At least, that’s what the point seemed to be this past Friday during a Shabbat-evening talk at my synagogue by Rabbi Stephen Fuchs, current president of the World Union for Progressive Judaism. The talk was promoted as a discussion about the umbrella organization that represents both Reform and Reconstructionist Judaism to the world–together termed “Progressive Judaism” beyond North America. It turned out to be a bait-and-switch fundraising pitch, which gave me yet one more reason to loathe having to suffer speakers on Shabbat. (Turning Friday evening into an occasional lecture series just cheapens Shabbat and the worship experience, but that’s a post for another time.)

Even after I realized we were sitting through a pitch, though, it was still uplifting to hear about the work that the World Union does internationally to raise the profile of liberal Judaism and to found and strengthen liberal Jewish communities across the globe. Or so I thought. And then the age-old Reform canards came out and once more I felt the sinking feeling that Reform’s institutional leaders just don’t get where the movement’s at anymore.

First, and early on, came the Orthodox bashing. Not just please live up to your own Jewish ethics criticisms as I’ve occasionally groused on this blog about Orthodoxy. But patented, old-school, outright us versus them in a battle for Jewish souls, those scoundrels kind of framing. The World Union had to spread the word about Judaism (not Progressive Judaism, mind you, but Judaism) because “no one else is doing it in these countries.”

(This wasn’t an isolated Orthodox-bashing incident, either. Last year my shul had a similar discussion evening with Rabbi Gary Bretton-Granatoor, the World Union’s vice-president of Philanthropy. Describing the religious divide in Israel between un-observant Jews and charedi, or ultra-Orthodox Jews, Rabbi Bretton-Granatoor said, “You’ve got the seculars on the one side and the whackos on the other.” Emphasis his, not mine.)

I wondered why Rabbi Fuchs said “Judaism” and not “liberal Judaism” or “Progressive Judaism” at key points. Because, actually, Chabad is doing it in all the same countries, and really well. The problem is Chabad is trumpeting a highly traditional Orthodox Judaism and, until the past couple of decades, Progressive Judaism wasn’t out there fostering liberal Judaism in the same places. So liberal Judaism in the former Soviet Union and in many parts of Europe that were cleansed of Jews by the Nazis during the Second World War plays second (third? fourth?) fiddle to entrenched and in many cases governmentally funded Orthodox movements.

In fact, outside of the United States and Israel where the overwhelming number of Jews live, liberal or otherwise, most countries represented by the World Union account for only a few thousand Jews each. This can cut a couple of ways. Either the small numbers in each country may seem relatively unimportant to a room full of American Jews. Or the same room might be moved by hearing real-life stories drawn from these small, few communities to entice people to donate to the World Union and help such communities grow.

Yet, after a lengthy discussion about German, Austrian, and Hungarian Progressive Jewish communities, when someone in the audience asked a simple question–How many Progressive Jews are there in Germany?–Rabbi Fuchs didn’t have an answer. Neither did the World Union’s website. As the talk continued, I spent 10 minutes searching the website on my Android phone in vain for any sort of a country-by-country breakdown of the Progressive Jewish population around the world. The numbers just weren’t there. Also absent–both on the website and in the Rabbi’s talk? Vignettes to put real names and faces to otherwise generic stories about communities in need.

Two enormous missed opportunities.

And then Rabbi Fuchs played the holocaust card. In a room full of Jews of all ages, complaining that the World Union has to “fight” with the governments of many countries to achieve the same recognition and, if available, public funding that local Orthodox movements receive, referring to Germany, he said, in an low and lethal growl, “God knows, they owe us!”

Wow. Just wow.

A little perspective. The World Union’s fight is in the first instance with itself, for being so late to the game. In the second instance, its fight is with Chabad, for being successful in claiming in these countries that Orthodoxy is the only legitimate Judaism and, frankly, for having batter marketing and outreach savvy. In no way should there be a fight of any sort with the governments the World Union needs as future partners. Cynical, jingoistic language aimed at drumming up donations just perpetuates negative, damaging stereotypes–and I doubt makes governmental partners feel any friendlier to the liberal Jewish cause.

Which brings us back to, “God knows, they owe us!” Who owes us, exactly? The adult Germans alive at the end of the Second World War, now almost completely deceased or above the age of 85? Which is just about the age range of the liberal Jews who used to respond to fiery, shame-laden canards like this.

Are Jews owed? Yes, but not in the way Rabbi Fuchs implied. An apology? Absolutely. It already happened in Germany. Restitution and return of Jewish property throughout Central Europe? The battle continues, with successes and failures. A legal channel being opened to allow Progressive congregations to receive governmental funds? As the Rabbi noted, not yet in Hungary, but in Germany, yes.

