Barukh Ha Ba: A Welcome to Our New Mahzor
Rabbi Deborah Wechsler
I am one of the very last holdouts it seems. On my bedside table are only books and magazines – some from the library, some from amazon or the bookstore. But there is still no kindle, no ipad or tablet. My parents tried hard to convince me on my last birthday but to no avail. I have what I hope will be a life long romance with books and at least for now I am not willing to end that relationship or even to be unfaithful.
How could I give up the pleasure of falling asleep with a book spread out on my chest, its comfortable weight resting on me like a newborn? How could I get through a long summer Shabbat afternoon denied whatever book I was reading on my electronic device? How could I lose the feel of the raised letters of the cover in my hands, fingers tracing the words? How could I abandon that feeling of joy when handing over a beloved book to a beloved friend inviting them to share my interest and pleasure?
Books have been among my most loyal and loving friends and those of you who are readers understand when I say that there are certain books with whom (with which) I have a relationship. Books that have stayed with me throughout my life, loving companions that saw me through different experiences and stages of my life so far.
Perhaps that is why I find myself touched and moved by our decision this year to adopt a new Mahzor, a new High Holiday prayerbook to use in our worship services at Chizuk Amuno. The sacred books in our lives – the siddur, the humash, the mahzor – we have relationships with them. Whether we encounter them every day, every week or every year, they mediate and shape the tenor of our conversations with God and with each other when we come to the sanctuary. They are reflections, not just of the times in which they are written or the religious milieu of the editors, they are also reflections of us. These scared books accompany us on our sacred journeys, they see us through joy and loss, through personal milestones and individual challenges and questioning. They are truly the re’im ahuvim the loving friends, of our spiritual search and religious life.
At no time is that more true than when it comes to the High Holiday Mahzor. A prayerbook used for such a brief time during the year – only three days, two days of Rosh Hashanah and one day of Yom Kippur, and yet, the Mahzor is so deeply resonant with meaning and memory. It contains the prayers of a guilty, grateful heart. Of a woman (Hannah) loved, but unheard. Of a father (Abraham) devoted but distant. Of a prophet (Jonah) unwilling but effective. Of a God disappointed but longing. And it contains us, its readers. It is the book that has witnessed our lives over the course of decades of Rosh Hashanahs and Yom Kippurs and in so doing becomes a part of us.
Until now, my High Holidays have been spent with two Mahzors. The Mahzor of my youth was the Silverman mahzor. Rectangular and black, its gold lettering rubbed smooth with age. The God of the Silverman mahzor was also the God of my youth - ancient, reserved, male. Its language full of Thou arts, and what shall we say before Thees. It gave the High Holidays their gravitas and starched white formality. Each year I came into a sanctuary and was greeted by its imposing, and over time, worn black cover. As a young girl and as a teenager, it was the Silverman mahzor whose pages I turned as I looked shyly at the boy in the row next to me, as I fought with my brothers over the arm rest, and as I spent my last high holiday living in my parents’ home. For the first two decades of my life, the Silverman Mahzor bore witness to my prayers, the hopes, dreams, embarrassments, regrets and challenges that I brought to it on 20 Rosh Hashanahs and Yom Kippurs.
The next two decades of my life were spent with the Harlow Mahzor. Black changing to grey, a hint of color being brought into my religious life. Grey, softer than black, adorned in silver instead of gold. The God of the Harlow Mahzor was also the God of my young adulthood – personal, challenging, magisterial. Its language with God addressed as You, brought a personal meaning to the high holidays, gravitas now lightened by connection. As a young woman and a young rabbi, it was the Harlow Mahzor whose pages I turned as I spent my first high holidays away from family, as I worked at my first job, and as I first led a congregation. Its pages are marked with notes of different congregations, different sanctuaries – rise here, skip this, sing this here. For the past two decades of my life, the Harlow Mahzor bore witness to grey hair and babies, to my prayers for all of you and my prayers for myself. It’s pages were more worn as I became more worn.
And now the year begins with a new Mahzor in my life and in all of our lives – Mahzor Lev Shalem. Color entering the world of our High Holidays, what once was black then grey has shifted to orange. A color of fall and change, of ripening and maturity. I expect and hope that it will be the Mahzor of the next two decades of my life, the mahzor of my middle age. The God of Mahzor Lev Shalem is still a different God – ungendered, intimate, in search of humanity, listening. I don’t yet know if this will be the God of my middle age, but I hope so. Its language full of Adonai but also Yous, its God is glorified and merciful. As a woman in my 40s and 50s I will turn the pages of Mahzor Lev Shalem as I go through menopause and as I experience the bnei mitzvah of my own children. For now this Mahzor is smooth and unmarred but over time its pages will become wrinkled with age as will we; the orange and gold of its cover caressed until they fade. To be replaced in time by a new expression of our most intimate prayers for the New Year.
But for now we welcome it into our congregation and into our lives. Barukh Ha Ba. We pray that it brings us insight and comfort, that it bear witness to our joys and satisfactions, that we return to it each New Year with longing and the unique pleasure of seeing an old friend once more, that it helps us to grow in strength and in spirit, bringing us le’eilah u’le eilah, higher and higher as we return on Rosh Hashanah to God and to one another. Amen.
