A Lifetime of Kehilla

My father-in-law, Dr. Gabriel Elias, passed away last week at the age of 99. As we sat shiva this week, his large family - six children, 14 grandchildren and nine great grandchildren - gathered and celebrated his extraordinary life. He was a self-made man of 20th Century America, an immigrant from Greece who earned a law degree and a Ph.D., served in the U.S. Army during World War II in the intelligence service, had successful careers as a lawyer, college professor, therapist and businessman, and accomplished every goal he ever imagined, on his own terms.

During their 67-year marriage, Gabby and his wife, Alma, developed friendships with thousands of people. He was the seeker, and she is a nurturer. She is a Zionist; he was a humanist. Together, their genuine curiosity and kindness were the magnets that drew others to them.

Childhood friends, neighbors, synagogue friends (from their 50-year membership at Adath Jeshurun in Elkins Park, PA), couples from a variety of book groups, Humanist Group members, (he was the founder of the Humanist Association of Greater Philadelphia), the couples he married as one of the first non-clergy officiants in the country, and a myriad of wanderer-acquaintances they met as they traveled around the world, form the concentric circles of community that reflect their diverse interests and life path.

This week of sitting shiva brought people together from almost all of the communities in the Elias family life story. As they tell and re-tell the stories about the man they knew as Grandpa, Pappou, Gabby, Gabe or Dr. Elias, their perspectives add texture and details for all of us.

In the last seven years, their fellow residents of Martins Run, the senior living community in which they live, became their newest circle of friends. They're providing the final perspective. The Martins Run residents got to know Gabby when age-related memory issues made his prized intellectual intensity harder to access. What emerged in him was a sense of humor and a kind of detached bemusement about his cognitive decline. When you asked him how he was doing, he would answer ironically, "Getting younger every day." This week, his children, remembering the serious dad who required that every child hear an ethics lesson from him before getting their weekly allowance, are hearing about his jokes and one-liners in his last years.

It is the Martins Run community members who have gathered with us every night for our shiva minyan. The women surround my mother-in-law before and after the service with conversation and hand holding. They assure us that they'll continue to do so when her children and grandchildren leave town today and tomorrow. Most of them have lost spouses or partners, and they know how to create the support network to help someone navigate this new phase of life.

We're all able to find kehilla throughout our lifetime. The Elias family is grateful for, and I am inspired by, the Martins Run kehilla.

My Season of Cardiac Care

Two nights before Yom Kippur, I went home alone from the hospital to our big old house, trying not to notice how empty it felt. The charming place that my husband, Bob, and I bought this year to rehab and re-sell suddenly felt like a used trebuchet from the Renaissance Faire that would need to be unloaded on Craig's List.

That evening, Bob was getting ready for heart surgery.

His condition, and the urgency for intervention, surprised both of us. For the next few days, on my way to the intensive care unit, I drove past my synagogue without an ounce of mental, physical or spiritual energy to stop at the one place that had always given me all three.

The surgery went well, and when Bob was recovering, I realized that at that moment we were living through the perspective-taking about life and death that's built into the ritual and liturgy of the High Holidays. (Watch for my blog post next year on how the Unetanah Tokef will never be the same for me.)

Fast forward to good news. Life is returning to normal. He has a couple more months before he'll be ready to tackle big home improvement projects or move the 50 boxes of books that are still in the garage. That will come back in time. I have resumed my typical work schedule of either talking on the phone all day or traveling. We throw a kiss or send a text message when either of us leaves the house. We're as present as we can be for other family members who are going through some difficult times, too. We're looking ahead to our son's wedding next year, eagerly waiting for photos and details about the date and site. Ok, that might just be me who's eagerly waiting. Also normal.

Here's what happened instantly and hasn't stopped: We smile every day because we will have more days together.

Here's what took awhile to notice: The help we needed from our synagogue community didn't come from an organized committee. And I'm grateful for that.

Let me explain.

My first call to inform people that Bob was in the hospital, after I activated our family network, was to the office at my synagogue. I couldn't say at the time why that was so important to me; we're all comforted by different connections. (Bob's first call was to our painter to cancel their punch list review.)

Almost immediately, Bob got a call from our rabbi. There was no deep discussion about life and death - I think Bob joked about the lengths he'd go to to get out of Yom Kippur services. But those first few days unloaded an avalanche of medical information, decisions, and pain, and our rabbi provided a familiar non-anxious presence that comes from a relationship built over decades. A chat, even about Yom Kippur sermons, was a welcomed gift of normal at an abnormal time.

