Tag Archives: house of worship

Hands

by Rick Black (Arlington, VA)

I watch others pass by, pushing strollers, 

carrying tallit bags, wearing yarmulkes.

And I imagine them in shul, reciting ancient prayers, 

their hands uplifted  to God.

And yet I would rather be here,

bent prostrate, nurturing the arugula seedlings.

Hunched over in torn jeans and invisible phylacteries,

I worship with them daily, my co-worshippers.

I use my hands to dig into the soil,

to clear away stones. 

Rick Black is an award-winning book artist and poet. His artist books are represented in private and public collections, including the Library of Congress, Yale University and the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum. A journalist for many years, Rick’s poetry collection, Star of David, won Poetica Magazine’s 2012 poetry chapbook contest for contemporary Jewish writing. A reading of Star of David was held in the Middle Eastern & African Division of the Library of Congress. He recently published a new collection, Two Seasons in Israel: A Selection of Peace and War Haiku.

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R.I.P. Clifton Jewish Center

by Sue Macy (Englewood, NJ)

This is a different sort of obituary, not for a person, but a place. The synagogue I grew up in, the Clifton Jewish Center of Clifton, N.J., held its last Shabbat services on December 21, 2024. The building is being repurposed to become a cheder for Orthodox girls. With the original members gone and their descendants moving away, the Center—the last Conservative shul in town—closed its doors.

It was founded in the late 1940s by nine young men who had gone to Clifton High School together. My parents joined the Center in the early 1950s. I went to Sunday School and Hebrew School there, and had my bat mitzvah. It was not just a place of worship, but of community. My mom joined Hadassah through the Center. My dad was on the temple board.

We had the same rabbi, Dr. Eugene Markovitz, for 52 of the Center’s 75 years. He was an Orthodox rabbi in a Conservative shul, which meant women didn’t have aliyot while he was in charge. It forever irked my feminist soul, but the rabbi had more depth than my younger self gave him credit for. In 1988, Rabbi Markovitz intervened when four local boys painted anti-Semitic graffiti on the temple building. Instead of allowing them to be sent to juvenile detention, he convinced the judge to sentence them to 25 hours of education about Judaism, with him, and 30 hours of helping around the synagogue. CBS made a “Schoolbreak Special” about the incident. Hal Linden played the rabbi.

Although I moved out of Clifton decades ago, I continued to attend High Holiday services with my family. After my dad died, my mom and brother and I went. After my mom died, my brother and I just kept going. But as the congregation shrank, the signs of decline were unmistakable. We no longer had a cantor. Israel Bonds luminaries stopped coming to give High Holiday presentations, hoping for lucrative investments. Eventually, we had no more bond drives at all. There was a time when the temple had to put hundreds of chairs in the adjacent ballroom to fit all those coming for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur services. Lately, the ballroom remained empty and unused.

I know that times change. I write books about history and intellectually I can place the geographic movements of the Jewish people in historical context. With affluence, many of the Jewish families in Clifton moved to wealthier suburbs. Still, it’s hard not to feel a personal loss with the closing of the Center. It makes accessing the feelings and experiences from my past that much harder. It also raises questions about my Jewish identity that until now, I haven’t had to answer. What kind of synagogue do I want to join? Where do I go from here? 

Ironically, the last services at the Center attracted the largest Shabbat crowd in years. People like me, whose parents lived their lives in the community, came from near and far to be there one more time. It was a fitting tribute to a place that truly had been the Center of our lives.

Sue Macy is the author of 18 books for children and young adults including The Book Rescuer: How a Mensch From Massachusetts Saved Yiddish Literature for Generations to Come, winner of the Sydney Taylor Picture Book Award. She lives in Englewood, New Jersey, and can be found on Instagram @suemacy1 or through her website, suemacy.com.

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The Blue Mikvah

by Edna Shochat (Boise, ID)

To each his Temple.

My house of worship was established years ago

for young men, Christian.

Today YMCA is simply “The Y”.

Why? Because now everyone is welcome

regardless of age, gender, or faith.

Neither young nor male,

Jewish by birth and atheist by choice,

I attend, religiously, a daily ritual in the pool.

Like joining a Minyan

gathering for morning prayer at the Shul

I dip into the blue mikvah

and under watchful eyes of young lifeguards

swim like a gray-haired mermaid

counting my blessings.