But not because they “owe us” in the goes-without-speaking manner that Rabbi Fuchs implied. Not unless we’re saying that the progeny of the people who sent our Jewish ancestors to their deaths are responsible for the sins of their fathers and mothers. Because by Jewish standards, they aren’t. What we are owed is equal recognition with Orthodoxy by governments that heard a sooner and better marketing campaign from another worldwide movement–Chabad–that is not politically entrenched with these governments. Playing the holocaust card on these terms is absolutely saddening.

The shock of hearing those words had me wondering who in the room on Friday evening would have responded positively to them? The under-40s who feel no personal emotional resonance with the Shoah beyond some family stories and a visit to Yad Vashem? The over-60s who’ve heard it all before–many, many times? Me, who felt completely turned off by the language and strategy of nearly the entire discussion?

Is this really the best way that Progressive/Reform Judaism has of trying to communicate to a room full of contemporary liberal Jews why our movement matters worldwide? Can’t our movement stand on its own two feet without having to tear into other movements–even if they tear into us–and without pulling out the most unsavory of emotional tactics?

Recently I read One People, Two Worlds, a book from 2001 chronicling a year-long email conversation between a Reform rabbi and an Orthodox rabbi about the bases for their different personal religious views. At one point, the Orthodox rabbi shared a well-worn Midrashic story about a man seated in a boat with another man drilling a hole under his seat. When his boatmate complains, the man tells him to mind his business because he’s only drilling under his own seat. The Orthodox rabbi shared the story as a way to complain that the lack of sharing Orthodoxy’s view of Jewish law by liberal Jews in his mind brings all Jews down.

On Friday evening, Rabbi Fuchs shared the same story from a liberal Jewish perspective to remind us that we’re all responsible for each other on this planet. That includes non-liberal Jews and non-Jews, too. I’d prefer a klal Yisrael–and a brotherhood and sisterhood of humanity–that someday rises together. If, in fact, we are our brother’s keeper, as the Rabbi pointed out on Friday, doesn’t our responsibility towards others include refraining from tearing each other down as we seek to elevate ourselves?

More and more I find myself thinking about rabbinical school, and I seem to be ever more keenly aware of the words and writings I encounter from rabbis of differing movements. I’m starting to wonder whether I would fit into a Reform-based rabbinic program–or whether I would want to. Do I want to be a part of helping the institutions of my movement better reflect the practices, mores, and yearnings of contemporary Reform Jews? Do I want to risk ending up stuck in the same ideological bell jar that drives me up a wall every time I read a Reform website or hear a Reform rabbi expound on “why we’re not like them”?

Except, we are exactly like them. We’re all made in the image of God. We spend our lives over and over forgetting that.

And if we’re lucky, remembering.

When the Sunday sun goes down tonight and evening is officially installed, the 8th day of the Hebrew month of Iyyar will begin. On Iyyar 8 one Hebrew year ago, my neshama (soul) finished its forty-year-long journey to rejoin the Jewish people. Happy Jew Year to me. From the day I realized what my life had been leading up to all along through the doubtless surety I felt during my conversion studies, my life on its unexpected detour to Judaism always felt like coming home.

“Amech ami, v’Elohayich Elohai…”

I vowed to myself on mikveh day last year that I would make it a point to return to the mikveh of my conversion every year to mark my unending joy and gratitude at becoming Micha’el Ben-Ami–Michael, son of my people. I’ll do that on Tuesday evening. That gives me a couple of days to think about how I felt last year after mikveh, and how my Jewish identity has progressed in the months since then.

There was an unbounded joy immediately after emerging from the waters, knowing I would never be converting again, that I had returned to my tradition. (Some Jewish thought suggests the souls of all Jews were present at Sinai, and the task of the convert is to remember that in this lifetime.) In fact, that joy has never abated. It followed on the heels of anxious wonder that overtook me the night before mikveh, on my last day as a non-Jew. It was as if I was getting married in the morning. I knew the next day would change my life. I looked forward in anticipation, but I was nervous about getting all the day’s rituals right. And I was nervous about being a good Jew.

Baruch atah, Adonai,
Eloheinu, Melech ha-olam,
She-asani Yisrael.

In the waters that marked the beginning of my Jewish life, I asked God to make me a good Jew–and threw in a plea for Hebrew skills, too. A year later, I remain struggling to find better and better ways to use a Jewish decision-making lens to manage and make sense of the intersection of my life, God, Judaism, and the people with whom I share my shul, my place of work, and my planet. That, I think, is the definition of a thoughtful Jewish life. My rabbi leaning over last week at Shabbat morning services after I chanted the blessing before reading the Torah and telling me it sounded like I was developing an Israeli accent with my Hebrew was icing.

