Rabbi Gabriel Botnick explains his intentions for a vital part of the High Holyday services

Many of us carry a certain expectation when we come to synagogue on Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur. We arrive with all sorts of concerns weighing heavily upon us: events happening around the world, worries facing the Jewish community, and developments within our own lives. Quite understandably, we hope that the rabbi’s sermon will speak directly to the one particular thing that matters most to us. And sometimes it will. At other times, however, we may wind up leaving services a bit disappointed. We may wonder how the rabbi could have failed to address an issue that seems so urgent, so obvious, or so entral to the moment. Perhaps we even conclude that, because it was not mentioned, it cannot matter very much to him.

This is particularly likely to happen when we are what some people call ‘two-days-a-year Jews’. As much as I dislike the term, I don’t pass any judgment on those to whom it would apply. For some people, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are the principal occasions on which they attend a synagogue, and I am always grateful that they have chosen to spend those days with us. But the expression can obscure something important: the High Holydays are not really two days at all.

Between the beginning of Rosh Hashanah and the conclusion of Yom Kippur, I will deliver seven different sermons at seven distinct services. There are the two evenings and two mornings of Rosh Hashanah. Then there is Kol Nidrei, followed by Yom Kippur morning and then the concluding Neilah service. Each gathering has its own character. Each brings together a somewhat different mix of people. And each sermon I present offers an opportunity to explore something that cannot be contained within the others.

These sermons are not intended to be one cohesive series, in which one must have heard the previous instalment in order to understand the next. Nor will they necessarily be in conversation with one another. Each sermon will stand on its own. One may look inward, towards the moral and spiritual work of the individual. Another may turn outward, towards our responsibilities as a Jewish community or towards the conditions of the world around us. One may be rooted closely in the liturgy of that particular service, while another may begin with an issue that has occupied our thoughts throughout the year.

What they share is not a single argument, but a single limitation: no sermon can say everything. Indeed, a sermon that tried to address every urgent concern would probably fail to address any of them properly. It would feel more like a checklist than a thoughtful exploration: a succession of important subjects, each acknowledged briefly and then abandoned before we had the opportunity to think seriously about it. Sometimes respecting the importance of an issue means giving it the time and attention it deserves. And that inevitably means leaving other important subjects for another occasion.

Over the course of the High Holydays, I expect to speak about some of the pressures facing us as Jews and as human beings: the judgements we make of others and the possibility that people can change; the challenge of remaining true to ourselves when others would prefer us to be rather less distinct; the responsibilities we carry towards one another and towards the world in which we live; and the things we cling to, even when the time may have come to loosen our grip. These are broad areas of interest rather than promises of particular sermons. As I write this, my thinking is still developing, and I hope it will continue to develop until the moment I stand before you in the new year.

If I do not address the subject most important to you at the service – or services – you attend, please do not assume that I have overlooked it – or that I consider it unimportant. I may have spoken about it recently or at the previous service. Or I may be planning to speak about it several days later. Or I may have concluded that another subject would be more appropriate for that particular gathering.

In other words, we should resist treating silence in one moment as indifference.

This is not only because there are seven sermons. It is also because sermons remain provisional for far longer than you might imagine. I can have an idea of what I’d like to speak about months in advance, but the world does not always respect publication deadlines. Something may happen in the days before Rosh
Hashanah or Yom Kippur that changes what seems possible, necessary, or honest to say. A sermon written
for one world may no longer belong in the world in which we actually gather.

And sometimes the change comes not from the world outside, but from the sermon itself. More than once, I have written an entire address only to discover, while revising and rehearsing it, that it was not saying what I truly wanted to say. The ideas may have seemed compelling on the page, only to sound hollow when spoken aloud. On such occasions, I have made the difficult choice to set aside that sermon and begin anew with something entirely different – even just a day or two before the holiday.

The fact is, the vast majority of our community will not hear all seven of my sermons. But that gives us an opportunity to engage further with one another. You should feel comfortable turning to someone else and asking, ‘I couldn’t make it last night – what did the rabbi speak about?’ Different people will hear different sermons and take away different ideas. By talking about them, we each gain access to parts of the holiday season that we did not witness or experience ourselves.

