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2 Shul Or Not 2 Shul...
Jenni Person
In shoes that were more comfortable
than "appropriate" - namely, a well-worn pair of Doc
Martens - I walked to shul for High Holy Day services. I remember
standing at the corner of Chase Avenue and 41st Street in Miami
Beach, waiting to cross the street to Temple Beth Shalom. It
was at that moment that I became overtaken by an overwhelmingly
powerful version of a familiar feeling. This morning's walk felt
like an extension of walking to shul with my family when I was
growing up. Here, in place of my family, was my lover, and this
was the beginning of our life together - and more specifically,
our Jewish life together.
We had joined the synagogue shortly after becoming engaged. Something
had drawn us in. It wasn't as if we needed affiliation to be
married - we were getting married in New York by two rabbis there.
It wasn't like we needed an organized Jewish community - we were
at the center of a chavurah I had started a few years prior.
I had shul-shopped when I first moved to Miami several years
prior, but nothing fit what I was looking for. Apparently, what
I was looking for had changed. It was just something about the
building: the physicalness of it; the ceremoniousness of it;
the familiarity of its contents or the gregariousness of it.
And then there was this thrill of making this choice as an adult
- with a partner - it was as if every step I took under the hot
Miami sun over the steaming pavement was a churn of regeneration
and continuity.
Just as I saw familiar faces in shul in Brooklyn, I encountered
friends, colleagues, and acquaintances upon my arrival for Rosh
Hashana morning at Congregation Beth Shalom - people my family
didn't know - but I belonged, because I belonged to Miami Beach.
Joining the synagogue helped me realize that.
As two rare young "regulars" at the synagogue we were
always recognized, and even given free membership for two years
due to my "under thirty" status (through the UAHC New
Jewish Connections program). The synagogue became a place for
me to get closer to Jewish texts through adult study programs
with the perfectly down-to-earth rabbis. Getting to know the
rabbis brought me support and encouragement to define my own
path of spirituality. I also found a support group to address
a seemingly secular issue in a Jewish way with other Jews facing
the same issue. The spiritual growth that resulted from that
remains an important foundation of my life.
When the question of moving out of Miami Beach came up, we planned
our new home search around finding a place from which we could
walk to shul - just as we had become accustomed to in Miami,
and as I was used to from Brooklyn. We had no such luck in Atlanta,
but after a year here, we have finally joined the historic classical
reform synagogue, The Temple, whose congregants and 1958 bombing
were featured in the play and movie, Driving Miss Daisy. They've
agreed to let us join for a small donation within our meager
(arts professional and educator) budget. And in Atlanta we need
this for a sense of Jewish community.
A few Shabbats ago at The Temple's annual inter-faith service
in honor of the birthday of Dr. Martin Luther King, Georgia Congressman
and former Freedom Fighter, John Lewis spoke to a sanctuary of
Temple and Ebenezer Baptist Church congregants. He spoke about
his experiences as a Freedom Fighter working with Dr. King. And
he spoke about The Temple's involvement in the Civil Rights movement
(hence the bombing). Sitting there listening and silently vowing
to continue to live the revolution, I was glad to be a member
of that shul. And more importantly, I recalled that feeling of
regeneration and continuity.
Somehow, the act of joining a synagogue itself felt like living
the revolution. It's like taking a stand, making a commitment.
Maybe that was why I waited until I arrived at another big commitment
in my life to join in the first place. Or maybe it was making
a commitment to the place, the people, the building. But most
importantly, it's an active, physical way of saying - or even
proclaiming, I'm a Jew - like generations of Jews before me and
after me.
Jenni Person is in
between in Georgia.
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