For the first few weeks, our family and friends regularly visited or checked in. Bob's closest buddies and our sons were always a phone call away to shop and do errands, or stay with him while I went out. I knew my support network, asked for help when I needed it, and got it.

Synagogues expend a lot of energy organizing a corps of chesed volunteers, people who kindly cook or do errands for community members going through medical crises or loss. They are critical lifelines for many people. I'm glad to say we didn't need this. It's because our corps of chesed volunteers are continually present in our lives - friends we collected through years of synagogue membership, sharing Shabbat and holiday dinners together, celebrating weddings, and supporting each other after the deaths of our parents. There was nothing to activate; our network is always there.

Bob and I have belonged to four kehillot in the last 32 years, and these sacred communities have enriched our lives with relationships. Our children went to their schools, and their friends' parents became our friends. When our children grew up, we formed a circle of friends with whom to continue to do Jewish things... or not. Our synagogue office is one of the first places I call because I'm confident that some gesture that brings a moment of peace or comfort will come from it.

I have spent a lot of time in my career teaching leaders of synagogues how to "create community," and here's what my season of cardiac care taught me:  No single synagogue committee, on its own, creates a support network. It's built over time by the whole community, piece by piece, person to person - during high moments of transition and predictable daily, weekly or yearly rituals.

Our sacred communities anchor us with a gathering place, a commitment to something beyond ourselves, and a calendar that, if we follow along, opens up the potential for building a human network, one that can carry us through the worst, and best, of what life brings us.

The Blessing of Wonder

When we say things like "people don't change" it drives scientists crazy, because change is literally the only constant in all of science. Energy. Matter. It's always changing, morphing, merging, growing, dying. It's the way people try not to change that's unnatural. The way we cling to what things were instead of letting things be what they are. The way we cling to old memories instead of forming new ones. The way we insist on believing despite every scientific indication that anything in this lifetime is permanent. Change is constant. How we experience change that's up to us. It can feel like death or it can feel like a second chance at life. If we open our fingers, loosen our grips, go with it, it can feel like pure adrenaline. Like at any moment we can have another chance at life. Like at any moment, we can be born all over again.

Well said by one of my favorite philosophers - Meredith, on Grey's Anatomy. 

Rosh Hashana is built into our calendar as the time when we can stop and look back at the changes that have happened in our lives in the bite-sized piece of one year. As I do this, I'm startled by the changes I have experienced this year. 

In my personal life, my husband and I made a counter-intuitive decision to buy and renovate a large old Victorian house and property. Empty nesters aren't supposed to upsize, but we did. It has been the most joyful thing we have ever done, except for bringing three children into this world and watching them grow into wonderful men.

In my work life, I can't begin to count the changes in the last year. We reorganized our departmental structure, said farewell to several dedicated colleagues, brought new people on board, and all of us had to adjust to new roles. My position has changed and my job title is new. I can already feel the changes in my interactions with people within and outside United Synagogue.

The writers of Grey's Anatomy put the words in Meredith's mouth, but they could just as easily be mine. Opening up to the possibilities of change does feel like pure adrenaline.

The liturgy of Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur recognizes that feeling. There's a reason why these days are called the Days of Awe. We blow the shofar every morning, and hearing it is a visceral wake up call to pay attention in a different way than the rest of the year.

So for the coming year, what I wish for myself and for everyone is the blessing of wonder - that each day we find moments when we loosen our tight grip on how we perceive the world. Each moment of wonder can be like the sound of a shofar, awakening us to see our second chance at life.

L'shana tova u'metuka.

Kehilla Permaculture

In a few weeks, I'll be moving out of my house to a new home with more land. As a passionate gardener, this is a dream come true. To prepare for my real-life enactment of the game, Gardenscapes, I decided to learn about permaculture.

Perma-what?

Permaculture is a way of looking at the environment holistically, and working with, rather than against, the natural systems that already exist on a site. Instead of viewing the soil as a resource to extract, and weeds or insects as things to be eradicated, permaculture honors the patterns and relationships in nature that build and balance growth. Nutrient-rich soil is developed organically; animals and birds are encouraged into the garden so that they, not herbicides and insecticides, will control weeds and bugs.

There are two things about permaculture that attracted my attention because they're so common sense that they apply to our kehillot - sacred communities - as well.