After the High Holydays are over, I will try to make my sermons available in print, on video, or as audio
downloads – and as usual, all services and sermons will be available on Belsize Live. I hope this will allow
you and others to encounter anything you might have missed, revisit something you heard, or see how one sermon sat alongside the other six.

Of course, I hope that each person who comes through our doors will hear something that speaks to them. But no single sermon can be expected to speak to everything that matters, or to everyone, in precisely the same way. The High Holydays offer us more than one service, more than one mood, and more than one opportunity to listen. If I happen to address what you wanted – terrific! But if it goes unmentioned, try to remain open to the possibility that it has not been forgotten. It may have been spoken about when you were not in the room. It may still be waiting for its moment. And sometimes what is left unsaid at one service is not the absence of concern, but the space that allows something else to be heard.

Shanah Tovah uMetukah,
Rabbi Gabriel Botnick

Rabbi Gabriel Botnick responds to another current question

This summer, we plan to attend a few barbecues at friends’ homes where we know that they will be grilling non-kosher meat. Is it OK to bring our own kosher or vegetarian food to be cooked on the same barbecue?

Sincerely, Curious Carnivore

This is a great question — one that comes up often at this time of year, and in more situations than we might expect, so allow me to address your points before turning to the bigger picture.

The Talmud (Pesachim 76b) and the Shulchan Aruch (Yoreh De’ah 108) both explore whether or not it is permissible to eat kosher meat that’s been roasted in the same oven as non-kosher meat. The worry is that the fat of the prohibited food might spread out and come into contact with the permitted food, or that the kosher meat could absorb the aroma of the forbidden food. Indeed there are many rabbis who hold that such a situation would render the kosher meat impermissible to eat; however, there are some rabbis who say that, while one should strive to avoid such a scenario, if the deed was already done then the kosher meat is still acceptable to eat. There are even some rabbis who say that, under certain conditions, there should be no issue at all, even if the foods were cooked this way on purpose.

But the rabbis were writing centuries ago and the realities of their worlds were different to ours today. So how does all this apply to your specific question?

Grilling on a barbecue is rather different to roasting in an oven. Juices released by foods on a barbecue don’t spread out – they drip directly onto the flames below the grate, where they turn into smoke and steam and rise back up. If a barbecue lid is closed, then forbidden fumes could very well come into contact with your food and render it impermissible, but if the lid is left open, or if there is no lid, then this is no longer a concern.

Grilling kosher and non-kosher foods at the same time, on separate parts of the grate, with the lid open, could indeed be considered OK, but you would still have to be careful not to use the same spatula or tongs with the two foods, as that would directly transfer the juices and flavours between them. If you were to grill kosher food after the non-kosher food, you would also need to be careful not to have it come into contact with any residue left behind by the prohibited food.

Orthodox authorities say the best approach is to double wrap your own food in aluminium foil for the entire time it’s on the barbecue. But you could also use a heavy-duty foil and make a sort of small tray to place on top of the grate. Probably the best approach would be to bring your own wire mesh grill topper and barbecue utensils. It might feel like a faff, but that would be the simplest and most straightforward approach.

However, all this having been said, you could still rely on the most lenient rabbinic rulings that say you don’t need to overcomplicate the matter. This is, after all, the main reasoning behind sticking to vegetarian food at non-kosher restaurants. And if you’re comfortable doing that, then there’s no reason to make things awkward for your hosts when they’ve invited you round for what’s meant to be a fun summer gathering. Similarly, you can rely on this approach if you happen to find yourself on summer holiday in a place where the cuisine is not the most conducive to keeping kosher.

Now, beyond the practicalities, there’s a broader – and, I believe, more important – point to address: aren’t these apparently trivial details of Jewish law just an exercise in nit-picking? Why should we even
concern ourselves with them? For me, it’s all about being mindful. Our sages often say the main thing
that distinguishes humans from the rest of the animal kingdom is our advanced cognitive ability. When an
animal finds itself feeling hungry, it simply turns to the nearest food source and digs in – without much (or any) thought given to its fitness for consumption. But when humans are hungry, we don’t eat just anything – we make sure it’s not poisonous, stale, or otherwise bad for us. Jewish law then comes
in and encourages us to think even more: sure, you could eat it, but should you? Our tradition asks us
to pause even longer before we sate our appetite, so that we have time to think deeply – spiritually.

