Sitting, standing, the front, the back, talking in shul, and the Yizkor crowd
I had a strange "rebbetzin" experience when daavening on Yom Kippur this year. Usually, I sit in the back; I find it more private and more conducive to letting my mind run free (by which I mean, run freely towards God), and besides, it makes it easier for me to bolt out of the room suddenly when called upon by the little people (my children, not the congregants).
But this time, when I arrived, all the rows in back were taken up by the Yizkor crowd, the wonderful, wonderful old doily-clad ladies with the large leather purses, who take cabs to shul a few times a year, come hell or high water, to say what may actually be the only prayer they know - the prayer that actually means something to them, flows straight from their souls and is about something they understand, something they care about.
The Yizkor crowd fascinates me. I always wonder how much they actually know about what they're saying. For that matter, I wonder how much of it they actually say, or whether they just read the English silently to themselves. And more than anything, I wonder whether the reason this is the only thing that brings them to shul is because their connections to their dearly departed - unlike their connections to God - are real. I wonder how much of a sense they have that the tefillah they are saying or reading is actually to Somebody, not just about somebody. My husband and I have discovered that after a certain age, if someone doesn't feel a real connection with God, it's usually too late. The "make out a check to the Sisterhood, send contribution cards when somebody dies, and show up to shul for Yizkor - and then leave" is too ingrained as the only thing they know of their Judaism. That, and anti-Semitism. It's such a shame. But maybe future generations will be different.
BUT - I digress. So, when I got to shul and saw that my seats were filled by the Yizkor crowd, I opted not to shove the seating chart in their faces and shout, "Hey, Doily-head! You see that? That's MY name, not yours, and you are sitting in the Rebbetzin's seat!! Don't you have any brains in that big leather bag of yours???" Instead, I quietly made my way towards the front of the shul, found an unoccupied row, and sat down.
Daavening so far in front was a very strange experience. For one thing, on my way up there, I was faced with the irritating dilemma of what to do when nearly everyone I passed - which was almost everyone who was there so far - smiled, nodded, and greeted me - during daavening, when talking is, of course, not allowed. Some of them know this, some of them don't. The ones that know - am I supposed to return their greetings? If I don't, will they understand, or even realize, that I am NOT being rude, but trying to respect halacha and the shul?
Probably not. Staying silent during daavening is probably the same to a lot of people as not playing basketball on Shabbos - I mean, sure, the rabbi doesn't like it when we do that, but we do it anyway, because we're naughty and don't mind getting in trouble. The notion that the rabbi doesn't like it because God actually forbids it, and that it's GOD you're "getting in trouble" with, not the rabbi, is just not that intuitive with most people. Sort of like people thinking priests are anti-abortion because they're sexist (and not because they're, you know, Catholic).
Still, no one has yet invited me to play ball with them on Shabbos, although they do talk and joke about it freely in front of me, sometimes even saying things like, "Hey, don't talk about that in front of the Rebbetzin!" So I wonder why they speak to me when they know they shouldn't, and why they put me in such an unfair position.
(By the way - before I get a lot of comments telling me that playing basketball on Shabbos is not really forbidden by God - I used that as an illustrative example. I don't think it's a perfect analogy. If anyone actually wants to know about basketball on Shabbos, say the word, and I will make my husband give me a mini-shiur tonight while I force him to help me chop onions.)
So I did return most of the greetings, usually just with a smile, a nod, and a whispered "Thank you, good Yom Tov," or "Thank you, you too." And the woman in the aisle who actually grasped my arm and detained me for a whole "catching up" conversation was duly indulged as well, although I was really mad about that one, and in hindsight I probably should have cut her off and said, "You know, this isn't really the time - why don't we try to talk during the break?" Or something like that.
I know it's not malicious. Nobody is actually stopping me because they want to force me to talk in shul, and in fact they are greeting me because they like me, and they think greeting the rebbetzin is actually the appropriate thing to do. Typical phenomenon of social proprieties, and for that matter most things that are bein adam l'chavero, being put before those that are bein adam l'makom. But I digress again.
So being greeted by everyone and feeling I had to respond was one of the strange things about sitting in front. Being almost exactly opposite the chazan was another, as was having such a close-up view of my husband, instead of the usual tallis-with-a-head that he looks like from my usual spot. But the strangest part came some time during chazarat hashatz, at one of the points at which the aron was opened.
When the aron is open, I try to stand up. (Back in the day, I used to actually try to stand when it was closed as well, but that day is long since over.) But this time, I was just too tired, and I knew from past experience that if I sat some open-aron sessions out, I would have more strength later to stand for Ne'ilah.