Baruch atah, Adonai,
hatov shimcha, ul’cha na-eh l’hodot.

I have been most grateful for the ability to use Jewish practice to see the holy that is always hiding behind the ever-present mundane hours and tasks of existence. The rituals and blessings that add a layer of contemplation and connection with the ephemeral on top of everyday tasks. My inability to eat a lunchtime cookie, or unexpectedly run into a friend, or get out of bed in the morning without recognizing such everyday miracles for what they are, and expressing thanks.

They say conversion is not an endpoint, but a beginning. I can definitely say that since last year my Judaism has grown, changed, deepened, and taken me in directions I never expected that I’d ever be interested in exploring on mikveh day. A year ago I didn’t lay tefillin in the morning, pray (as close as possible to) three times a day, or ever think I’d be sitting here in a tallit katan with tzitzit that I had tied myself. What a difference a year makes.

Atah gibor l’olam, Adonai…

But if I’ve learned anything in the past year it’s that my neshama feels very connected to the traditional end of the mitzvah pool, and I no longer feel shy about the way Jewish tradition moves me. After all, I waited to be so moved for 40 years. And it isn’t a purely humanistic Judaism that’s moving me, either, where God is an impersonal force of the universe and action is the only relevant defining point of our tradition. Because I don’t think any of those things are true about Judaism or are useful bases solely around which to define an informed Reform Jewish life.

Instead, flowing from my Reform Jewish engagement with Judaism, I believe with perfect faith that an infinite Being can be things far beyond my comprehension, both the Echad of all and a deeply personal, loving, engaged presence in my life. I celebrate the radical amazement that Heschel taught me could help me jettison the need to define God’s abilities in human terms and make a leap of faith. And I will live the rest of my life with a chassidic yearning to sing out about the normal mysticism of a Jewish worldview with the power to redeem and enlighten.

Not to mention with the ability, discovered in the past year, to bake one hell of a loaf of challah. Who wouldn’t be thankful for that?

Baruch atah, Adonai,
Eloheinu, Melech ha-olam,
Shehechehyanu, v’kiy’manu, v’higianu laz’man hazeh.

I’m refraining from shaving while I count the Omer. For some people, I could end this post right there. For others, though, a little explanation is in order. The Omer is the seven-week (49-day) period which the Hebrew Bible commands Jews to ritually count in its entirety from the second day of Pesach (Passover) to the day before the beginning of the festival of Shavuot.

Much of the Jewish calendar is agriculturally based. In ancient Israel, the barley harvest began during Pesach and the wheat harvest during Shavuot. Essentially, the seven-week count was a way for the ancient rabbis (or God, depending on how you interpret Jewish law) to make sure the Israelites would know with some accuracy when to begin harvesting the wheat. (Shavuot actually means “weeks” in Hebrew.) The term “Omer” used to mean the measure of barley which would be used as a sacrifice to God on the second day of Pesach. Now it denotes the entire seven-week period.

Why a few thousand years later some Jews still keep the count–besides the fact that it’s a mitzvah (commandment), which is reason enough for most traditional Jews–has more to do with the meaning of the festivals that bookend the Omer than with the period’s original agricultural intent. During the 7 or 8 days of Pesach (the number of days depending on your denomination and location in Israel or the Diaspora), Jews relive their bondage in ancient Egypt and their redemption from slavery to serve God. During the 1 or 2 days of Shavuot (same reasoning regarding the number of days), Jews commemorate the giving of the Torah (Hebrew Bible or Jewish Oral Law)  by God at Mount Sinai.

In between fleeing Egypt and receiving the Torah, the Israelites wandered in the desert. In part, the Omer has come to symbolize the mix of anxiety and anticipation the Israelites must have felt between redemption (Pesach) and making the eternal commitment to serve God (Shavuot.) For this reason, some use the Omer as a time of self-reflection. Here’s where I come in. This Pesach, I found myself feeling unexpectedly connected to the ancient story of the people who are now my forebears, too. So I decided for the first time to count the Omer as a way to deepen my identification with my Jewish heritage and make Shavuot–usually a minor holiday in the Diaspora–personally meaningful.

Traditionally, the Omer is counted after sundown, when Hebrew calendar days begin, during evening prayers. You announce your readiness to perform the mitzvah, say a blessing, then count out the ordinal number of days and then the cardinal number of weeks and days. (For example, “Today is the 19th day, which is two weeks and five days of the counting of the Omer.”) Of course, you’re counting it in Hebrew. (“Hayom tishah asar yom, sheheim sh’nei shavuot vachamishah yamim la-omer.”)

