding days and shared our memories, but we were pretty spent. And I think we were all more than a little curious who the man was who had walked in at the last minute, as none of us recognized him. Eventually he spoke up. He told us a story about how my father had, years before, wandered into his studio near Ben Yehuda street, looking for design help for a CD he’d recorded. Dov had wondered who this weirdro was, with his wild hair and beard, too short shorts and shirt unbuttoned to the navel. But my dad could really schmooze and by the end of the conversation, Dov had agreed to do the design work and also knew my he wanted to photograph my dad for a piece he was envisioning. And then Dov unfurls the artwork and tells us about it. He’d grown up in a strictly observant community but had drifted away. The question of who we welcome into our communities had followed him. Each person in the piece is someone who would have been excluded from the minyans he grew up in.
If we are fortunate, home is a place where we feel safe and loved, even with all our imperfections. It is a place where we learn to love others, even with all of their foibles. It is a place where we can laugh and cry and eat and grow and struggle and rest and support and stretch and fail and celebrate. It has been said in so many different ways, but a home is not the walls and furniture. Home is a feeling. Home is a shelter of peace. Home is this Kehilat Sukkat Shalom.