1. Understanding the site

Gardens at Duke University

Before building up expectations about the size, location and shape of a garden, permaculture practitioners take into account forces like sunlight, wind patterns, slope and flooding. Some places just make the gardener work harder. They don't get enough light or they're at the top of a hill when all the rain water washes to the bottom. That's not to say that it's impossible to maintain a garden there. It means, though, that the gardener has to be intentional about the selection and placement of plants so that they match the strengths of the environment. Otherwise, the gardener spends more energy fighting the site than cultivating the growth of plants that have the natural inclination to thrive in the area.

Can you recognize the pattern in kehillot? Many of our synagogue buildings are located now in areas where demographic trends make growing the size or diversity of the community, (aka "bringing in young families"), a challenge. I have worked with many, and there's usually a person or two who are sure that one more big marketing push will bring people in the door. Often, there is no marketing committee, and no institutional strength or money to launch a campaign. Even so, this intrepid gardener is sure that one more season of just working harder will overcome the environment.

How do we approach this as kehilla permaculturists? One of the most important things leaders can do is build in ways to step back and realistically assess the lay of the land. This is almost impossible to do in urgent moments. Like gardeners, synagogue board members are most worried in the spring, when they're trying to balance the budget for the upcoming year. Strategic planning is one way to create a process that gathers data and information before digging into decisions. If launching strategic planning is too much for now, there are other ways for professional and volunteer leaders to build time for reflection and analysis together, as part of a leadership learning agenda.

2. Understanding the gardener. 

Permaculture practitioners divide the garden into somewhat circular zones, beginning closest to the house and working outward. Why? One simple principle begins with understanding the nature of human beings: We tend to take care of things best when they're in close proximity. For example, if I'm making a dinner for my friends and family, but I have to walk 200 feet in the rain to get some herbs and salad greens, how often will I bother to use them? And if I have to carry my watering can out there twice a day just to keep them alive, forget it...I'd rather go to the supermarket for my parsley.

The practicality of permaculture, then, tells me to place the things I want to use every day right at my back door. I'll notice when they need water, or some propping up, and I'll take care of it each time I pass by. Continuous, but effortless, maintenance will free up my time and energy so that I can be more intentional about how I tend to the plants that are farther away, in Zones 2 or 3.

What does this have to do with kehillot? We can't map out geographic boundaries and tend to the people who live within them in different ways. But in a sacred community, our "zones" have to do with time. The rhythm and cycle of Jewish life bring people together in different ways at different moments of their lives. What we're growing in the garden of community is relationships; what we're attending to are moments with relational potential.

We have fixed times - daily minyan, religious school pickup and dropoff, Shabbat, holidays - when we know who and when people will be in close proximity. It's during those times that we can predict encounters and look for ways to maximize relationship-building.

• Do you have a cafe corner on Sunday mornings that invites people to slow down and schmooze, and then go into adult or family learning opportunities? 
• You'll see coffee corners in some shuls on Saturdays, now, too, for the same reason. Yes, it means people can leave the service and congregate outside the sanctuary. But the alternative has been that they were congregating in their own kitchens, not the shul. 
• Is your kehilla one of the growing numbers that sponsor a CSA, (community supported agriculture)? Do you just set it up in the parking lot and control traffic as people drive in and out to pick up their veggies? Or do you give people reasons to slow down, park the car and meet one another? I have seen some CSA committees pass out hors d'oeuvres during pickup time that were made from the ingredients in that week's produce. In the best kehilla permaculture strategy I have seen, the religious school was involved, as the curriculum integrated the Jewish values reflected in the CSA movement.
• Programs continue to be an important Zone 1 opportunity in our kehillot. There are ways to maximize their relational potential as well. United Synagogue has created a Relational Checklist for programs, and we have been distributing it at our district Relational Judaism conferences. (Contact your kehilla relationship manager if you'd like a copy.) 

Building Up the Soil

Permaculturists do one more thing that is critical to the success of their gardens: They don't disturb the natural balance of the soil by digging around, plowing and overturning the earth. Although that tactic will produce one good year of harvest, it depletes energy and nutrients, and takes twice as much effort to build it up again for the next season. It isn't only about planting; it's about nourishment and replenishment of the ecosystem.

For that reason, permaculture gardeners create rich, fertile soil by layering materials on top of the beds that will generate energy, a diversity of organisms, and nutrients. Nothing is overlooked in a permaculture garden, because the gardener knows every tree branch that fell on the property, has collected leaves and grass clippings, and processed every scrap of food waste. What separates a permaculture garden from an ordinary one is the background work of gathering and preparing the raw materials that will continually inject energy into the system.