The rabbis argued over whether the commandment to count the Omer in its entirety meant not to miss a day of the count or to make sure in the end you’ve fully accounted for all seven weeks. As a compromise, they decided it’s ok to miss an evening of counting, but if you don’t make up for it before the next evening, you can still continue counting but without saying the blessing anymore. I stand with the rabbis who felt the point was to make sure all seven weeks were accounted for, so although I’ve missed a few days of the count, I say the blessing anyway. (I hardly think God meant for the Omer to be a perfection contest.)

None of which explains why I’m fuzzy-faced.

Over time, the Omer also became a time of mourning. Specifically, to commemorate the death by plague of several thousand students of Rabbi Akiva in the first century C.E. Generally, as a time to meditate on millennia of ill-treatment of the Jewish people at the hands of others. Because of this, tradition forbids, among other things, haircuts and shaving during the Omer. I can do without the other prohibitions (on listening to music and getting married), but refraining from shaving speaks to me. It’s an incredibly tactile and visual reminder of the Omer and all that it stands for, both for me and those around me–who give me plenty of opportunity to explain why I’m growing my beard.

I’m a broken record by now noting that usually only traditional (Orthodox or ultra-Orthodox) Jews follow crunchy, detailed, highly ritualized mitzvot like this. In my previous post, I noted that’s kind of sad. Reform Jews can connect emotionally and spiritually with our history (and, you know, with God) the same way non-liberal Jews do, if only they would open their minds and hearts a little bit wider to ritual. But some of us do take a friendly, or at least quizzical, stance toward rituals like this which long ago our movement rejected out of hand, and that’s a wonderful thing.

In fact, there’s an Omer count on the homepage of the Union for Reform Judaism. That’s nice to see. However, for a movement that for two decades has claimed to be open again to ritual and tradition, the website contains not much more than a counter and some anemic background information. I’ve experienced this time and again when exploring traditional mitzvot and ritual–my movement will mention them and suggest Reform Jews delve into them, but will offer little useful information on the movement’s own homepage.

The bold is on purpose, my movement can do A LOT better in this regard. (Hopefully as it continues to transition to a new, tradition-friendly leadership, it will.) As a result, Reform Jews wanting to explore the Omer–or Tzitzit, or kashrut (the dietary laws), or any number of ritually-based commandments–have to turn to sources on the web (and off) from other streams of Judaism–sometimes Conservative sources, but very often Orthodox and ultra-Orthodox (i.e. Chabad) ones.

See for yourself, in terms of the Omer. Here are the main pages about the Omer from the URJ website and key Conservative, Orthodox, Ultra-Orthodox, and interdenominational websites. The other sites contain far more information and explanations than does the URJ page.

• Reform: URJ Homepage
• Conservative: United Synagogue Homepage
• Orthodox: Aish.com
• Ultra-Orthodox: Chabad
• Interdenominational My Jewish Learning

Actually, even Wikipedia explains the Omer better than does the URJ.

As long as a Reform Jew has a firm grounding in the basic principles and tenets of Reform Judaism, there’s nothing wrong with Reform Jews learning from Orthodox sources. And very frankly, the Orthodox and ultra-Orthodox communities are to be commended for going so far out of their way to help fellow Jews learn about ways to deepen their experience and expression of Judaism.

But why isn’t Reform doing anything like this? It’s 2012. We are no longer our grandparents’ movement. Our denominational website should more fully and clearly reflect that. I guess that’s just one more thing to mourn in the 30 increasingly furry days ahead.

Yep, that’s me wearing tzitzit. Last thing first, I’ll get to how I got to tzitzit in a minute. More germane to the Reform circles in which I run–tzitzit are controversial. There are some rituals Reform Jews rarely adopt, no matter how deeply they’ve searched their souls to determine whether individual mitzvot (commandments) have meaning for them.

But even though modern Reform has come a long way from its classically inspired tendency to reject most traditional ritual practices–from a distance, these days it can be hard to tell a Reform shul from a Conservative one–there are some things Reform Jews “just don’t do.” Although our movement demands us to be thoughtful and open-minded about the mitzvot, deeply ingrained knee-jerk reactions to ritual practices that resemble stuffy, old, or (horrors!) Orthodox Jewish practices still exist. Very often, wearing tzitzit is considered on the other side of some allegedly uncrossable line between Reform and Orthodoxy.