So I noticed something. I noticed that the women on the opposite end of the row stayed seated too. So did the women directly behind me. I thought, "Wow, funny that everyone got tired at the same time." But suddenly, on a hunch, I jumped up. Almost immediately, so did they.
Oh, dear God. They are sitting when I sit. They are standing when I stand. They are watching me, not the rabbi or the aron kodesh, to see what to do.
Then, like a ton of bricks that falls on me from time to time:
I am the Rebbetzin.
If I may quote Frank Barone:
Holy crap.
But this time, when I arrived, all the rows in back were taken up by the Yizkor crowd, the wonderful, wonderful old doily-clad ladies with the large leather purses, who take cabs to shul a few times a year, come hell or high water, to say what may actually be the only prayer they know - the prayer that actually means something to them, flows straight from their souls and is about something they understand, something they care about.
The Yizkor crowd fascinates me. I always wonder how much they actually know about what they're saying. For that matter, I wonder how much of it they actually say, or whether they just read the English silently to themselves. And more than anything, I wonder whether the reason this is the only thing that brings them to shul is because their connections to their dearly departed - unlike their connections to God - are real. I wonder how much of a sense they have that the tefillah they are saying or reading is actually to Somebody, not just about somebody. My husband and I have discovered that after a certain age, if someone doesn't feel a real connection with God, it's usually too late. The "make out a check to the Sisterhood, send contribution cards when somebody dies, and show up to shul for Yizkor - and then leave" is too ingrained as the only thing they know of their Judaism. That, and anti-Semitism. It's such a shame. But maybe future generations will be different.
BUT - I digress. So, when I got to shul and saw that my seats were filled by the Yizkor crowd, I opted not to shove the seating chart in their faces and shout, "Hey, Doily-head! You see that? That's MY name, not yours, and you are sitting in the Rebbetzin's seat!! Don't you have any brains in that big leather bag of yours???" Instead, I quietly made my way towards the front of the shul, found an unoccupied row, and sat down.
Daavening so far in front was a very strange experience. For one thing, on my way up there, I was faced with the irritating dilemma of what to do when nearly everyone I passed - which was almost everyone who was there so far - smiled, nodded, and greeted me - during daavening, when talking is, of course, not allowed. Some of them know this, some of them don't. The ones that know - am I supposed to return their greetings? If I don't, will they understand, or even realize, that I am NOT being rude, but trying to respect halacha and the shul?
Probably not. Staying silent during daavening is probably the same to a lot of people as not playing basketball on Shabbos - I mean, sure, the rabbi doesn't like it when we do that, but we do it anyway, because we're naughty and don't mind getting in trouble. The notion that the rabbi doesn't like it because God actually forbids it, and that it's GOD you're "getting in trouble" with, not the rabbi, is just not that intuitive with most people. Sort of like people thinking priests are anti-abortion because they're sexist (and not because they're, you know, Catholic).
Still, no one has yet invited me to play ball with them on Shabbos, although they do talk and joke about it freely in front of me, sometimes even saying things like, "Hey, don't talk about that in front of the Rebbetzin!" So I wonder why they speak to me when they know they shouldn't, and why they put me in such an unfair position.
(By the way - before I get a lot of comments telling me that playing basketball on Shabbos is not really forbidden by God - I used that as an illustrative example. I don't think it's a perfect analogy. If anyone actually wants to know about basketball on Shabbos, say the word, and I will make my husband give me a mini-shiur tonight while I force him to help me chop onions.)
So I did return most of the greetings, usually just with a smile, a nod, and a whispered "Thank you, good Yom Tov," or "Thank you, you too." And the woman in the aisle who actually grasped my arm and detained me for a whole "catching up" conversation was duly indulged as well, although I was really mad about that one, and in hindsight I probably should have cut her off and said, "You know, this isn't really the time - why don't we try to talk during the break?" Or something like that.
I know it's not malicious. Nobody is actually stopping me because they want to force me to talk in shul, and in fact they are greeting me because they like me, and they think greeting the rebbetzin is actually the appropriate thing to do. Typical phenomenon of social proprieties, and for that matter most things that are bein adam l'chavero, being put before those that are bein adam l'makom. But I digress again.
So being greeted by everyone and feeling I had to respond was one of the strange things about sitting in front. Being almost exactly opposite the chazan was another, as was having such a close-up view of my husband, instead of the usual tallis-with-a-head that he looks like from my usual spot. But the strangest part came some time during chazarat hashatz, at one of the points at which the aron was opened.
