I grew up going to services. A lot of services. I was adept at counting the ceiling tiles, reaching into the thousands as my grasp of numbers grew more sophisticated. The melodies became part of my life soundtrack; I hummed them as my mind wandered during the rabbi’s sermon.
One of the great paradoxes of being an American Reform Jew who chose to make aliyah (move to Israel) is that the whole concept of majority and minority is turned on its head. One the one hand, as a Jew, I am culturally and ethnically now part of the majority.
Picture this: The setting was a dining room on the East Coast on Friday, October 31st, sometime in the late 1990s. It was dinnertime, and the father of the family was seated at the head of the table while the mother scurried back-and-forth between the kitchen and the dining room.