The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want two photo IDs.
I went to Tashlich this afternoon. For those unfamiliar with Jewish custom, it's where we go to a body of water (in this case, a creek behind the religious school) and symbolically cast off our sins. We used bread crumbs - some branches of Judaism use lint from their pockets, I've heard of all sorts of things.
Parking was a problem because the family service was going on. It turned out to be a nice walk on a pretty day, with none of the smoke or smells I'd have if I were walking to shul in DC or NY. Another blessing to count.
There were at least ten armed policemen at the door. Welcome, Happy New Year. I had to go to a table outside the Temple offices and leave my driver's license to be xeroxed, and had to fill out a form. The woman looked at me funny after checking my license. The photo's about 16 years old because I haven't had a ticket in forever and they don't make you get a new license unless you've had a ticket, so they've been recycling the same photo since the '80's. I wish I looked like my driver's license, and how many women do you know who can say that?
Anyway, I got my pass, and also passes for Yom Kippur so I won't have to go through the same thing again. The number on my pass will match the number on the form I filled out.
And that's just to go to Temple. It's not to get on an airplane, not to buy a gun, not to enter a restricted area of a government building. I'm having to register my religious affiliation. ::blinking at the Constitution::
I asked if they're doing this for Sabbath services. "I don't think so. I hope not," the lady said. She looked genuinely sad. There wasn't a point in giving her a hard time. It's not her policy, not her decision.
So I wandered to the creek with the rest of the congregation and all the kids from the earlier service. I couldn't hear the cantor above the conversation, mostly the kids but also the adults telling the kids to use "indoor voices."
Why did they need to use ANY kind of voices? We have a lot of communal response, plenty of chances to speak aloud. And don't get me started on people who chew gum in the House of the Lord.
So we stood there, surrounded by the police, and the cantor lead the service. He spoke often of the shame of mistreating our Muslim neighbors because we, of all people, ought to know better. I saw people look away. It frightened me.
I'm in the air-conditioned, messy comfort of my home. I'm alone, it's quiet, I don't want to try and practice again because it's probably going to be even worse than this morning.
No music. Just the a/c and Audrey purring under the chair.
Parking was a problem because the family service was going on. It turned out to be a nice walk on a pretty day, with none of the smoke or smells I'd have if I were walking to shul in DC or NY. Another blessing to count.
There were at least ten armed policemen at the door. Welcome, Happy New Year. I had to go to a table outside the Temple offices and leave my driver's license to be xeroxed, and had to fill out a form. The woman looked at me funny after checking my license. The photo's about 16 years old because I haven't had a ticket in forever and they don't make you get a new license unless you've had a ticket, so they've been recycling the same photo since the '80's. I wish I looked like my driver's license, and how many women do you know who can say that?
Anyway, I got my pass, and also passes for Yom Kippur so I won't have to go through the same thing again. The number on my pass will match the number on the form I filled out.
And that's just to go to Temple. It's not to get on an airplane, not to buy a gun, not to enter a restricted area of a government building. I'm having to register my religious affiliation. ::blinking at the Constitution::
I asked if they're doing this for Sabbath services. "I don't think so. I hope not," the lady said. She looked genuinely sad. There wasn't a point in giving her a hard time. It's not her policy, not her decision.
So I wandered to the creek with the rest of the congregation and all the kids from the earlier service. I couldn't hear the cantor above the conversation, mostly the kids but also the adults telling the kids to use "indoor voices."
Why did they need to use ANY kind of voices? We have a lot of communal response, plenty of chances to speak aloud. And don't get me started on people who chew gum in the House of the Lord.
So we stood there, surrounded by the police, and the cantor lead the service. He spoke often of the shame of mistreating our Muslim neighbors because we, of all people, ought to know better. I saw people look away. It frightened me.
I'm in the air-conditioned, messy comfort of my home. I'm alone, it's quiet, I don't want to try and practice again because it's probably going to be even worse than this morning.
No music. Just the a/c and Audrey purring under the chair.