As for our communities, kehilla permaculture can't only be about making friends. Conservative Judaism's garden only comes alive if we help all people engage with our rich tradition as they walk the path together. How do you continually gather and prepare the raw materials of diversity, meaning and purpose to nourish your community?

Relational Thinking About Quirks of Fate

During a two-day respite from winter, I went to my favorite place - the beach. It has changed since my last visit in the fall. Before the winter storms, the Army Corps of Engineers pumped in sand through huge pipes from hundreds of yards offshore in order to build up the dunes. Whenever they do, it changes the texture of the landscape. Fine, light brown sand is replaced by gray and white shell shards, crushed during their journey from the ocean bottom to the shore.

They crunched as I walked briskly over them, with my attention toward the wind and waves. It wasn't until I sat down and looked closely at what was around me that I noticed how many of the shells weren't crushed at all. For every hundred shards, there were another five fully formed miniature shells - some a bit roughed up and some completely unscathed. 

What quirk of fate would make shells deposited in exactly the same ten square feet of beach wind up in such a variety of states? Enjoy pondering the probabilities if you like that sort of thing -the nanosecond and millimeter that separated one shell from crashing into another one, or the narrowing of its shape that precisely mirrored the narrowing of a neighbor, so they shot past one another instead of colliding and cracking into pieces.

I collected hundreds of them, on my own little adventure of discovery and wonder. As I pocketed each one, my thoughts moved to shells as a metaphor for humanity.

Our lives are launched in one geographic place and family of origin, but our life trajectory lands us in our synagogue communities in a variety of conditions. The DNA of Judaism infuses our communal calendar, ritual and values with an understanding of the continual need to acknowledge the dynamic nature of wholeness and brokenness.We celebrate life cycle moments, we comfort mourners, visit the sick, reach out to the poor. Every year we review our lives; every week we have the opportunity to re-charge our selves.

On Thursday, I will go on retreat with 27 kehilla presidents in our Sulam for Presidents program. I have written before that I am working on developing the habit of relational thinking. It is easy to view people I meet as participants, stakeholders, clients, customers, potential-fill-in-the-blank - (members, colleagues, friends) - and overlook who they are at that moment in my company. One of the luxuries of Sulam for Presidents is that we stay together for three days. We have time and a variety of ways to interact and get to know one another. I am trying to slow down and encounter each person as a whole - with curiosity about the quirk of fate that landed us all on the same ten feet of beach.

A Presidential Sacred Community: Sulam 44

When "Size" Means "Bigger Than Yourself"

Last Sunday and Monday, before Atlanta shut down, (again), from ice and snow, leaders from half of the largest Conservative congregations on the continent came together for a conversation at Ahavath Achim Synagogue. This was the third Large Congregations Conference sponsored by United Synagogue, and was, by all measures, the most productive and forward-thinking.

Here's why: It didn't allow large congregations to focus only on themselves.

The conference program, designed by USCJ staff in partnership with the attendees, allowed time to learn and share with each other about synagogue leadership, governance and operational issues. But presentations pushed the envelope from self-help to helping others.

• Rabbi Steven Wernick began with an in-depth explanation of the implications of the Pew Study on Conservative Judaism.
• Rabbi Noah Farkas described using community organizing as a tool for creating relationships outside the walls of the synagogue.
• Jeff Goodell, vice president of government affairs for Jet Blue, compared a large congregation to an airline.
• An interdenominational panel, featuring Rabbi Neil Sandler, senior rabbi at Ahavath Achim, Rabbi Peter Berg, senior rabbi of Atlanta's Reform congregation, The Temple, and Reverend Pam Driesell, senior pastor at Trinity Presbyterian, discussed the opportunities and gifts of large congregations.  

And, in an inspiring closing presentation, Rabbi Michael Siegel, senior rabbi of Anshe Emet in Chicago, brought the program elements together by challenging the leaders of large congregations to understand their responsibilities for building the Jewish community of the future.  He described Anshe Emet's ground-breaking steps to collaborate and build community, like once-a-month hosting of the independent minyan, Mishkan Chicago, and outlined four obligations that large congregations have because of their capacities and influence: Experimentation, Cooperation, Coordination and Creation.

See more of the story below.

Conservative Judaism's New Trim Tab Leaders

(Cross-posted in eJewish Philanthropy.)

Next month, about 60 incoming and current synagogue presidents will go on retreat with United Synagogue staff in our Sulam for Presidents program. (Sulam means “ladder” in Hebrew.) Coming from all over the continent, their congregations will differ in size and pressing issues, but as individuals, the presidents will be very similar. They'll be excited, honored to be taking on this sacred responsibility, and not quite sure how to prioritize the changes that need to happen in their synagogue communities.