And that regular practice of pausing in order to be mindful is the key. It’s what helps us become more fully human. It’s what strengthens our resistance to even more of life’s temptations. I know that if I’m able to resist the urge to eat any old sausage placed before me and consider how best to cook up a kosher hot dog instead, then I certainly am able to avoid giving in to more difficult and destructive temptations in other aspects of life.

So kudos to you for asking your question, as it tells me you’re already on the path towards that deeper mindfulness with which we’re called to engage. I hope my answer helps you find the approach that works best for you. But no matter what you decide, you’re already in a great place.
Sincerely,
Rabbi Botnick

This issue’s question to Rabbi Gabriel Botnick: At a recent Shabbat service, you spoke about relaunching the Chevra Kadisha at Belsize. What exactly is this and what would it entail to volunteer for it?

The Chevra Kadisha – or Holy Society in Aramaic – is a sacred, if overlooked, component of every Jewish community. The primary role of the group is to prepare bodies of community members for burial. This practice has its origins in pre-Talmudic times and is considered one of the essential requirements for establishing a new Jewish community (along with a school, mikveh, synagogue and cemetery).

Before it became customary to bury our deceased in coffins, we would simply wrap the body in a shroud and carry it upon a bier from the deceased’s home to the cemetery. After a long illness, it was common for the body to emit a noticeable scent, compounded by other, natural, post-mortem odours. In order to ensure one’s last impression was one of dignity, people would gently and respectfully wash the body of the deceased. This is ‘Kavod HaMet’ or showing respect to those who have died and is considered to be an act of ‘Chesed Shel Emet’ or true loving-kindness, as those who engage in the work do so without expectation of compensation or acknowledgment. In fact, it is customary not to reveal the identities of Chevra Kadisha members.

Until recently, Belsize had an active women’s Chevra Kadisha, but after the retirement of its leaders, we began to rely more upon our funeral directors to perform this work, as they have a professionally trained team readily available at all times. Sadly, it’s been much longer since we had an active men’s Chevra Kadisha. While there is nothing wrong with relying on our funeral directors, Cantor Heller and I believe it would be meaningful and appropriate to relaunch our community’s Chevra Kadisha as another option for our members.

I know it can seem daunting to volunteer for such work, so allow me to explain exactly what is involved with being part of a Chevra Kadisha. As not everyone wishes their bodies to undergo such ritual preparations prior to burial, the services of the group are only required somewhere between ten and twenty times per year, approximately half requiring the services of the women’s group and half the men’s. We only need three volunteers per burial, so if we have enough volunteers, you might be asked to donate your time and care just a few times a year.

When preparing a body for burial, it is covered with a sheet, with small areas of the body uncovered only when being washed gently with warm water. Once the body is clean, it is wrapped in fresh shrouds before being placed in the coffin for burial. During the thirty minutes or so that it takes to prepare the body, volunteers refrain from speaking – doing so only if absolutely necessary to perform the
work in which they are engaged.

Of course, this is an oversimplification of the process, but it does give a general idea of what’s involved. For further information about our soon-to-be relaunched Chevra Kadisha groups, please join the online
meeting that Cantor Heller and I will host on 24 March – details are on the back page of Our Congregation. If you then think that you might be interested in volunteering, I invite you to email me or to contact the synagogue office. After this, we will hold a couple of training sessions, in which you’ll learn about the process in more detail. We will then hold a final session during which volunteers will practice
on a mannequin. Once you feel ready, you’ll have an opportunity to participate in your first official
preparation with me and/or Cantor Heller.

I encourage you to keep an open mind and look out for that first informational meeting. Whether you’re retired or just starting out in your career; whether you have many demands on your time or are looking for something to do, taking part in the Chevra Kadisha will not ask too much of you and will add much meaning and purpose to your involvement in the Belsize community.

Sincerely,
Rabbi Botnick

A question answered: Rabbi Gabriel Botnick introduces a new format for his regular column

Dear Rabbi,
I recently attended an interfaith wedding which was officiated by a rabbi. I know some rabbis and
synagogues will do this, while others won’t (including Belsize). I’m hoping you can help me understand why this is and what goes into deciding whether or not such ceremonies would be permitted.

