Once settled in the school, I discovered that it was no ordinary Jewish day school. Talmud Torah Edmonton was about to turn 100 years old. We had just left a wonderful congregation in Toronto that had marked it’s 50th anniversary and I had gotten quite involved in the celebrations. I’m a big fan of collective memory and milestone anniversaries are a great opportunity to stop and reflect on how we got here and all the memories that were created along the way. I haven’t always been so nostalgic, but I think my mother’s long struggle with dementia made me realize the importance of memory – and using it while you have it.

So, here we were in a 100 year old Jewish school and I’m right into it – up to my elbows.

A lot happens in 100 years. Two world wars and great economic upheavals are the back drop to an evolving and growing community. It’s no small miracle to be celebrating a 100 years of a Jewish school anywhere, but here in Edmonton it feels even more extraordinary. Don’t get me wrong, Edmonton has some great people and institutions in the Jewish community, but it’s a small Jewish population relative to, say, Toronto or Montreal. Like, 50 times smaller. It’s just a bit surprising and rather remarkable that this community of 5,000 Jews is home to one of the oldest Jewish schools in Canada, the oldest Jewish day school in Canada, and the first Canadian principal of a Jewish day school in Canada.

As we gear up for the gala festivities surrounding the 100th year of Talmud Torah School, I am volunteering on the organizing committee and providing support for a few web sites (see tt100.ca and 100years.talmudtorahsociety.com) and lots more. I’m trying to understand why these events are so important for me to get involved in. True, my kids are students at the school – but it’s more than that.

I’m involved in TT100 because I think I owe something to the many people who came before us and paved the way to a 100 year Jewish history in Edmonton. And the best way for me to pay that debt is to get involved and pay it forward – toward the next 100 years.

The high holy days are now over. I greeted their passing last evening with the same relief I feel when I walk out of the dentist’s office with another 6 month reprieve. Thank God, or whoever makes these so-called holidays, that I don’t have to do this again for another year.

With this new Jewish year come many changes in our lives. The biggest change for me involves my transition back into working life. Not that I haven’t been working from my home office on a variety of projects, while managing the day-to-day needs of my family. And loving it. But I’ve found something else I love to do too – and I need to do it.

So, we’ve hired a new caregiver who will live with us. This changes everything. Many of those things that need to get done to support a family can now get done without my direct involvement – cooking, cleaning, caring for kids, sick days, etc. This frees me up to work, travel…and chauffeur. Our caregiver doesn’t drive. I’m sure it will feel good to be needed.

The twins have entered grade 3 and begun the transition to tween-agers. Every day beings new growth and a step in the direction of independence. It’s exhilarating to watch and also terrifying. I fear both for them and for myself, getting older and less relevant with each passing day. Perhaps I overstate it a bit, but our kids become a daily reminder of our passing youth, don’t they? I watch as they grow up and change into more mature little people and I can’t help but see them as a mirror on my own aging. Yikes. Let’s change the subject…

Maddy is evolving into a lovely young woman – as if there was ever any doubt. I’m constantly asked how she’s enjoying university to which I offer my stock reply: she’d be nuts not to love it. Newfound independence, coupled with an abundance of social opportunities and intellectual freedom – what could be better? I remember my university days fondly and, while my situation was a bit different, the underlying truth holds: university is a supreme privilege and should be characterized by the pursuit of pure learning and knowledge. Learning comes in many forms and much of it occurs outside the classroom. Maddy is doing fine and if she’s like the rest of us she won’t realize how good she has it until it’s gone.

This very same weekend on which Jews seek to atone for our sins, we also give thanks secularly for our great blessings.

I believe this deeply, but perhaps it’s easier to do so when I have the best of a lot of things. I have my health – and my hair. I have a loving family to care for – and who care for me. I have a wife and partner who works hard and enables me to be who I am.

So, as we transition into the next phase of our lives and the season ahead, I try to remember to be thankful for what I’ve got.

June in Edmonton is, in a word, extraordinary. The weather is finally superb. Twilight happens between 10 and 11 pm. And everyone, partially in response to the first two points, is in elevated spirits. This feeling of elation coincides nicely with my own disposition to love the month of June for a wide variety of reasons.

I awoke this morning to a lovely story in the Edmonton Journal about a BBQ we held last Sunday. It was the kick-off event for Talmud Torah’s 100th year. I’ve gotten very involved in the TT100 activities because it just seems amazing to me that one of the oldest Jewish day schools in Canada is right here in Edmonton. And it’s a tribute to the profound dedication of all the students, parents and teachers that have come before us that we are here today to celebrate such a beautiful community school.

