Religious holidays may bring conflict to many of us. We may identify as observant, adherent, extremely religious, or for some of us, not necessarily congregational, yet ethnic in our beliefs. I suppose that is where I find myself. I am clearly ethnic and extremely proud of my heritage. We still belong to a Center for Jewish Life, I am more involved than ever, and I do my best to live by strong Jewish values. Rosh Hashanah services (the Jewish New Year) offered in person attendance this year, and Bruce and I celebrated with others, perhaps in appreciation of being vaccinated and able to do so, masks and social distancing.

The service is rather predictable, following a particular format of prayers, songs, reading from the Torah, more prayers, and more songs. What makes the service for both Bruce and me, however, is the sermon by the Rabbi. That is when the true message of the holiday is shared. It usually reflects the state of the world in some way. There is typically a story which tells of something related to our humanity, and this sermon spoke to that for us.

Rabbi Goldstein shared with us some of the poetry of Rachel Bluwstein Sela, known simply as Rachel the Poet, a Russian who emigrated to Palestine in the early 1900’s. Her poetry was beautiful, symbolic, evocative, and it flowed with a bit of a lilt. She was a true Zionist, taken by the beauty and promise of Palestine. Her interest was not the religious or congregational aspect of Judaism, but her love for the land, its people, its beauty. I loved that! It spoke to me, it resonated with my heart, my feelings, not necessarily about religion, but about people, their promise, their beauty.

Riding home from services Bruce and I spoke of Rachel in more depth. She and her sister visited Palestine en route to Italy where they were to study art and philosophy, but stayed in Palestine, learning Hebrew, and she began to write her poetry in the lovely language of Hebrew. Her story did not end happily, she contracted tuberculosis, which was incurable at that time, so she could no longer work with children, her first love. She died at 40 years old, in 1931, but her poetry is lauded and she is revered all of these years later.

What I took from the Rabbi’s sermon was that for some of us, observing the holiday is about religion, and the practice of traditions handed down from generation to generation. And for some of us, it is the feeling of belonging to a community, reveling in the people, embracing the gifts of our culture, and recognizing all the strong human stories that have gone before us, and will continue, long after we are gone.

 

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