Thoughts for the New Year: Generation to Generation

As I write this, my congregation is singing a beautiful prayer, "L'dor vador", wishing hope and peace to pass from generation to generation. L'dor vador. From generation to generation.

The awe of Rosh Hashanah is not lost on me, but my tradition is different from sitting inside with a joy-filled community. Instead, my childhood memories of Rosh Hashanah were secular visits to the Vermont woods. The leaves would begin their colorful prayer of farewell, making way for a new generation of green. My father and I would walk on the crunchy paths of new-fallen foliage or on the soft velvet of pine needles.  He would point out sassafras roots and spiderwebs, and if I was really lucky, he would tell imaginative stories about "The Beast which has no Name."  

Now , though, my love for music brings me to Congregation Kehilat Shalom.  Nana taught me piano on magical Sundays of my childhood and I feel like it is my duty, joy, and privilege to share the gift I was given.  From generation to generation, songs beg to be passed on.

One of the first songs this morning was Debbie Friedman's Hallelu.  I wish I could capture the joy and energy around me when everyone broke into this song. Sheryl, a warm community elder  (and beloved friend) with a wicked sense of humor and an empathy that holds us all together, stood in the middle and her rich alto voice reached out to the community like an endless embrace.  Debbie, her counterpart in humor, bopped up and down with the unedited mirth of a Peanuts character.  I thought about these two ladies and how they had reached out their hearts to me when I was younger.  Now, there are two teens in the chorus, and I remember their coming-of-age ceremonies. Dorothy and Tess are so talented, and clearly sang with joy. But they still have the inhibitions of adolescence.  I wonder what they will be like in a few years when they take over Sheryl and Debbie's reckless abandon.

               

  

I do not forget my luck at being alive and here in this liberal Jewish community, today, here, and now.  A year ago, I did not know that I would be heading to Poland to celebrate the liberation of my people. I did not know that I would be shattered by echoes of cruelty in crematoria and barracks of WWII.  I did not know how the world would struggle with a new refugee crisis or how much I would change in facing my efforts toward peaceful conflict resolution.  

One scene from my winter visit particularly resonates with me right now. I remember sitting in the one remaining synagogue in the Polish town that the Germans named Auschwitz.  The members of that community had buried many items in the hopes that someday they would be exhumed as a testimony that "we were here!"  The buried treasure was, indeed, found and was housed in the synagogue. Likewise, there were living (modern) prayerbooks lining the back wall.  But not one of those prayerbooks was of my Reconstructionist Judaism.

My Judaism is the group that brought female rabbis, and invited both girls and boys to become bnei mitvot.  We don't just prayer for Israel but also for all living beings. We keep the values of love and learning, of repairing the world and welcoming our neighbors, but we know that the world changes and we know that congregations need to change as we pass from generation to generation.

L'dor vador has passed and now the cantor is singing a prayer that names the thirteen traits of God.  One of the traits, the one which speaks to me the most, is that God preserves acts of lovingkindess (hesed) for a thousand generations.

I hope to keep passing on the love I have been given. L'dor vador. Whether through prayer or nature walks or song, whether through telling stories or making friendships, I want to be part of this chain of lovingkindess. I want it to spread not only through generations but also across continents,