What I loved most about Todd Babiak’s article was that he captured the true essence of Talmud Torah school – diversity. It’s not always obvious to those outside the Jewish community, but often what Jews truly have in common is their diversity. Some of us come from other parts of Canada and the US; others from Israel and Russia. Some of us attend traditional congregations; others are devoutly progressive. Some of us know all the prayers and speak Hebrew; others are learning both from our children. Some of us keep kosher; others are rethinking the whole concept of a dietary code. Even among our closest friends in the community, there are often as many differences as similarities in practice and understanding of the tradition. Yet, there’s a unity in our diverse relationships with a common heritage.

All of this came to the fore today at the Torah Ora ceremony in which my own twin grade 2 students graduated. The class sang, danced and recited several prayers before each child gave a short speech upon receiving their own copy of the Tanakh – the Hebrew scriptures consisting of the Torah (five books of Moses), the Prophetic books and other Writings. This ritualized rite of passage was important for all of us. For the kids, they were so excited to show off their knowledge and be the centre of communal attention. For their teacher, he got to show off his own hard work in a beautiful expression of devotion to his students and indirectly their parents and the community. And for the parents, we got to sit and watch our tiny, sweet bundles of joy cross that threshold into tweeny pre-adolescence. (Ugh. How I loved the phase we are leaving.)

I did not attend a Jewish day school when I was growing up. I was a product of the public school system and my kids were going to be too. We’d get our Jewish identity at home, at the synagogue, in youth groups and summer camps. Then, we moved to Edmonton and visited Talmud Torah and saw all the advantages of a community school – this community school, in particular – operating within the public school system and it was clear where we wanted to land in Edmonton.

In the (almost) two years since arriving, we’ve become very involved in the school. I serve on the board of the Talmud Torah Society and I sit on the steering committee for the TT100 celebrations. (I’m also the Mayor of Talmud Torah for any of you Foursquare users.) I am proud to be a part of a community organization with such deep roots in this great city.

However, I am most proud of my twins for embracing their identity and acknowledging their gratitude to their teacher Moreh Ari whose own passion and enthusiasm has filled them with inspiration and shown them the joy of learning.

So, if you’re interested in following along, here are their speeches.

If you had trouble hearing the speeches, here is the priceless handwritten text that each of them prepared. I swear that neither me nor my wife provided any help to write these speeches. Both kids expressed gratitude to their teacher and Ben even gave a shout out to his “peers” for helping him “earn” it. (Where does a grade 2 kid get language like that?) Ella, of course, has always been told she can be anything she wants and do anything in Judaism that boys do. She has wisdom and compassion beyond her years and she would make a great rabbi.

In the meantime, some background on why this issue – what we eat and don’t eat as Jews and why – seems to be coming to a point recently for our family.

First, our children attend a Jewish day school where they are being taught dietary traditions, while being surrounded by real-life examples of Jewish dietary practice. The gaps between the former and the latter can be large, prompting the expected questions from inquisitive youngsters who don’t miss much. I am often at a loss to rationally explain our own family’s dietary customs, let alone explain why other people eat what they do. And despite assumptions to the contrary, Jewish dietary practice – even within the broad movements of Reform, Conservative and Orthodox – show wide variations.

Our family’s approach to kashrut observance has evolved based our personal histories. I grew up in 1970s Reform Judaism, a time when kashrut was not terribly popular, even scorned, as a communal practice among liberal Jews. We observed no kosher laws, with the exception of trying to eat matzah for the duration of Passover. I still remember awakening to the smell of bacon on Saturday mornings. So, when I met my wife Leigh-Anne and we chose to make a Jewish home together, her suggestion that we try to maintain some kosher observance in the home made sense on the surface – yet felt strangely foreign.

Thus, we adapted our own set of rules. There was to be no pork or shellfish cooked at home, nor consumed anywhere else. We would attempt to not consume dairy and meat in the same meal – so cheeseburgers were out. Chicken presented an unusual dilemma, for while it was technically meat it was clearly not meat in the same sense that kosher law forbids cooking a calf in its mother’s milk. Chickens, after all, do not produce milk. So chicken became its own distinct type of meat in our home, not of a species that produces milk and therefore not subjected to the milk/meat separation rules of kashrut. Hence our predilection for chicken tacos with grated cheddar cheese and sour cream. But I digress.

Lately, for reasons that are not entirely clear, our status quo surrounding dietary practice in our home has started unraveling. Suppressed longings – whether for good bacon or a fresh lobster – may be playing a part. But so too is a growing aversion to tradition for tradition’s sake. As I look at my communities and the broader world around around me, I see an unsettling degree of entrenchment in tradition. This takes the form of orthodoxies and fundamentalisms and extreme interpretations of traditions that I don’t see serving my interests as a tolerant moderate, an open-minded liberal and a committed egalitarian.

And then there’s the simple matter of logic and common sense. Here we are at the beginning of the 21st century facing a changing global climate, a deficit in social and economic justice and numerous significant threats to the very food production system itself.

If I am what I eat, then what should I be eating – and why? This is the question every human being should be asking themselves – Jew and non-Jew alike. This is not the time to be eating as you always have for tradition’s sake day-in and day-out, without questioning the ethical implications of your actions. Considerations of our own personal health and the health of our life-supporting ecosystems should be at least as important considerations as those of our traditions.