When the aron is open, I try to stand up. (Back in the day, I used to actually try to stand when it was closed as well, but that day is long since over.) But this time, I was just too tired, and I knew from past experience that if I sat some open-aron sessions out, I would have more strength later to stand for Ne'ilah.
So I noticed something. I noticed that the women on the opposite end of the row stayed seated too. So did the women directly behind me. I thought, "Wow, funny that everyone got tired at the same time." But suddenly, on a hunch, I jumped up. Almost immediately, so did they.
Oh, dear God. They are sitting when I sit. They are standing when I stand. They are watching me, not the rabbi or the aron kodesh, to see what to do.
Then, like a ton of bricks that falls on me from time to time:
I am the Rebbetzin.
If I may quote Frank Barone:
Holy crap.
This entry was posted on Tuesday, September 28, 2004 at 9/28/2004 08:50:00 PM.
Byyour hilarious honesty, fabulous feminism and irrepresible irony gives me hope for orthodox judaism
Bykeep it up sister!
I am not surprised by your comments. There are large numbers of Jews who do not speak any Hebrew and even if they do, have not got a strong enough grasp to understand what they are saying.
ByAnd that is part of why there is such a problem getting people to daven. If you don't understand what you are saying and are not sure whether you believe in G-d then why would you go to shul.
In a different life I was a counselor at Camp Ramah. I once had a camper tell me that they refused to daven because of this very lack of understanding.It was a profound experience it made me reconsider why I believe what I believe.
And FWIW, at camp we had many shiurim on whether it was permissible to play ball on Shabbos. ;)
Very funny post.
ByWhen people try to talk to me during shul (and I usually try to be good about not talking except during the mishebayrachs), I generally just smile, nod and point at my siddur and they get the idea. But then, I'm in no position of authority and nobody looks at me to determine if they should be sitting or standing.
Then again, if you see with your own eyes the influence you are having on everybody, maybe if you draw a hard line about not talking, but smiling and gesturing to your siddur (followed up after services with a warm greeting for everyone who tried to speak to you during services), it might profoundly reduce the amount of talking in shul and thereby enhance your davening experience. Just a thought.
Have a wonderful Yom Tov.
One of the sad things about the "Yizkor crowd" is that in all likelihood, their kids will not be saying yizkor for them. Probably don't even know what yizkor is.
Byin response to jack's comment and also to what you were saying about the women who may not know what they're saying...
ByThe weird thing with me is that I had the same mindset - that I didn't want to pray anymore until I knew what I was saying (not just by reading the English on the side). So I started learning Hebrew. And now I'm in my 5th semester of Hebrew in college and the prayers seem less enticing than ever. Because when I understand the prayers, they sound almost as.. well, strange and foreign as the English translations on the other side. So I'm having a little crisis.
But ANYWAY ...
About people following what you do. I always think it's funny in shul to watch when people are going to stand and sit during times when the aron is not open. Like during certain prayers you're supposed to stand or sit according to your minhag. And so you've got some old guys standing and some not-as-old guys sitting and then you've got some young people standing because they see the old guys doing it, and then you've got some young people sitting because they don't want to just do what other people are doing.
I somehow feel less guilty now, knowing that it is not just me, the rebbetzin also dislikes being right in the front row.
ByI love hearing your p.o.v.- the rebbetzin is of just as much value to the congregation as the rabbi.
I just found your blog thanks to a link from MOCHassid, and have been reading all of your entries thus far. I'm enjoying your posts very much!
ByI am good friends with my rabbi and his wife both. She and I have had some long conversations about the interesting challenges of being the rebbetzin -- especially in a small town where privacy can sometimes be hard to come by anyway! So I empathize with the bizarre situation of realizing that people are looking to you for an example of how to davven.
I also love your description of the Yizkor crowd. I think every shul has that crowd, regardless of the denomination of the shul, and there's something comforting to me in the continued existence of those little old ladies (who always seem to be elderly but I'm not sure they get any older) in the back rows with their big black purses and their lace doilies...
The Rebbetzin Rebel is Jewlicious
ByI just followed the link your blog from thebronsteins. You write beautifully and your descriptions ring incredibly true. I'll be back.
ByWhen I first started to attend non-Reform services, I was completely baffled as to what to do.
» Post a CommentSo I spent several Shabbosim in the women's section of the local Sephardi synagogue, directly behind three middle-aged women in black lace mantillas. When they stood up, I stood up. When they sat down, I sat down. I leaned forward frequently to check where they were in the siddur.
It worked pretty well. I got the idea after a while. So I have some sympathy for the ladies following along with your risings and sittings.
As for the Yizkor ladies--I think they know exactly what they are saying, even if they could not translate a word. And holiness rests all around them.
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