One former Sulam president summed it up this way: "My congregation has given me a conflicting message. They're saying, 'Please change everything, but don't change anything.'"

Where would you begin?

Franklin Covey took on that question in 2009 with the sailing metaphor of a trim tab. (Buckminster Fuller also famously has “Call Me Trimtab” inscribed on his headstone.) For those of us who know nothing more about a ship than that the captain goes down with it, here's all you need to understand for now: A rudder turns the ship. With a very large ship, picture a rudder the height of your house, and try to imagine the energy that needs to be exerted on it in order to change direction. A trim tab is a tiny rudder attached to the big main one. Maneuvering the trim tab will turn the large rudder, and the whole ship, with more ease and less resistance than trying to turn it directly.

Covey encouraged each of us to become organizational trim tabs, making small but strategic changes in the areas in which we are most able. “Your small actions, your work in your circle of influence can create, over time, a big impact on your organization.” If aligned with an overall vision, the changes from a few trim tab leaders can affect the whole system.

But here's the challenge in synagogues: Presidents aren't likely to be trim tab leaders. Even with the best intentions and carefully crafted short term goals, once they take their place, synagogue presidents are barraged with the three B's of operations: Buildings, Budgets, and Business-As-Usual. For that reason, we teach presidents how to set the structure and process that would allow small, strategic changes to be made by others, and to keep the ship going in the right direction.

Then the question becomes, where do presidents find the people who will be their trim tab leaders? It’s fair to say that a new generation of leaders is not eagerly lining up for their turn at the helm of our shuls. For the last three years we at United Synagogue have been working on this challenge with a group of 50 synagogues looking for a way to bring potential leaders forward.  The results are more than encouraging. In fact, I believe we are watching a new generation of trim tab leaders emerge from the nearly 1,000 participants we expect to go through the program by the end of the year. 

The approach we’re using to engage this new cohort is called Sulam for Emerging Leaders. The essential element of the program is that synagogue leaders actively identify and recruit people they think have leadership potential, not once these folks are on the leadership ladder but before they’ve even stepped on the first rung.

To participate in SEL, synagogues must have a rabbi or cantor and a lay leader who commit to leading the program for a year, as well as a cohort of about a dozen potential leaders who agree to participate. (The target age range for participants is 35-45.)  United Synagogue then trains the clergy and lay leader teams to use our six-session curriculum with their groups. SEL takes place in their home communities, and focuses on building relationships through Jewish learning, personal reflection, and shared experiences.  Hosting Shabbat dinner, for instance, is a simple and powerful requirement of the program. The SEL curriculum is designed to help participants face head-on the forces that compete for time in their lives, especially "sacred time." Then the lens progressively moves from the personal to the communal.

Drs. Steven Cohen and Ezra Kopelowicz are independent evaluators who have studied Sulam for Emerging Leaders and its impact from its inception. The results have been remarkable. The first report in 2012 showed that the program reached the target age group and positively affected the participants’ feelings of connection with their clergy and one another. The second year evaluation, just completed, tracked the engagement of the participants immediately after the program. Here is what surprised even those of us with high hopes for the concept: 80% of participants increased their engagement with the synagogue, but 52% stepped right into leadership roles.

What kind of leaders will these emerging leaders be? How can we know they'll ask the right questions and focus on more than just the three B's of synagogue business as usual?

We're getting clues that they will. This year, the training teams in SEL synagogues are asking their groups a simple, yet critical, question at the end of every session, and sharing the answers with us. Participants are being asked, "What questions emerge from our discussion today that you'd like to know more about?" Here are the types of things this year's emerging leaders are curious about, after only one or two sessions:

• How can we be most inclusive?
• How do we fulfill the needs of the community when needs are so disparate?
• What are the ramifications of our decisions?
• What compromises do we make?
• Where does Judaism fit in?
• How can we set a good example?
• What if setting a good example is not enough?

These questions reflect a shared language that comes straight from the curriculum. The idea of gatekeepers, for instance, is from the first session’s text study, and I can already see that these emerging leaders are not only looking at community through the lens of openness and inclusion, but also questioning how their own actions can make a difference. This is the essence of a trim tab leader, as described by Covey: “Simply by focusing on what you can do even if it’s outside of your job description and make small adjustments and improvements along the way.”