No matter what we choose to eat, we need a rationale – which is precisely what kashrut has been for Jews going back many generations. But to what end? What overarching purpose or social good does traditional Jewish dietary law serve?

Going forward, we face new challenges – as individuals and human cultures - requiring new dietary guidelines and rationales. I feel like I need a new kashrut.

The service was in honour of Debbie Friedman (z”l) who died suddenly over the past weekend. Debbie was many things to many people – a giant of contemporary Jewish music and liturgy. Her songs can be heard today in synagogues around the world, across denominational divides, in homes, at Jewish camps and youth events. Her music has become part of the Jewish liturgical canon and inspired liberal Judaism to embrace the feminine spirit within our tradition. At her roots, she was a folk musician who inspired generations of Jews to seek God through song.

I did not know Debbie that well. I had met her on several occasions and was part of a very wide circle of people who grew up with her, sang with her and were inspired to sing with her. Indirectly, she inspired me to pick up a guitar and sing, so for that alone I owe her a great debt.

Today’s experience of a live, online memorial service felt almost miraculous. It was the closest thing to being there. I could almost see my friend Paula, who had flown to California immediately upon hearing of Debbie’s passing, sitting in the front row at the synagogue. I cried when they cried – I laughed when they laughed.

At it’s peak, over 7000 mourners tuned in to the online memorial service. At first, there were the typical comments: “my screen is black” and “picture is good, but no audio”. Then, people watching online started to chat: Where’s her partner? How did she die? Was she gay? Of course, this prompted the “shushers” to shush, but the chatters continued chatting. Some pointed out that you could turn off the chat – unlike at actual shul – if it bothered you. People can be so stupid sometimes – even in these times. The streaming was a bit choppy in parts, but overall I was grateful to hear any of it.

Touching eulogies by Debbie’s friends and colleagues, interspersed with musical performances by lights of the Jewish musical world, the service culminated in a stirring rendition of M’Sheberach – her song of spiritual and physical healing that has become her anthem. Every voice was raised in song and there wasn’t a dry eye in the room.

For more information on Debbie and her impact on Judaism and Jewish liturgy, see the following:

• Debbie Friedman Tribute on YouTube
• Jeff Klepper on Debbie Friedman: Her music, her life
• Beloved US Jewish songwriter dies in Jerusalem Post

May her memory be for a blessing.

For me, the Christmas thing goes way back – to the formative early childhood years. Born to a Jewish father and a recently converted mother, I was raised in an era when liberal Jewish parents worried that their kids might feel left out by not celebrating Christmas like the gentile kids with whom we went to school and played hockey. And many converts will tell you that Christmas is the hardest thing to give up when they choose Judaism (here are the thoughts of one who is studying to be a rabbi).

Growing up in our house, Christmas was part of the tradition. My material grandmother was obviously not Jewish and she came to stay with us for a couple of weeks each Christmas and it was for her sake, I recall the argument went, that we celebrated Christmas. In retrospect that seemed more like a rationalization, but the reality was that we bonded with my grandmother – and my mother, for that matter – through Christmas celebrations in our home.

And let’s be clear – I’m not talking about attending church or any religious observance of Christmas. In my childhood home, Christmas meant hanging stockings, giving and receiving gifts, eating too much turkey dinner and Christmas cookies. Oh, the cookies my mother used to make. Dense little shortbread balls, loaded with pecans and chocolate chips. One bite wonders that filled my heart with such joy.

This early exposure to Christmas and the beloved memories I attach to it, leave me in a bit of a predicament in adulthood. We have chosen a different approach than my parents to raising our Jewish kids in the dominant Christian culture in which we live. We do not celebrate Christmas, nor did we perpetuate the Santa myth when they were little. (This presented some delicate situations at pre-school when our kids took it upon themselves to disabuse their classmates of the said Santa myth. Oy.)

But, when I really look closely at it, I see that I am trying to emulate on an emotional level with my children what I got from my early life Christmas experience. That is, I want them to feel a sense of joy and warmth surrounding our Jewish celebrations – whether it be weekly Shabbats and Havdalahs with dozens of screaming kids, kindling Hannukah candles and enjoying latkes, or telling stories and eating a special meal at Passover. I want them to associate the Jewish calendar, customs and food with the joy of family relationships and connection. I want to create and adapt our own family customs for these events and hope that these things – or at least the feelings – will stay with them forever.

So, here’s to Christmas for inspiring me to be a different kind of Jew.

Postscript – The Christmas Songs

Truth is, I couldn’t pick the final one, so I am including five of my favourites as a Youtube playlist for you to share with your friends.

It’s a light-hearted time of the year. You can watch a 150-strong flash mob dance to this tune on Ben Yehuda in Jerusalem. Enjoy!