From the Rabbi

The solar eclipse we witnessed to various degrees this week brought many Americans together and looking up to heaven. In a time when it seems we are drifting to greater social and political polarization, it was inspiring for me to see everyone having a common cause. For such a rare occasion, I drove with friends to North Carolina to view the eclipse in its totality. It may not be that rare as a cosmological phenomenon, but it has been 99 years since the last total eclipse occurred over the U.S. Driving there and back from Greenport in two days meant a long drive through dark nights, heavy traffic, and many delays. Anxiety was definitely in the air, as we couldn’t be late — even by two minutes. Yes, you can say we drove across seven states and back for a minute (1:35 minutes to be exact), but the total eclipse was totally worth it!

Traffic was not the only thing hard to avoid. Seeing everyone raising their heads to heaven made it hard to avoid the symbolism of Aleynu Leshabe’ach — the prayer that concludes every Jewish service: “We rise to our duty to praise the Master of all, to acclaim the creator… all humanity will invoke your name… everyone will accept your dominion… on that day, Adonai shall be One and His name One.”

It was actually surprising for me to discover that in Jewish tradition, there is no designated blessing for an eclipse. Somehow the rabbis did not see this phenomenon as totally positive. There is something about the blocked light of the sun that can be intimidating. In fact, the rabbis “view” any eclipse as a curse. The difference between a lunar eclipse and a solar eclipse refers to the difference between Israel and the nations. In the case of a solar eclipse, God warns the nations. The Talmud adds (B Sukkah 29a) that if the eclipse is seen in the east, it’s a warning to that nation, and if it appears in the west, it warns that nation.

During the Shabbat before the eclipse, we read the portion of Re’eh — look. What is it that God is telling us we need to see, especially when this eclipse was happening over the U.S. alone? The eclipse happened on the new month of Elul. It is the month of Teshuva — returning to God and to each other. The four letters in Hebrew make the acronyms — I am for my beloved and my beloved is for me. It is the month that reminds us to see God and each other. Perhaps the message from God is exactly that: do not hide your face from each other, lest God turn his face from us.

What surprised me was that as dark as it got, there was still light — just enough light to see each other. That light came from the ring of light around the sun — the corona. Instead of focusing on the darkness, I found myself fascinated by that ring — the ring that God lets us see even in the darkest hours, to remind us that He is still with us. More importantly, perhaps, God is reminding us that even if we think we have divorced each other socially or politically, we are still wedded to each other — as people and as a nation — and God is still wedded to us. On our side, we must not forget our divine image.

Two days after the eclipse, I was standing with the newly wedded Jesus and Dawn Teyuca in our beautiful sanctuary. To the new couple I conveyed that old idea. There may be darkness in our lives and in our relationships, but the rings you are giving each other today should serve as a reminder that you are still beloved. It’s not just a ring, it’s a ring of fire.

May we have a Chodesh Tov and a blessed year.

—Rabbi Gadi Capela

It was a hot day this week when we all gathered to welcome Dawn Mankow into the Jewish faith. I’m no longer surprised when people want to become Jewish. After all, we have a good product to offer. Yet, I never take it for granted.

Some of the best-known rabbis and educators through Jewish history have been converts or children of converts, which the Talmud refers to as benei gerrim. Even though this term sometimes can be used derogatorily, it also means that gerrim have always been part of the Jewish community. The Talmud continues to say that even some of the grandchildren of Haman, the villain from the Book of Esther, taught Torah in Bnei Brak (BT Gittin 57a). Essentially, this means that one doesn’t have to be born Jewish in order to love, live, and embody Torah.

One of the ideas in connection with conversion to Judaism is to “reject” the person three times. This is to mimic the challenges and obstacles in our lives, particularly as Jews — challenges that compel us to grow deep roots to stand the test of time. But what if the person is already connected to Judaism and to the Jewish people? Wouldn’t rejecting them, even if just to make a point, be too harsh and unnecessary? There must be other ways to find out if someone is serious about converting. This week, I learned that God has His ways of putting obstacles and challenges in the lives of the converts in order to test their sincerity.

A few days before Dawn’s conversion, we learned that the mikvah we were going to use had malfunctioned and was being repaired. We had only a couple of days to find a new mikvah and to book it. That also meant that the rabbi at the first mikvah could not be part of the Bet-Din — the court of three. Then, if that weren’t problem enough, the third rabbi we recruited got a flat tire on the way to the ceremony. At that point, it looked as though we might not have the conversion that day. I asked Dawn what she thought about it. Without hesitation, she said, “God is testing my faith!”  It was then I realized that when Jewish law requires that we “reject” someone looking to convert — to make sure that those who are accepted are earnest — it is not for us to be convinced, but rather for the convert.