I’m no great fan of Orthodox religious haughtiness [Ed. note--though I'm coming to think such haughtiness is evenly balanced by the unfortunate tendency of Reform Jews to misrepresent our own movement--see quote below] , but I am a Jew in awe of our multiple millennia of tradition. And as a convert (as any Jew-by-birth will tell you), I tend to take that tradition a.) pretty seriously, and b.) without a lifetime of inter-denominational baggage to weigh me down. So I don’t categorically exclude commandments just because other denominations of Judaism tend to include them a lot more than does my denomination.

Denominationalism, itself, deserves a note here. I am a member of a Reform synagogue community. I pay dues; I sit on committees; I attend worship services. I read a lot about Reform Judaism during my conversion studies, and happen to agree with the movement’s stance on halacha (Jewish law)–that individual Jews have a right and a duty to determine how to intersect with the mitzvot themselves.

However, I also researched all streams of Judaism and rituals and styles of observance both near to and far from normative Reform. In fact, I consider myself a Jew first and foremost–a Jew who happens to agree with the Reform perspective, and who believes it’s my responsibility to financially support my worship community of choice. But I think the breadth and beauty of Jewish tradition is too amazing to for anyone to let others define their Judaism for them, to choose to squeeze their Judaism into a neat and tidy denominational box. If I didn’t maintain a synagogue membership (with Rippity Ryan), I guess that would make me a “post-denominational Jew.” Except I do think that denominations and synagogue communities matter–quite a lot. Just not enough to serve as an intermediary between Adonai and me.

So…what are tzitzit anyway? The Torah (Hebrew Bible) commands Jews to tie tzitzit (stringed fringes) to their four-cornered garments as a way to remind us of all the other commandments–so we’ll remember to (drum roll) follow them. Four-cornered garments aren’t common anymore, so many traditional Jews were a special garment called a tallit katan (small prayer shawl) in order to have somewhere to affix tzitzit.

There are many interpretations of how to do all this, with styles, sizes, materials, methods for tying the tzitzit, whether they should include a special blue thread, and whether to wear the tzitzit–and even the tallit katan–under your clothes our atop them all differing depending on whom you ask. None of this is germane here (though watch this terrific Punk Torah video for a short and groovy discussion of all this.) The bottom line is after a lot of forethought, the mitzvah definitely spoke to me.

In fact, the commandment concerning tzitzit is quoted in the V’ahavta, sort of the central statement of Judaism commanding Jews to always keep God’s mitzvot top of mind (immediately following the Sh’ma, Judaism’s central declaration about the oneness of God.) Reform siddurim (prayerbooks) removed the paragraph concerning tzitzit for many decades. It returned in the most recent Reform siddur, Mishkan T’filah, but only as an option, and only if you choose to turn the page to find it.

Well I turned the page and found it, and thought about it. I looked for examples of Reform Jews who chose to wear tzitzit. The best example by far (though mind you, there are very few examples) was David A.M. Wilensky, the noted, 20-something, east-coast Reform blogger and writer. He wore tzitzit–though no kippah (as he notes, kippot are merely a tradition but tzitzit are a commandment)–for several years before ceasing the practice in 2010. He did so because he felt commanded to do so, and he received a fair amount of criticism for it, too.

Similarly, David and I both have a love-hate relationship with the Reform powers-that-be, and an unquenchable thirst for Jewish knowledge and exploration. But it takes guts to wear tzitzit in a Reform community. David had them. I decided to find out if I did, too.

I’ve spoken to many Reform Jews who casually dismiss mitzvot they find onerous, outdated, or “Orthodox” by saying one version or another of the following sentence:

“We don’t have to do that. We’re Reform. We can do whatever we want.”

Problem is, that’s not true. Reform Judaism allows individual Jews to make decisions regarding following the mitzvot for themselves, unlike other denominations which consider all mitzvot binding and only allow denominational or other rabbinic authorities to decide whether and where any wiggle room might exist. But Reform Judaism never tells Reform Jews to discard the mitzot out of hand. What Reform Judaism really asks is for Reform Jews to examine the mitzvot and determine how they speak to us, what meaning they hold, how deeply they move us, in order to decide which ones we want to–or for some us us, which ones we must–accept and adopt.

I turned tzitzit over and over and found in my heart a sense of being commanded to respond to the commandment to don them. That’s the best I can explain it, though I think that’s a pretty good explanation. So after much coaxing, Rippity and I made a special trip to Snootier-Than-Thou-Orthodox-Judaica-Store Rosenblum’s in Skokie and I bought a tallit katan. Two, even.

I wore them at work last week, to synagogue Friday night, and to a synagogue karaoke event on Saturday. They were an amazing topic of honest and interested conversation at work, which touched me. They earned a couple of sideways stink glances at synagogue on Friday night. By Saturday night, no one cared (or was too tipsy to notice.)