Sincerely,
Altarly Confused

Dear AC,
I completely understand why you might be confused about this inconsistency across synagogues and ministers. On the surface, there doesn’t really appear to be any difference between marriage ceremonies where both partners are Jewish and where only one is. But what’s really going on is the understanding of and approach to Jewish laws and customs – a tension which resides in both the philosophical and theological realms.

In Jewish law (Halakhah), a person can only fulfil the performance of Mitzvot (commandments) if they are obligated to perform them in the first place. For instance, as Jews, we are obligated to hear the Shofar blown on Rosh Hashanah. Therefore, only someone who is Jewish can blow Shofar for the community, as that person would be equally obligated to hear the blasts as those in attendance at services. While someone who isn’t Jewish is more than welcome to attend services (and even blow Shofar for themselves at home), we would never expect or invite them to blow Shofar for us at the synagogue.

The same idea applies to a Jewish wedding, which includes a number of blessings that are applicable only to those who are Jewish. So if someone who isn’t Jewish were to recite any of these blessings, it would be no different than them blowing the Shofar at synagogue. Another way to think of this is in the inverse: a Jewish person can go to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve to enjoy a beautiful, spiritual experience, but they would never attempt to participate in Communion, as that is a rite reserved solely for those who are baptised Christians. Of course, every faith tradition has its own nuances, but the principle of reserved rituals is widely shared.

Where things get a bit more confusing is that there’s only one way to get married in Judaism: through the ceremony with which we’re familiar. But in Christianity, there are actually a variety of marriage rituals depending on the identities of the couple. For instance, in Catholicism, there are three types of weddings: between two baptised Catholics (which includes mass); between a Catholic and another Christian (which can take place in the church, but doesn’t include mass); and between a Catholic and a non-Christian (which can take place in a church or elsewhere and doesn’t include mass). So while Catholicism (and other faiths) offer ways to marry members of their faith to others, Judaism simply doesn’t have a formal
religious framework for interfaith marriage.

And now things get really confusing: if Judaism doesn’t offer a way to marry someone Jewish to someone who isn’t, how is it that we all know of Jews who’ve had interfaith weddings officiated by a rabbi?

This all boils down to how that rabbi views Halakhah and whether or not they consider it to be binding. In Orthodox and Masorti Judaism, rabbis understand Halakhah to be binding and therefore will only act in accordance with the law. Of course, there’s a wide spectrum of how rabbis might understand and interpret the law, but they all adhere to the basic legal principles of our tradition. In Reform and Liberal Judaism however, rabbis do not necessarily consider Halakhah to be binding. This is why such synagogues and rabbis might be okay with offering interfaith weddings – because they don’t feel bound to the letter of the law and might instead prioritise their own personal conscience or communal needs over Halakhah.

Of course, everyone is free to do as they wish – and I understand the desire to include Jewish elements in
interfaith ceremonies – but I worry that doing so could unintentionally treat our tradition as a cultural accessory, rather than as a lived faith.

Although I don’t perform intermarriages – and it’s Belsize policy not to do so as well – there are still a number of ways that we ensure that couples of mixed faiths can feel welcomed by, and included within, our community.

For instance, I still meet with couples to help them talk through what it means to get married and build a family together. I might recommend having a private, civil wedding at a registry office and then having someone who is important to them both conduct an emotionally meaningful and personal ceremony at a later point, (even if just a few hours later. Then, after they’re married, we often call the Jewish partner to the Torah for an Aliyah, after which I offer them and their non-Jewish spouse a blessing as they set out on this exciting new stage of their life’s journey. At Belsize, we recognise and celebrate the diversity of our community and strive to make everyone feel valued and included.

While I realise our approach might not be a perfect solution for everyone, I believe that it allows us to honour both our traditions as well as couples’ wishes.

I should add that many of my colleagues and I have been having conversations for a while now, trying to determine whether or not there are other ways to approach this question. So far, no consensus has been reached, but I believe what we’re currently doing is already a huge improvement on the past.

Most importantly, I want non- Jewish partners to know that even if I can’t perform their wedding, I can still be their rabbi and Belsize can still be their community. I’ll tell you, we have a number of students in our Cheder where one of the parents isn’t Jewish and yet that parent is still an integral part of our
community.

Best wishes,
Rabbi Botnick