Edna Shochat was born in British Mandate Palestine and grew up in Israel, leaving for the United States to follow career opportunities. Four years ago she and her husband followed their grandkids to Idaho. She discovered poetry at a Writing Through Cancer program while undergoing chemotherapy in 2011, and joined the YMCA to help her recovery. She continues to write poetry “to help carry her on the journey we all share, of aging.

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Lion of Hope

by Brad Jacobson (Columbia, MO)

Black stocking feet and no shoes.

Blue and white prayer shawl
wrapped around his head and arms.

He stands in front of the ancient Wall,
his face hidden.

Large as a lion, he raises his hands
like a street performer before the worshippers.

He sweeps his arms above
the old man in white,

above a boy
in a blue baseball jersey,
#32,

above the rabbi
in back of the Torah.

The Lion of Hope roars, and
his prayers speed like Lefty’s fastball,
soar to the top of Mt. Moriah,
pure as tears protecting a child’s prayer.

He steps slowly to a chair by mine.
I touch the Wall and hear
the Big Man whisper,
I am exhausted.

After prayers we walk together
to the Kiddush table by the stairs.

The Rabbi raises a cup of wine.
Big Man turns to sing sweet
Shabbat songs to Chinese tourists.

He shakes my hand.
Shabbat Shalom.
Be healthy. Have peace.

Brad Jacobson is a volunteer every summer in Israel in the SAREL program. He teaches TESOL at the Asian Affair Center at the University of Missouri, where he has an MEd in Literacy. In the summers he enjoys exploring places with his camera like the Old City of Jerusalem, Tzfat, and the Red Sea where he scuba dives. He has been published in Tikkun, Voices Israel, Poetica, Cyclamens and Swords, and the University of Missouri International News.

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The Third Night of Hanukkah

by Diana Henning (Cape Town, South Africa)

This story is based on a true event which unfolded on the night of Tuesday 4 December, 2018.

The mobile phone rings urgently on the bedside table; my husband answers.

“Dave, do you know that your synagogue is on fire?”

We both sit upright, fully alert now.

Tracy, our neighbour, is Christian, but she has a fond interest in our faith and cares about the well-being of her Jewish neighbours. My husband and I pull on our clothes over our pyjamas and dash toward our shul which is located a few metres away from where we live. On the way, we spot our rabbi racing towards his workplace, which is aflame against the night sky.

It’s the third night of Channukah. Earlier on we had sung Ma’oz Tzur to celebrate the miracle.  How had a happy holiday turned into such a calamity?

Smoke is billowing from the roof and three fire engines have surrounded the building. The firemen squirt their hoses towards our shul but the inferno is indomitable. As word of the tragedy spreads around our city, more and more onlookers arrive;  friends, curious neighbours, members of the press. I spot my friend, Elaine, in her dressing gown, her hair tousled. We embrace silently.

Our security organisation battles to prevent the public from running into the pyre to save the Torahs.

“Get back everybody. For your own safety please remain behind the tape!”

Shards of broken windows burst onto the street. The scene is reminiscent of those horrifying visuals of Kristallnacht that we know all too well. The firemen dash in and out of the fire’s grip, with their oxygen tanks at hand. They haul out many religious items and holy books. A human chain is formed; the books are lovingly wiped with towels and laid out on trestle tables to dry.

We all look out anxiously for the Sifrei Torah, but only one tiny Torah is carried out. The rabbi cradles it like a baby and places it in a towel. It is burnt irreparably, and we are later informed that all the other Torot were incinerated.

People around us begin to sob as the severity of the event unfolds.They sway and sag as they mourn the loss of the scrolls. The rabbis that have come from around the city simultaneously rip their shirts; bury their heads in pure despair. Yitkadal v’yitkadash sh’meih rabah…

Even as we stand there, people are posting video clips to social media; within hours, thousands have heard the news and hundreds of messages of support stream in.

Someone has remembered that the firemen are thirsty and dozens of bottles of water are handed to them. They sit on the pavement and begin to pack away their equipment. We slowly disperse, still in shock. It is clear that as a physical entity, our house of worship is no longer, but its spirit will surely live on.

Diana Keschner Henning lives with her husband  in the cosmopolitan suburb of Sea Point, Cape Town, South Africa. Besides penning flash fiction, she loves arm-knitting, walking and pampering her fur babies. 

For readers concerned about how the fire might have started, Diana adds, as a postscript to her story, that “insurers are still assessing the fire; however congregants have been assured that it wasn’t arson.”

 

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