How I care is another story. I’m not sure if this is a long-term thing or a passing exploration, which is a valid place to be with a new mitzvah. Tzitzit could go the way of my former dietary restrictions, or it could stick around like my beloved tefillin practice. Only time, my heart, and Adonai will tell. At any rate, my cantor was kind enough to record the V’ahavta paragraph concerning tzitzit in trope (cantillation melody) for me so I could add the paragraph to my personal morning prayers.

One thing I can say already is be careful how you wash your tzitzit if you go cheap like I did. Discount Neatzit are no match for delicates laundry mesh bags. It’s just as well. One thing I did learn before I double-wrapped my unraveled tzitzit and placed them in the trash (yes, just like double-wrapping taken challah before tossing it) was that stringy strings don’t cut it for me. I definitely want to explore a more traditional tallit katan and more robust strings. Which may be a clue about where my heart is concerning tzitzit after all.

That doesn’t make me Orthodox–and Orthodox isn’t a dirty word, either. It makes me a thoughtful Reform Jew engaging with the tradition that belongs to us all. That doesn’t mean I won’t continue to get the stink-eye from some people if I choose to continue to wear tzitzit (hanging out, thank you very much.) If anything, I think what it does mean is that Reform Jews have a right to explore all Jewish tradition–and a duty to follow their hearts where that tradition leads.

If you’re a traditionally minded fellow Reform Jew reading this, Jewish tradition is your tradition. All of it. Let your love for it guide you. May the example of your thoughtful intersection with our tradition be the best answer–and an inspiration–for Reform Jews everywhere who may be silently yearning to explore beyond the confines of what some uninspired folks may suggest is normative Reform Judaism.

A great place to start is, simply, turning the page.

What a difference a Hebrew year makes. Last year, I blogged about the anxiety that planning for and observing my first Passover holiday triggered in me. Would I get everything right leading my first seder? (I did.) Would I be able to make it through eight days without eating chametz? (I didn’t.) My last-day-of-Pesach meltdown last year taught me a lot about the meaning of the holiday. If it was supposed to be easy, we wouldn’t observe it. If the Israelites had been able to pop over to a bakery before the Exodus, they would have. I’m sure they didn’t like unleavened bread any more than we do today.

But I sure didn’t expect to look forward to Passover as much as I did this year. Given my Iberian bloodline, adopting Sephardic minhagim (practices) means neither Ryan nor I avoid kitnyot (foods like peas, beans, and rice that remind many Ashkenazic Jews of the five unpermitted grains of passover)–so even without wheat, oats, rye, barley, and spelt in our diet, we don’t have it as bad as many of our Jewish friends when it comes to Pesach. Trouble is, though I’m an experienced home cook, last year I didn’t plan.

This year, our koshered Julia Child’s beef bourguignon, kishke, gourmet gefilte fish, feather-light matzoh ball soup, sweet-potato-pineapple tzimmes, flourless chocolate cake, and highly good-wined second-night feast is being followed by a better-planned series of rice and meat dishes throughout the week. Admittedly, we did inhale a terrific matzagna (exactly what it sounds like), I may have spend much of last night making homemade crispy caramel filled, chocolate-ganache covered, toasted-almond topped egg matzah, and there will be savory matzoh brie eaten before the eight days are over. But unlike last year, we like actually being able to go to the bathroom more than once a week to make every single meal matzoh based.

I let go of my Haggadah constipation, too. Last year, even using the maligned but convenient 30 Minute Seder, I wrote and used Haggadah notes that stretched out for a mile. This year, I reigned myself in and let our second-night seder–my first led as a fully official Jew–take whatever directions the spirit of the evening warranted. Ryan, synagogue friend Rachel Y’all Quit, Mr. & Mrs. Welles Park Bulldog, work friend Beth Peanuts, and I rocked 30 Minute Seder out to five happy hours, feeling many aspects of our connection to the Exodus story–and to each other–along the way. (Add half an hour of waiting time to that total–I cooked for 6 p.m., forgetting I told everyone to arrive at 6:30!)

The previous night, Ryan, Rachel, her hubby Brian Beanstalk, and I enjoyed a far more traditional first-night seder at the home of my surrogate Jewish family in West Rogers Park. I’m learning I prefer a more modern-language Haggadah to use, but I do enjoy reading older, more traditional Haggadot–and they definitely make me think about the experiences of my Jewish friends and elders in decades past. The past four of which if things had been different, I might have spent attending seders and using those same, traditional Haggadot.

