Unorthodox Practices

Unorthodox Practices

           Mt Pleasant's orthodox synagogue mentored the congregants in all things Jewish. A schmear of family tradition filled in the gaps. As a result, members of our flock had the religious know-how to conduct themselves at circumcisions, bar mitzvahs, weddings, and funerals. Despite this spiritual blanketing, a few of us fell through the cracks. That accounts for the unorthodox style of Judaism I practice today.

           I came from a household that upheld the values of the Jewish faith in measured doses. My mother adhered to Jewish dietary law for my father's benefit. She served kosher food, with meat and dairy dishes getting separate meal time billings just as the Torah mandated. Over the years I noticed a few slip-ups in this practice. My uncle used to slather crackers with butter in one hand while man-handling a t-bone steak in the other.

           As an observant Jew, I noticed some other religious foibles even closer to home. Mom, whether out of defiance or ignorance, demonstrated a hybridized approach to Judaism. She served cheeseburgers—but just to my sister and me—with a couple slices of bacon tucked inside the bun. I'm pretty sure my mother would not have jeopardized my health or my entry into heaven by tainting my food. These culinary no-no's have sustained me throughout my youth and beyond, so far without noticeable side effects. Time will tell if I eventually pay for following this gastronomic path.

           Although both my parents came from Orthodox families, my father's side won the prize for adhering to Jewish tradition. Our patriarch to my knowledge never sidestepped the Jewish customs he grew up with. On Yom Kipper, he and his yarmulked compadres, shunned appliances, machinery, modern contrivances, and anything that required mechanical exertion. Folks, including my father, who practiced their faith by the Book, walked to shul (temple) during the high holidays. No doubt, the rich, chicken fat-infused meals consumed after the services canceled any benefits derived from the exercise.

           Devout individuals unwilling to dispense with all creature comforts, paid gentiles big bucks to have their light switches flipped on and off at dusk and dawn. Upstanding Jews, too civilized to drip dry and too modest to expose their bare tushes to hired hands, had the foresight to tear off enough strips of toilet paper to get through the holiday.

.          Considering my father's commitment to his faith, how odd that he never raised an eyebrow to my mother's blatant non-compliance with tradition. Perhaps his behavior overcompensated for Mom's, my sister's, and my religious shortcomings and shielded us from God's wrath. I imagine my father seized opportunities—high holidays or not—to let God know that he did not endorse or encourage his family's wayward practices. The all-knowing God probably had no need for an interloper to explain, justify or nullify our religious deviance. But maybe God dispensed extra points to my father—another few years in the Book of Life perhaps—for his communiqué.

           My mother did not abandon all Jewish tenets. She and my dad espoused a good education. Mom religiously trekked 30 miles back and forth to the neighboring hamlet, Greensburg, to ensure I received an adequate—no, exceptional—educational foundation. Greensburg housed two small Catholic colleges, one for men and one for women. The women's portion operated a nursery school, today's equivalent to preschool.

           The nuns who ran the place wore those over-the-top threads that insured minimum skin exposure and maximum UVA protection. I loved my school and I loved the nuns. They never flavored the place with anything religious other than their austere garb and the ornamental crosses dangling from their belts. My mother navigated hill and dale in the most inclement weather to get me to school.

           Starting in the years of my early religious instruction, my sister, Joan, and I rarely made it to the Hebrew school in our town—a mere ten-minute drive away—after the first snowfall. I presume an icy patch must have wiped out Mom's carefree attitude about winter driving. I got up to g in the Hebrew alphabet before the blustery weather axed my religious training. The same applied to Sunday school. I missed just enough of that to Swiss-cheese my knowledge of the Jewish faith.

           That spotty attendance helped to shape my religious practices. I'm clueless about how to chant the Hebrew blessings over wine and challah, but in keeping with the faith, I worship food. My taste buds stand at attention for divine delicacies like gefilte fish, matzo balls, and latkes.

                       Our little shul didn't have the cash to employ a rabbi full-time to oversee our religious development. Although this vacancy may have impacted my religious leanings, my peers managed to grow up committed to the creed.

           To ensure that we had some kind of religious leadership, our synagogue imported a rabbi for the holidays. I imagine they had to book this eminent spokesperson for God way ahead of time. After all, how many unemployed rabbis float around with time on their hands during these highly esteemed annual religious events?

           The Jews in our town turned out in droves for the High Holidays. I always wondered if the financial managers who signed the rabbi's paycheck coerced our religious flock to attend services en masse during those venerated holidays or whether the congregants showed up out of pure religious zeal. These sacrosanct affairs accounted for the only time of the year when our leaders had to accommodate the overflow with folding chairs from the Rent-a-Center.