Our Sulam team's goal of continuous improvement of the program led us to add a seventh session this year to the SEL curriculum. It will give each group that chooses to continue to learn together a chance to explore answers to their questions and understand more about the dynamics of their home communities. How each group approaches this learning will shape the shared values and vision that will prepare them for every rung of their Sulam leadership ladder.

Here’s the question I’ll be asking during the next five years:  As the number of emerging leaders in Conservative kehillot moves into the thousands, how will they turn not only the ship of Conservative Judaism, but the Jewish Community as a whole?

Interfaith Marriage G-3

This is going to be a very personal post.

Our son just gave us the wonderful news that he and his beautiful girlfriend are getting married. (Date TBD.) We are almost as thrilled as the day of his birth, (and I am much less tired). I couldn't have picked a more perfect soul mate for my son than his beloved. And, believe me, before she came into his life, I tried. And tried.

In the ten minutes it took for me to put a dozen proverbial wedding carriages before the horse, I imagined going with my future daughter-in-law to pick out her dress, handing over my invitation list for our side of the family with 200 names, (just like my mother-in-law did for my wedding) and being summarily denied, (just like my mother-in-law was not). Then as my mind wandered to my husband and I walking our son down the aisle, I was startled by a realization: I don't know what that aisle will look like. My son is marrying a woman who is not Jewish.

Please don't jump to any conclusions about my saying that, and stay with me. I was not Jewish when my husband and I met. I went through conversion before we got married, and went later with my children to the mikvah when we joined a Conservative synagogue. (This is a long story that I won't detail in this blog post, except to say that I will always be grateful to Rabbi Neil Cooper for his guidance and support of our family's Jewish identity.)

My husband grew up in a Conservative home, and AFTER we announced to our parents that we were getting married, he realized that it was important to him to have Jewish children. However, in 1982, all he knew was that children were only considered Jewish if their mothers were Jewish. The Reform movement rabbis would announce their acceptance of patrilineal descent one year later, in 1983. And my husband had no idea that Reconstructionist rabbis had accepted it in 1968. So he asked me if I would be willing to convert to Judaism. My personal affiliation at that time was a Buddhist/Humanist combo, having moved away from the Christianity of my family of origin years before. I knew nothing about Judaism and I loved this guy. So I said, "Sure, why not?"

Our wedding was beautiful and inclusive. We got married on Halloween, with a woman rabbi officiating, and it made both our non-Jewish and Jewish family members equally uncomfortable and confused.

Our decisions about how to raise our children came easily because we continued to agree on one basic value: Our kids would be Jewish. We could think of no other way to approach this than the way we chose, which was to begin with a two-parent Jewish household. My husband and I had no idea what it meant in practice. We had to learn, build and create our Jewish home with intention (and negotiation) every day. Years later, I would find out that we weren't much different than parents who were both born Jewish.

My rabbi asked me about 20 years ago if I would be hurt if any of my sons married a non-Jewish woman. I recall saying, "Of course, I would. I didn't go through all of this, and work so hard at creating a Jewish home, for them to put it all aside."

I think about who I was when I said that. I was in the middle of my own identity formation. I was learning about Judaism while at the same time teaching not only my children but my husband, whose identity was formed less by Jewish practice and more by immersion in Jewish ethnicity.

A lot has changed in 32 years.

In the world of 1982, the value neutral language of Spouse Jewish and Spouse Not-Jewish used in the recent Pew Study didn't exist, but the word shiksa did, and wasn't hip or used tongue-in-cheek. "Non-Jewish parents raising Jewish children," were not talked about, and they were certainly not an ordinary sight in congregations. Today, non-Jews are so active in our shuls that one of the most lively discussions last month on United Synagogue's presidents' list serve was about recognition of non-Jews as members of our kehillot, and questioning to what extent by-laws should reflect the roles of non-Jews in the governance of our synagogues.

In our family, our children and their cousins call themselves G-3, (Generation 3), counting the generations from their grandparents, to my husband and his siblings, to themselves. Their collective Jewish identification, as I have written before, falls on the continuum from ultra-Orthodox to "none." In 1982, we never imagined this diverse Jewish world and the variety of ways our family would experience Judaism.

I am not going to ask my son (yet) about his thoughts about raising Jewish children. He needs to do some other things that are also on the list for bringing naches to Jewish mothers and fathers - like getting a Ph.D. in neurobiology in June.

