The article below is part of Rabbi Joshua Caruso’s Yom Kippur sermon that he gave called “Lead Me Into the Mystery”. Rabbi Joshua Caruso was one of the rabbinical students that came from NYC to Congregation Sha’are Shalom. Please read his sermon as he tells us what Congregation Sha’are Shalom has meant to him. We wish him luck as he goes on his sabbatical.
On this Day of Atonement, we not only ask forgiveness for the ways in which we erred in our actions, but we ask forgiveness for our inaction. When did we allow fear and indifference to stymie our courage? When did we accept our limitations instead of pushing through them? When did we shy away from the open door simply because we were afraid to step through?
I thought about all of these things when I first approached temple leadership about the prospect of going on sabbatical, marking my first ten years here at Fairmount Temple. I am so grateful to share in this amazing congregation with all of you. I love our temple for its rich history and dedication to issues of social concern. I love our temple because of its commitment to learning and intellectual rigor. And I love Fairmount Temple, because you have welcomed my passion for our faith and for living out the prophetic call to do our part in repairing this world. I am grateful for the trust you have invested with me. Thank you for giving me the privilege of being your rabbi.
Dayenu…that would be enough. But I also enjoy raising my children in Greater Cleveland, surrounded by loving extended family. Moreover, it’s so darned convenient to be a Jew here! One must make an effort to leave the cozy confines of the eastern suburbs (I always bring my passport when I plan to cross the Cuyahoga!). As I took note of this, it became increasingly clear that I have lived in places where Judaism has always come easy. Perhaps, I thought, I have taken it for granted.
Raised in New York City, it seemed like – Jewish or not – everyone had a basic understanding of Judaism. Moreover, I was under the illusion that all of America knew what a Jew looked like, and that every community had its fair share of Jewish inhabitants.
This myth was shattered in my third year of rabbinical school. I was given the chance to serve Sha’are Shalom, a small community of 35 families. Nestled in Charles County – a good 45 minutes south of DC – the congregation had its hands full just to survive. I would visit once a month, riding along the Amtrak Northeast Corridor Line. A congregant would pick me up in New Carrollton, and get me settled at their home, where I would lodge. As any urban-dwelling native New Yorker can attest, the feeling of being away from the city (and not having taxi cabs available at the ready) left me anxious. As I rode in that train, I certainly had the feeling I was being led “into the mystery”.
The small congregation rented out a church on Friday nights and Saturday mornings. I remember leading little more than a minyan of Jews in prayer in one of the larger rooms the church used as a classroom. At my first time leading prayer, I bowed reverently for the Barechu prayer, only to be greeted upon my rising by a poster that read, “Jesus Loves You” (‘Note to self’, I voiced internally, ‘temporarily remove the ‘Jesus’ poster before the next prayer service’). It was then that I realized I wasn’t in Kansas (or New York) anymore. “Jews in Church” stories notwithstanding, I discovered a community with an overflowing generosity of spirit. At Sha’are Shalom, religious school was taught by volunteers who acquired the teacher’s edition of the Hebrew primer to learn how to teach it. The oneg Shabbat desserts were homemade and potluck and supporting the fund raiser meant selling kosher hot dogs at local fairs. The big fundraising push was for the building fund. Everyone contributed – even the kids, donating money from their piggy banks. It took the community more than ten years, but they finally got their temple built. I was honored to attend the dedication ceremony. The tallis I wear today is a handmade gift made by one of the temple founders.
While this temple community was inspirational for all it did to support itself – I found myself transformed by it – using cognitive muscles I did not even know I had. My favorite memories were not necessarily during services; they were the Shabbat meals I spent with these families and the late night conversations with founding members of the temple. It was there that I understood what it meant to want something so much that it becomes a center of your life, a core piece of who you are. Every brownie baked for an oneg, every dime saved by a five year old, and every community member who learned Hebrew (and even how to chant) so another verse of Torah could be read proved to me that building community required more than a well-groomed synagogue, a well-appointed staff, and a caterer who provided a delicious oneg each week. While I would never have labeled myself as one of those “know-it-all” students Rabbi Chernick referenced, I certainly had no idea what Jewish America looked like.
How many more Jewish communities in America are like Sha’are Shalom? Moreover, how does one summon up the resolve to maintain Jewish life when there are few people or resources to support it? While I can intuit some of the answers to these questions, I can also imagine that there will be answers I will only be able to find when I sit in living rooms, in synagogues, and open spaces where Jews come together to keep their faith going. I want to learn how they summon the humility and courage to forge on when communities have a dearth of Jews, or when traditional Jewish living is not an option. And maybe in the process I will discover how Judaism in America has been sustained, and how these lessons can inform my work back here in Beachwood. There are the doorways I seek to traverse, and THIS is the aim of my upcoming sabbatical.