           I only looked forward to High Holidays as a venue to take in the latest fashions. I'm sure I could have mustered up more entertainment for myself on the home front. With my limited knowledge of Hebrew, the services barely held my attention. The women and children settled into their pews for a long day on one side while the men occupied the other side in keeping with orthodox practices. The men's drab pinstripes contrasted with the women's and children's colorful, trendy, garb. This palette of dresswear allowed for an entertaining diversion from the rabbi's chanting.

           I've noticed that the signature dress style of the Orthodox devotees who walk through my current grown-up neighborhood leans toward conservative. The women shroud themselves in modest dresses or skirts that conceal everything except face and hands. I am relieved that the members of my childhood flock aspired to crisp vogue fashion rather than such lackluster attire. Otherwise, I may have gotten even less out of the whole religious experience.

           The best part of the holidays revolved around the food. Most of these meals, usually at a relative's house, started out with a long-drawn-out Hebrew recitation conducted by one of my Hebrew literate uncles. Such table-side gatherings enabled these men to shake the dust off their prayer books and show up the illiterate among us with their long-winded Hebrew warbling.

           The rituals associated with the Passover meal, one of my favorites, had audience participation. On many occasions, the youngest child, who happened to be me, got to ask the four questions about why we performed certain eating rites during this holy time.

           The four questions portion of the service provided a temporary diversion from my gnawing hunger. I even polished up one of the few Hebrew phrases I knew for the occasion. Ma nishtanah ha-laylah ha-se mi kol ha-leyot. Why is this night different from all other nights? Why do we eat bitter herbs? Why do we dip them in saltwater two times no less? Why do we eat unleavened bread? Why do we eat in a reclining position? Of course, no one had the nerve to ask the most compelling question. When do we eat? After years of partaking in these ceremonies, I learned the answer to that one. Not until our salivary glands had overworked themselves into a frenzy.

           The responses to the original four questions, scripted out in English for generations of Hebrew-ignorant kids, provided a solid annual review for me about the significance of this holiday. In a nutshell, the food symbolized the bitter tears shed by the Jewish slaves as they slapped mortar between the bricks of the Egyptian pharaoh's expanding homestead. When the Jews decided to make a clean getaway from this subservient lifestyle, their bread didn't have a chance to rise. That explains why matzo and all things unleavened figure so prominently in this holiday. Although we don't really eat reclining, we do sit in comfortable chairs. This commemorates the freedom we have to settle our little tushes on cushions as the Egyptian pharaoh, our nemesis of old, did.

           Passover intensified my mother's religious tempo. For this eight-day celebration, she like all committed Jews, cleaned out the cabinets and pitched anything with leavening into the trash. Passover goods replaced almost everything. We had sour balls, macaroons, matzo, matzo meal, all kinds of products with kosher-stickered approval. Mom not only swept the pantry clean, but she also changed out our everyday dishes for Passover tableware.

           I never understood my mother's immersion in this holiday compared with her laid-back attitude toward the others. Maybe this was her favorite holiday too. Or maybe as a concession to my father, she decided to meet him on some common religious middle ground.

           On Yom Kipper, a sobering holiday compared to Passover, Jews atone for their sins by starving all day. Having to endure the stale breath of hungry shul congregants confined in shoulder to shoulder pews for a day made me think twice about committing a sin.

           Two women immersed themselves in the temple's operation. Both self-appointed ladies had a gaggle of kids. These questionably talented offspring landed key roles in the holiday plays their parents directed. My stage fame revolved around bit parts— portraying matzos and Hamantantashen (a Jewish holiday cookie). After many years on the sidelines, I lost interest in competing for the star roles.

           When the time came to promote Sunday school kids to the next level and to announce awards, I figured I knew just enough to land me in the next tier of Jewish instruction. Beyond that, I had realistic expectations. I never expected any awards or notoriety regarding my attendance or anything else. That's why the Sunday school principal—a woman who double-batted as a parent—took me completely off guard. She announced my name to receive a report card for the year and congratulated me on my advancement to the next Sunday school grade. As a follow-up, she let all those in attendance know that even though I didn't deserve it, I would be moving on to the next level.

           That statement colored my religious creed. I couldn't believe that Jewish doctrine condoned embarrassing a kid in front of a whole audience. I never expected special treatment. I accepted the fact that my aspirations for kingpin in the plays had no merit because of my sketchy attendance. But, crucifying me in front of my peers and their families with her judgmental remark had no religious basis.

           I completed my obligatory religious training in the same spotty manner that my mother's driving nerve allowed, until my early teens. I had just enough exposure to Judaism to fuel an unspoken camaraderie with anyone I see on the street wearing a yarmulke. That's enough religious salve for me.