The topic of conversion seems always to have been a point of tension between different groups and denominations in the Jewish world, when each believes his or her group is the custodian of the Jewish faith. Recently, Israel’s Chief Rabbinate — the body that oversees religious rituals for Jews in Israel — compiled a list of 160 overseas rabbis from 24 countries, whose authority they refuse to recognize when it comes to certifying Jewishness. Those rabbis mainly come from Reform and Conservative Judaism, which is practiced by the vast majority of North American Jews. The existence of such a list — a blacklist — is creating a rift between overseas Jewish communities and Israeli religious authorities. The list also includes a few Modern Orthodox rabbis, who tend to be more inclusive. One of those rabbis, Avi Weiss, based in Riverdale, NY, thinks the blacklist could “alienate” fellow Jews.

As we begin the month of Av, the month in which our Temple was destroyed because of similar rifts, let us not put people on blacklists, shutting them out. Rather, let us try to bring people into the family of Judaism. As God said to Samuel, “The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the appearance to the eyes, but the Lord looks at the heart.” (1 Sam 16:7) Real conversion happens in the heart, thus making God the final converter. Only He knows when it really happens. The rest of us can have only an estimated time of conversion.

Chodesh Tov,

—Rabbi Gadi Capela

Dear Friends,

I just returned from the Maine Conference for Jewish Life, a project of the Center for Small-Town Jewish Life at Colby University. The idea of the conference is to draw interested Jews and friends from the surrounding areas and urban centers to the small town of Waterville to experience superior Jewish learning and joyous celebration. For those who are living far from one another, it is an opportunity to gain access to the Jewish world’s finest scholars and cultural innovators, and simply to have the experience of being surrounded by a critical mass of other Jews. I went as a speaker, but I learned so much and made wonderful new connections.

Five years ago, I moved to Greenport and became a rabbi in a small town. As you may know, when I completed my schooling, I applied to only one synagogue — Tifereth Israel Anshei Greenport. According to the laws of the Rabbinical Assembly (RA), new rabbis can begin their careers by serving only small congregations, or they can become assistants to established rabbis. I’m convinced today that a small-town rabbi is a specific type, and perhaps should even be its own “major” in seminaries.

A small-town rabbi is the one who sees himself or herself as a member of the greater community, and must not be afraid to become part of its fabric. Being a small-town rabbi, especially when moving from a large metropolitan area as I did, we learn to appreciate any Jewish or non-Jewish contribution to our effort. In a small town, typically there is no “other shul” to go to or not to go to—you know, like a family. At rabbinical school, we are warned against equating small congregations with less work. In fact, we were told we would be working even harder because of a smaller staff. This is certainly correct, but as the Hebrew word for “rabbi” is Rav — one who has a lot — I can attest that even in a small town, a rabbi can receive a lot.

Small town rabbis often feel isolated. It is a big transition from studying for hours every day with friends at the Bet Midrash (religious study hall) to having only a weekly session with a chevruta (study partner), if you’re lucky. But in an age when technology allows us to connect — live — everywhere in the world, is there really such a thing these days as a small-town rabbi? We can easily become part of a bigger group, forming a body of small congregations, such as we have here with the East End Jewish Community Council (EEJCC).

At the conference, we watched a movie titled There Are Jews Here. It was a feature documentary about four struggling congregations and the creative ways they maintained Jewish life in places where most never imagined Jews existed. It’s true that most American Jews live in large cities where they are free to define themselves as Jews in various ways. But mostly invisible are roughly one million Jews scattered across the country. For them, Jewish identity is a daily challenge to live affirmative Jewish lives lest they and their legacies fade away forever.

In one of the film’s examples, in the Mexican-American city of Laredo, Texas, we follow a young, interfaith couple trying to reignite their community’s Jewish life amid a dominant Catholic culture. In another example, in Butte, Montana, a spiritually committed woman lay leader tries to keep her community afloat, even as she struggles with personal health. Once thriving American Jewish communities, now are barely holding on. Some unfortunately had to close their doors and give their Torah scrolls to a neighboring congregation — as if to say, the Torah show must go on, albeit somewhere else.

On the reward side, I know that I am a small-town rabbi when I run into people in the post office and then a few minutes later again at the local coffee shop, when the former mayor makes my furniture, or when I get a call from the group exercise trainer asking why I hadn’t shown up for class. It’s a delicate balance of friendship and pastoral. It is an extended family of different faiths. As one of my colleagues said to me, “If you don’t want to be seen, don’t go to the IGA.” After five years in Greenport, I’m happy and proud to say I am a small-town rabbi.         As our synagogue transitions to new leaders, I would like to thank outgoing president Alan Garmise, who supplemented my support system and allowed me to be a small-town rabbi. And I wish Adrianne Greenberg success in her new/old position. Her success is a success for all of us. Let us continue to be a beautiful example of small-town Jewish life. There is something beautiful about knowing your neighbor. “Shalom beChailech v’Shalva b’Armonotaich.” (Peace be within your boundaries, and tranquility in your palaces.) [Psalm 122:7]

May we all have a blessed summer,

—Rabbi Gadi Capela