Current Events at Temple Sinai

Dear Friends:

On certain holidays, we add special prayers of thanks into our liturgy. These “hoda’ah inserts” are part of Sukkot and Simchat Torah, Purim, and Chanukah, among other times. Somehow, considering how many thanks we have, perhaps we need a post-virtual-HHD hoda’ah insert. Maybe: “Thank you, everyone, who participated, contributed, logged in, offered words of encouragement or gratitude, showed patience, understanding, and everyone who managed to find some meaning and holiness.” It does not exactly roll off the tongue, but assuredly, it sounds better in Hebrew.

We cannot offer enough thanks, for all that this community has done. It is an absolute pleasure and blessing to be a part of a congregation as loving and kind as Temple Sinai. We hope that at some point over High Holy Days, everyone found some time to connect, reflect, and look hopefully towards the future. Hopefully, we will never have a High Holy Day season quite like this, and also hopefully, the elements that did resonate will become part of our practice in future years.

While we would have preferred gathering together in the social hall, hearing the songs, aliyot, and readings bounce off of the walls, knowing that our words and prayers reached ears even beyond the walls, meant a great deal to us. Were it not for the wonders of technology, the generosity of donors, and the incredible efforts of everyone who helped, our words would not have gone anywhere near as far. And for that, we are also incredibly thankful.

L’shalom,
Rabbi Benjamin Zober and Rabbi Sara Zober

Dear Friends,

I have a fondness for what most people call useless knowledge. Random facts, esoterica, trivia, I love it all. But I often quip that it is only useless, until you find a way to use it. Part of what attracted me to the rabbinate was that I might be able to employ some of that knowledge, professionally. In a way that I never could as an attorney, I can pepper a sermon with strange stories, use information from far afield to teach a class, and generally rely on my experiences and wisdom, in a host of situations.

But nothing prepared me for the marshaling of resources that have happened during our quarantine. All of the time I spent making short movies and playing around with cameras, has suddenly become an asset. For Mike in the office and Rabbi Sara as well, we are finding that our skill sets are on display like never before, and that we are also working in areas that were not included in any of our training. We are very excited for the streaming services from our sanctuary and hope to continue them once we return to the building and in-person services. We hope that they continue to allow as many people as possible to participate in services, wherever they are.

Of course, we are still novices, so please bear with us as we learn to master our new technologies and processes. We hope to deliver a professional, engaging, and meaningful High Holy Day experience. And while the technology and format behind it has changed, the spirit of the Days of Repentance has not changed. Hopefully, between our efforts and your participation (and patience) what’s new, will help us connect with what’s old.

L’shalom,
Rabbi Benjamin Zober

I don’t turn my back on the congregation very often, but when I do, it is in prayers like the Barechu or the Amidah. And when I am not facing you, I see the ark, crafted by a congregant, now of blessed memory. I see the woodwork, refinished and polished by volunteers last fall. And I see the walls, made to represent the Kotel, my favorite place in all of Jerusalem, a city where I lived for a year while in seminary, and where I met Rabbi Sara.

But since COVID-19 and the accompanying social distancing measures, we have been streaming services from our living room. Instead of seeing the ark when I turn in prayer, I see my bookcase. And of the many times I have cried since shifting our congregation from our building to homes, the tears that welled up when I looked at this bookcase for the first time, stuck with me.

It was not even the books themselves that caught my attention. Realizing we were turned from the microphone and that I would have to project, I thought back to another pulpit far away. I served for two years in a congregation whose building was well over 100 years old. The sound system (almost as old) did not include the ark. When I turned to face it, I had to speak loudly enough that my voice would carry throughout the cavernous sanctuary. I remember thinking that my voice was also embedding itself in the Torahs and the walls, along with the voices of my predecessors and teachers who occupied the pulpit before me.

And I looked at the shelf. I saw books that my wife and I had collected, books we read again and again. Others were gifts from family, teachers, and congregants. I saw whithered and decaying prayerbooks that belonged to my great grandparents. I saw all of these books and for a moment, felt like all of those people were with me. And then I wept.

I wept for a community that is now isolated. I wept for the people we have lost, both to this disease and for other reasons – how far I feel from everyone right now.

And I wept because I could not see my community. Turning my back does not usually mean I succumb to a sudden loss of object permanence – mostly because I can hear the prayers from behind me, as I try to speak slowly and keep us together. Now, I am still trying to keep us together. But I cannot hear them, I cannot see them, except, at best, across a computer screen. I cannot hold anyone’s hand. I cannot hug people – neither in joy nor in comfort.

What comforts me is that I can turn back. I turn again to face, if not the congregation, the iPad that connects us to them. And while I face the camera, trying hard to seem natural and at ease in a decidedly unnatural time of dis-ease, I hope that they are behind me. At the same time, I know for certain what is behind me: a bookshelf full of my past. A collection of pages and words and letters. A connection to my community.

L’shalom,

Rabbi Benjamin Zober
Rabbi Sara Zober