As Chol Hamoed–the weekdays of the festival–pass by, home-brought care packets of pesadic snack food is keeping me away from the bakery beneath my office building. (And, really, it wouldn’t need to be Pesach for Joyva ring jells and nut crunches–which even as a gentile child I grew up eating in New York City–to turn my head from chametz-based yummies.) That’s a far cry from last April’s scraping the cheese off the forbidden office pizza.

All in all, a year later and instead of the angst, I’m relaxing into Passover and feeling a lot more connected to the festival’s traditions. Not to mention to a hundred generations of Jews who came before me, and to four thousand years of history. I flashed on those generations in a humbling, inner gasp at festival services on Saturday morning when the cantor read from the Torah the commandment relating to Chag Hamatzot (the festival of the matzah.) I already felt commanded. But in that moment on Saturday morning, I felt at one with my leaven-challenged Israelite forebears. I felt among them.

On Saturday night, I learned that I wanted to remain among them for a lot longer than 30 minutes, too.

Chag Sameach!

When I was still a relative Chicago newbie, I blogged about the dangers of living your life in a box. In many ways, this is a follow-up to that long-ago post. In my pointed post about Jewish blogger bullying last month, several commenters decided I had an axe to grind with Orthodox Jews. One person who actually got where I was coming from, Rabbi Michael Zadok, left an eloquent comment on the matter. Not that he agreed with my approach to the matter, and not that I make any apologies for my post–because neither one of those things is the case–but R. Zadok challenged me to be sure in my heart of the difference between criticizing an individual and criticizing all of Orthodox Judaism.

But as with all Jewish questions, there’s a lot of middle ground there. As a Reform Jew, I have a completely different basic conception of and relation to the mitzvot (commandments) than would an Orthodox Jew. I see them as arriving from God via man and I don’t see them as absolutely binding; Orthodox Jews see them as arriving from God directly and as absolutely binding. This is where relations between our two denominations start to look a lot like interfaith relations between Christians and Jews–there are fundamental doctrines that neither one of us can accept and remain in good stead with our denominations of choice conscience.

It is this differing take on the mitzvot, combined with differing rabbinical opinions on the matter, that leads Orthodoxy to reject other Jews as Jews. How can you be a halachic (Jewishly legal) Jew without accepting the full yoke of the commandments? Other Jews (Reform, Conservative, Reconstructionist, Renewal) differ on this matter, and of course that’s an enormous understatement.

But essentially, Orthodoxy believes that only Orthodoxy’s perspective makes you a valid Jew, and other Jews think that Orthodoxy’s perspective on the matter is meaningless. As someone raised in a Catholic household and surrounded by Christian perspectives through my parochial school years, to me, Orthodoxy’s view feels a lot like Christians telling Jews that if they don’t believe in Jesus they’re going to go to hell. From one side’s perspective, it makes sense. From the other side’s perspective, it’s untrue and insulting.

If I have an axe to grind with Orthodoxy, it’s that. But it’s my small part of a persistent argument between entire Jewish denominations, and I’m far from the first or last liberal Jew to express my exasperation over it. In that regard and based on my own denominational take on the mitzvot, I certainly don’t apologize for sharing that exasperation publicly.

Last month, several commenters implied that anyone criticizing a person who was justifying their actions with their denomination’s halachic perspective was, in effect, criticizing their denomination as a whole. And I can see how someone in the Orthodox community might see it that way. But saying “you can’t say I’m wrong because I and/or my denomination believe(s) I’m right” is not a defense. It’s self-immunizing your actions to criticism.

From a Jewish perspective, no one’s immune to criticism–not even God. In that light, I don’t think it’s valid for anyone to claim their actions to be above reproach based on their denomination’s interpretation of Jewish law. In my previous post, that was my point. You can live by whatever relationship to mitzvot your heart desires, but you shouldn’t use your perspective on the mitzvot to claim that you’re immune to criticism.

All of that said, that doesn’t mean Jews can’t learn from each other and be inclusive of each other, regardless of denomination. I fundamentally believe that our Jewish souls are primary. We are first Jews before we are denominational Jews. I may be critical of Orthodoxy, but it isn’t as if I think I fit into a neat little box in Reform Judaism either–and I have yet to find many Jews who have found a perfect denominational fit, either. How could we possibly? People and their needs regarding their relationship to the ineffable are much more complicated than mere ideological boxes.

As a Reform Jew, I cannot accept another denomination’s halachic perspective. But that doesn’t mean I don’t lay tefillin, say brachot, refrain from working on the Sabbath, daven daily or better, go to bed with the Sh’ma on my lips, or look to God for my guidance. It doesn’t mean I won’t ritually remove chametz from my kitchen this Passover. It doesn’t mean I ever leave the house with an uncovered head, yearn to wear tzitzit, or (unlike many Reform Jews), don’t feel left out that I’ve never had a Lubavitcher kid ask me to lay tefillin.