The road to raising children with Jewish identity is different from the one onto which his father and I stepped 32 years ago. It will be his and his wife's decision about their shared values and the path they take. I will love my grandchildren if we are blessed with them....period. My husband and I will do what we have always done - create a proud Jewish home of learning, experience, memories and identity for a new generation, wherever their starting point may be.

Here's all I know right now: My wearing a purple dress and red shoes to the wedding is non-negotiable. I can whittle down my invitation list to 100. And I want to be called Safta, if and when the time comes.

A Home Run for Family Engagement

When my son was five years old, he played tee ball. This is beginners' baseball, where the kids hit the ball off a tee rather than risk facing a kindergarten pitcher's curve balls.

Our son practiced for his debut with his brothers in our back yard. He focused on keeping his eye on the ball, maintaining the correct angle of the bat, stepping forward at the precise moment before making contact. Let's just say he's a gifted artist rather than a natural athlete, and we appreciated his willingness to give this a try.

On the big day of the first game, he came up to bat, swung and missed a couple of times. And then, finally - WHAM! The ball soared over the first baseman's head and into right field! He seemed as surprised as his father and I that he hit the thing, and when the shock wore off, he ran full speed to first base. The coach waved him on while the other team scrambled to pick up the ball. As soon as he got to second base, we all yelled, "Keep going!" And he did - but instead of turning towards third base, he continued straight into left field.

Here's what we realized, as his teammates and coaches tried to stop him before he ran all the way back to our house: He didn't know where third base was or how to get there from second. We spent a lot of time on the mechanics of hitting the ball. We forgot to prepare him for what to do after he hit it. 

This happens in synagogues, too. Loads of institutional energy and resources are put into writing strategic plans, but they may sit on the shelf, (next to two or three previously written ones), because no one is able to implement them. Much thought and care is often put into assembling a rabbinic search committee, but the new rabbi struggles in the critical first year because a transition team is not put into place to help him or her succeed.

Over the next four years, 61 Conservative kehillot (communities) will get a chance to hit a home run with more than 10,000 young families as they offer the gift of Jewish books every month through PJ Library. This is a unique opportunity. Most of the million PJ Library subscriptions so far have been provided through organizational venues like Jewish Federations and Jewish Community Centers, but not synagogues. According to research by the Harold Grinspoon Foundation, about half of the young families will be unaffiliated. The PJ Library program gives our synagogue communities a direct line of communication with young families, but they need to be able to get past first base.

Through our pilot PJ Library program with 33 New York area kehillot, called ReadNY!, we found that in some congregations, publicizing the opportunity and signing up families was as easy as learning how to keep your eye on the ball. But moving beyond that requires more planning and continual work. The “champions” for engaging young families need to be identified, and assigned the responsibility to reach out and sustain relationships in addition to designing programs that are the right match for what the families need.

Volunteers and professionals alike are not necessarily naturals at outreach and engagement, so they need help building the habits of relational thinking, and looking for moments with relational potential, whether it’s through excellent formal programming or during informal moments.

For these reasons, we’re setting in place the staff and structure to create the USCJ-PJ Family Engagement Network. The Network will bring together the professionals and volunteers whose focus will be engaging young families in their communities, beginning with those who enter the door through PJ Library. They'll receive resources from PJ Library, and special consultation, networking and services from United Synagogue's family engagement and early childhood staff. A special interfaith family network, InterAction, will begin meeting in a few weeks. We expect that what both networks learn and share will help all of our kehillot round the bases of family engagement.

Watch for upcoming newsletters and webinars, and the introduction in February of our new PJ Library Coordinator, Amy Schwartz, as she begins to help kehillot across the continent get to first base offering PJ Library books to children in their communities. 

For more information about the USCJ-PJ Family Engagement Network, contact our Family Engagement Specialist, Rabbi Cara Weinstein Rosenthal. For advice and consultation about early childhood engagement, contact our Early Childhood Consultant, Maxine Handelman. 

The Divine Proportion in Kehilla

Fibonacci numbers are easy to understand, even for those of us who liked tests that allowed subjective, (preferably anecdotal), essay answers. 

The concept is simple: Each number in a Fibonacci sequence equals the sum of the two numbers preceding it. Here's a basic Fibonacci sequence:

0    1    1    2    3    5    8    13    21    34   55    89 ....  etc.

Calculate the numbers like this:  

0+1=1; 1+1=2; 1+2=3; 2+3=5; 3+5=8; 5+8=13; 8+13=21... 

Get it?

