He talked about moments in life that call to mind unity and others that call to mind distinctions, as Havdalah does.
The flush of the Flurry Festival of Traditional Music and Dance is still with me, several days after returning home.
Beyond the thrill of the top-notch music, the excitement of the dance, the risk of taking dance lessons with hundreds of strangers, the trials and tribulations of stuffing five to a room, there was a break in the action for Havdalah.
The Flurry is an annual dance festival that takes place in Saratoga Springs, N.Y., Presidents' Day weekend. This year was the 27th. While this event might not appeal to all, it is a slice of paradise for me.
I revel in everything about it, particularly the feeling of spontaneity in the formation of jam sessions.
This year, I decided it might be a beautiful place to share one of my favorite moments in the Jewish week, Havdalah. Havdalah is a celebration marking the division between Shabbat and the weekdays. Coming after dark on Saturday evening, it pulls the themes of the Jews' 25-hour day of rest into the beginning of the week. The word Havdalah means separation, but it's a bit of a paradox, since the celebration actually serves as a reminder to carry the sweetness of the sabbath into the work week.
Thus, a flame is lit on a candle of two or more wicks, often four representing the Four Worlds of the Kabbalists. After blessing wine or grape juice and inhaling the aroma of sweet spices, one raises one's hand to the flame to see the reflection of it in one's fingernails and then watches the shadows one's fingers cast on the palms of one's hands. This calls to mind heavenly light and the sacred work of one's hands. At the end of the service, the flame is extinguished in the wine in a sizzling and dramatic moment.
I contacted Rabbi Jonathan Rubenstein at Temple Sinai, which happens to be located downtown directly across the street from the City Center where the Flurry is held, to see if he would allow his synagogue to be used for Havdalah. He obliged enthusiastically and offered the use of his Havdalah set from Israel. At the Flurry, I spoke with my volunteer crew leader about the best place to advertise. He suggested a long hallway, and I taped up about a dozen posters on windows announcing the event.
Prior to going to the Flurry, I used pastels to represent the night sky and the three stars that signify that it is time for Havdalah on a Saturday night. When I arrived at Temple Sinai, a rambling old house that is listed on the National Register of Historic Places, there were already four people waiting outside. No stars were visible. It was snowing lightly.
The rabbi opened the synagogue and offered the use of the sanctuary.
We were about 25. Someone noticed percussion instruments stacked up neatly on the synagogue's piano, and suggested they be used. In many traditional congregations, musical instruments aren't used at services. Reform congregations generally take a more liberal view toward the use of musical instruments. There were tambourines and hand drums. The rabbi used the largest one, resting it between his knees.
After one person told a traditional story of Havdalah, I asked the group to sing my two favorite rounds. Then the youngest woman among us held the candle aloft, I've been told it's traditional to have a girl raise the candle as high as she hopes her husband will stand. The rabbi corrected me, "Her partner," he said.
And then we sang the service.
After the candle was extinguished and we sang Eliahu Hanavi (Elijah, the prophet), a song of hope that is also sung at Passover, the rabbi asked if he might teach.
He talked about moments in life that call to mind unity and others that call to mind distinctions, as Havdalah does, and he asked those in attendance to name contrasts.
It was a simple, lovely and accessible teaching.
After the service, he mentioned that he and his wife, Rabbi Linda Motzkin, with whom he shares rabbinic responsibilities at Temple Sinai, had been invited to teach at Smith College recently. I asked what they had been teaching. He then asked the group a general question: "Would anyone be interested in a tour of the building?"
Many stayed and got a look at the project the two have named "Bread and Torah." There's a phrase in Pirkei Avot, one of the more accessible books of the Talmud, "No bread, no Torah." In other words, physical and spiritual nourishment go hand in hand.
The rabbi walked us into the kitchen of the synagogue and showed us his professional ovens, his hand-sanded butcher block table, his collection of pottery bowls hailing from nearby and across continents.
In addition to being a rabbi, he founded and directs a not-for-profit bakery out of the Temple kitchen, Slice of Heaven Breads. Each week the bakery provides challah and other baked goods to the public, with a crew that includes volunteers from the synagogue and the community at large, as well as people with special challenges such as mental illness and developmental disabilities.
The rabbi explained that his wife was working on a Torah scroll that she is making from scratch, using parchment made from deerskins provided by local Adirondack hunters. This endeavor, called the Community Torah Project, is designed to give individuals and groups the opportunity for hands-on participation in the making of a Torah scroll and has thus far involved over 1,900 people in various steps of the process.
He showed us the panels of Torah his wife, who is a soferet or scribe, is creating from parchment she is preparing from deerskin hides. Motzkin began making parchment because the only way she felt she could get kosher parchment for her Torah scroll with integrity was by making it herself; she did not want to purchase parchment under pretense from traditional Jewish parchment makers who would not knowingly choose to provide materials for a Torah written by a woman.
When I came home, I related this story to friends.
"That's a rabbi," said one.
Another made this observation: "The lesson for me," she said, "is that you can always find community provided you reach out and take the first step."
Jane Kaufman is editor of The Republican's just-released "Our Stories: A History of Jewish Immigration in Western Massachusetts." She can be reached at
jkaufman@repub.com