It doesn’t mean that I don’t wish I had more Orthodox friends, or that I don’t have a strong urge every now and then to attend a Chabad service, or look for guidance and learning to clergy outside my own denomination. It doesn’t mean that I don’t wish from the bottom of my heart that my own denomination was more deeply supportive of tradition and ritual than up to now has been the case, or that Orthodoxy was more accepting towards all Jews.

And very fundamentally, it doesn’t mean that I think anyone who isn’t a Reform Jew isn’t a Jew.

Because all of that is the case. I truly believe we have more in common than our denominational boxes have taught us to think we do, and my heart is more at home in tradition than some of last month’s commenters may believe. And I do not believe our tradition teaches us to delegitimize other Jews. If you refuse to peer beyond the edge of a box, how can you build a bridge?

Last week, something sad happened in the Jewish blogosphere. A major, inter-denominational Jewish voice who happens to be a publicly proud Orthodox convert was silenced due to online bullying by fellow Orthodox bloggers.

Longtime blogger Chaviva Galatz, formerly the Jewish blogosphere’s Kvetching Editor, has essentially deleted her blog, removing years of back posts that delved into her personal journey as a Reform then Orthodox convert. Why? Because another Orthodox convert blogger, Skylar Curtis of the You’re Not Crazy blog, and various commenters decided that Galatz was (actual Orthodox craziness alert:) bringing shame upon other Orthodox converts by telling the truth publicly about her life, her observance, and her feelings surrounding her own Judaism.

Uniquely for an Orthodox blogger, Galatz shared the detailed joys and sorrows of her emotional journey through conversion(s), Jewish learning, marriage, divorce, joining and leaving a traditional community, and inter-dating. Along the way she spread a not inconsiderable amount of Jewish love, kindness, open-mindedness, fair-handedness, and most of all, friendship, nationally across the Jewish blogosphere–and across denominational lines. For Galatz, Klal Yisrael was defined by the crowd of souls present in person or in spirit at Sinai, not as defined by the increasingly arbitrary and misguided strictures of organized American (and increasingly batshit crazy organized Israeli) Orthodox religious leaders.

I’ve blogged many times about Orthodoxy’s attitude that it somehow controls and/or is the only valid interpretation of Judaism. (See especially: Free to Be Jew and Me.) That is, of course, bullshit. But to the most small-minded of Orthodox, like Curtis and her cohorts, it’s obvious fact. And Hashem help you if you deign to disagree. Actually, if you disagree and you’re not Orthodox, I’m sure Curtis couldn’t care less. In the eyes of Jews like that, you just aren’t Jewish.

If you’re Orthodox, however, you’re squarely in the target sights of Orthodoxy’s self-appointed bullies. There is no want of a better term here, either. I’ll let the situation back that up. For the past several months since unexpected circumstances forced upheaval in Galatz’s life, she has been the recipient of online and offline (including blog comments, Facebook comments, IMs, emails, etc.) of pointed, judgmental, fear-mongering messages from other Orthodox Jews–including Curtis–begging, blasting, criticizing, shaming, and, in some cases, name-calling Galatz in a very sick attempt to get her to live her life quietly.

Mind you, not to live her life differently–just to live it quietly. For such Jews, it’s okay to go “off the derech” (Orthodoxy’s extraordinarily loaded term for a Jew who stops following the absolute letter of the commandments)–as long as you don’t let others know about it. Why? So that you don’t bring what such Jews conceive of as “shame” onto your community, your family, and for Curtis (who has been very publicly vocal about this point), onto other Orthodox converts.

The hypocrisy in that attitude speaks for itself and has nothing to do with living a Torah-inspired life. Neither does the judgment with which such sentiments are usually shared (as if the person sharing them is Hashem and not human), nor the fear and self-suppression they seek to engender in others. Or, really, the fear under which Jews who share such opinions must spend their days living, themselves. How sad.

But more than that, how fucking unacceptable. Those who bullied Galatz off the Internet have acted far from Jewishly here. You want to talk about shame and illegitimacy? I happen to think any Jew who would attempt to bully any other Jew into living their life as a silent automaton in order to make themselves feel somehow safer or more legitimate in their own Jewishness is about as far from Judaism as you can get.

Skylar Curtis, this means you. Congratulations on your recent Orthodox conversion. In my eyes, you were already Jewish since you had already converted Jewishly in a different denomination. Also in my eyes, your online bullying makes you a lot of things, but, Jewish is not one of them. But I will tell you what one of those things is that I think you really are.

Shameful.