Living the dream...

Happy New year! Some new ideas to chew on... Making Meaning out of Meat Brooklyn Jews High Holidays Kol Nidre, September 17, 2010 ~ 10 Tishrei 5771 Jennifer Gubitz Back home again in Indiana, I’m driving on a street just like Flatbush, and I can see the place where Shapiro’s deli used to be. What’s there now? A generic cafeteria-style restaurant. It was once the site of the deli that my grandfather frequented religiously for his daily newspaper and coffee. On our visits to see him, we’d drive directly from the highway to Shapiro’s deli. This was before cell phones, but we knew exactly where to find him. I loved nibbling at my mom’s corned beef sandwich alongside a cup of matzoh ball soup at a place where everyone knew my Zayde’s name. Even a few years after his death, we could stop at the deli and the staff would recognize us as Morris’ family. To my surprise, when I stepped off a plane at the new Indianapolis airport, I was greeted by a Shapiro’s Deli kiosk. I love that deli ...

Jews don’t talk enough about God…so here is a go at it - that was part of something for school but could at least set you off thinking... This blog has been dormant for some time and its not clear if it will be entirely rejuvenated, but I would love to hear your comments in the meantime... This I believe… My future sister-in-law asked me over Thanksgiving if I believed in God, and I was hesitant to say yes. Something about it just didn’t seem entirely right. I felt like I needed to say “Yes, but” or “Yes, and here’s how…” But I also felt guilty saying “no.” My classmate Kim will tell you after sharing a hotel room with me – that the first words out of my mouth at 7am in the morning were: “God hates me.” I have a humorous theology based on “serentripity,” (when the trains are in perfect sync with one another and wait for me across the platform,) weather patterns (when it rains in NYC, God truly hates me,) and a default life soundtrack that compels me to sing Avinu Malkeinu on a regul...

Though the following was written way back in October for Rosh Hashanah , the Jewish New Year, and Yom Kippur , the Day of Repentance, it still seems appropriate to think of the same themes as we begin a new year in the secular calendar. In light of the war going on in Gaza, the sermon also reflects for a moment on Arab and Israeli coexistence in the most unlikely of places. May we see such a day in the near future. Happy New Year! *** The Rabbi of Nemirov had a strange habit. Every Friday morning he vanished and was gone for hours. Then suddenly, just in time for Shabbat, he would reappear. No one knew where he went. A whisper went among his disciples that the rabbi actually ascended to heaven for a few hours, communed with God, and returned. One new student, a bit of a skeptic, could not stand the mystery and desperately wanted to know where the rabbi really went each Friday. One Thursday night in winter, the young man sneaked into the rabbi's house. He climbed under the rabbi...

I remember this day seven years ago. Less than two weeks into freshman year of college, I awoke to someone pounding on my door. Turn on the TV. Turn on the TV. Whether from the haze of being woken abruptly or in general disbelief that such an event could occur, Shira, Lindsay and I sat and watched the news accounts of a terrorist attack on the World Trade Center in New York City and the Pentagon in DC. It was frightening no doubt and Shira was frantic to get a hold of her family who lived in the Washington, DC, area. My childhood friend Josh instant messaged from Israel – can you get a hold of Rabbi Stein? A close friend to Josh’s family, Rabbi Stein was not answering his cell phone. Ultimately, Rabbi Stein was safe but simply unable to use his cell phone due to overloaded cell towers in NYC. I spent hours trying to reach my brother’s best friend who had recently moved to NYC. Luckily he was late to work that day. Sadly, a friend’s father perished. ** Seven years ago was in so...

I was never into bird watching. Bluejays, Ravens, Cardinals - they look one and the same to me and generally draw beer drinking, hot dog eating millions to stadiums around the country. Yes, it's true that I generally associate birds with baseball, Edgar Allen Poe (the Raven) and also bird poop splashed on my windshield. We also have our political affiliates - hawks and doves - that divide up our country in times of war. With my Picasso inspired vision of a hawk with red wings and a dove with blue wings, I think about the bar in Washington, DC, Hawk & Dove , where young politically minded capital hill staffers gather around pints, no - kegs, of beer, forgetting that their debauchery may someday ruin their presidential aspirations. Hawk and Dove is also a pair of DC comic superheros . They are dressed similarly to my previously mentioned image and I wonder- what was the color of the dove which brought an olive branch to Noah, waiting in his ark? Although I've worked in t...

I'm back in America - and already working at the summer camp where I grew up...Click the hyperlink to check out a post I wrote for the camp blog . Although I'm back in the states and this blog was initially dedicated to my year in Israel - I do plan to keep updating it. If you would like to unsubscribe from it - you can do so by unsubscribing from feedburner.com via the email that sends out the blog syndication. If you have trouble, let me know and I'll help (I am not offended if you want to unsubscribe.) Have a wonderful week! Jen

On wrestling As a child, I was never much of a hugger. I preferred to neither give nor receive much affection from my immediate family, except for from my mom’s mother – Bubbe Schwartz. I’d like to say that I remember vividly that we were inseparable, although nearly 20 years later I cannot be sure if my memories are accurately my own or if they are simply reconstructions of snippets of information I was told. My Bubbe died when I was in second grade and in her absence, I eventually learned to hug other people. Ironically, a strong and warm hug is something I have begun to crave throughout my adulthood. When parting ways with my parents before a long flight or leaving my siblings after a short visit – I sometimes return three even four times for one last hug. It has to be just right and until it is, I feel unable to walk away without looking back. A lecturer at school suggested, “To be engaged with Israel is to be both a hugger and a wrestler.” As I have spent the past few weeks...