And here is the elegant part. The ratio between two adjacent numbers always equals approximately 1.6. The higher you go in the sequence, the closer to 1.6 you get. Called the Golden Ratio, Divine Ratio, or Divine Proportion, it is an important calculation for mathematicians and architects, and an almost mystical number to artists and observers of the natural world. You can find it everywhere, from the Parthenon to picture frames, insect carapaces to sunflowers. Our subjective opinion about what is beautiful, whether it's a Maserati or a human face, usually involves a ratio of 1.6, when we objectively measure their longest and shortest components. 

Spatially, the golden ratio can look like this:

Which is why we can see the golden ratio in the Parthenon:

And a seashell:

Dr. Adrian Bejan, from Duke University, recently explained why the golden ratio is so prevalent in what we create and value. It has to do with being the easiest proportions for our brains to translate as we make sense of the visual world. Regardless of its origin, once you're aware of the golden ratio, it's hard to stop seeing it around you.

I see it in our synagogues, beginning with our buildings. The main space inside of our synagogues is usually partitioned into a large sanctuary with an entrance foyer, a chapel, and small offices. A synagogue's building plan might look like this spatial depiction of the golden ratio from above, (without the numbers). 

And there's more. Not just in the architecture of the buildings, I see the 1.6 ratio embedded in synagogue budgets and operations. 

• For every 5 professionals your synagogue needs, your budget probably only allows you to hire 3 people. Although I love to make things up, I'm not stretching the truth on this. United Synagogue's 2013 salary survey, with responses from 139 synagogues, showed that in mid-sized congregations, staff costs represent 50% or less of the total synagogue budget. Typical non-profits try to keep staff costs at 80% of the budget. What's the ratio between those numbers? (Hint: 80/50 = 1.6)

• More from the salary survey: The average cost per member was at least $1,000 more than what membership dues brought in. Yes, you guessed it - the ratio comes out to about 1.6. 

• I'll ask the executive directors to help me with the research on this last one about fundraising. My hypothesis is that the number of members who donate to a High Holiday appeal, compared to the total number of members, is a Fibonacci number. So if your congregation has 377 member households, 233 will donate. With 610 member households, 377 will donate. Please feel free to get back to me on this.

These downward numbers aren't too divine. Where are the positive numbers? 

A kehilla is a sacred community. It's the "sacred" in sacred community that puts the "divine" in the divine proportion. For example, we know that a congregation may have trouble sustaining a minyan for prayer twice a day, but if there is a death and someone needs to say kaddish, 13 people will show up for every 8 calls that are made. 

Although it may not be exactly a ratio of 1.6, here are other ways I recently saw the divine proportion in our kehillot: 

• Communities that launch Shabbat dinner initiatives, like Share Shabbat at Temple Beth Hillel/Beth El in Wynnewood, PA, Guess Who's Coming to Shabbas? at Temple Sinai in Dresher, PA, and 613+ Shabbat Dinners at Beth Am, Baltimore, MD, can see an increase in the number of dinners, hosts, relationships and observance of Shabbat over time. 

• Jessie’s Community Gardens, a project that began in memory of Jessica Lynn Kostin, with support by the Jewish Federation of West Hartford, has grown since 2010 to nine gardens. Beth El Temple of West Hartford, the site of one of the gardens, was given a United Synagogue Solomon Schechter Centennial Award and described its impact on their community: "The sense of community extends beyond the people directly involved in JCG. The entire congregation reacts with a sense of pride and connection when pictures of the garden are posted on the Beth El website and we announce results of how much was grown and delivered to different food banks. Once or twice a season we use a part of the harvest for the congregational Shabbat luncheon. These luncheons create a true sense of sacred community as people enjoy the literal fruits of our labor..." 

• A simple idea – to bring together a few people who love to knit – has grown over eight years to more than 60 people who have given 10,000 hand-knitted items to people in need. The divine proportion from Mitzvah Knitters at Shaar Shalom Synagogue in Thornhill, ON, according to Janice Schachter, synagogue president and knitting guru, is this: “Our elderly participants renew their spirit as they become mentors to those just beginning their new journey, and feel useful once again as they are able to make a difference in so many lives at this later stage of their lives.”

• United Synagogue's Sulam for Emerging Leaders program re-builds the pipeline of new leadership. An independent evaluation in 2013 by Dr. Steven Cohen and Dr. Ezra Kopelowicz, showed that 80% of participants reported positive relationships and increased commitment to the community because of engagement in the program. More than half (52%) stepped immediately into leadership positions - taking on projects, committee work, or a role on the board. (80%/52% ~ 1.6!)

Where do you see the divine proportion in your kehilla?