Two things can be true at the same time

“Two things can be true at the same time” is the second best piece of advice I ever received in therapy. I kept coming back to this truth as I served on the final Board of Trustees of Rodef Shalom Congregation
It has been a slow process. Sitting in lengthy board meetings discussing report after report, it was hard not to think, “Enough already, let’s jump in.” And yet, it feels like a quick jump with a huge splash. Different Shabbat service times, different Torah study styles and many other shifts that feel like abrupt disruptions. It is a delicate balance of small details and high stakes; echoing our eagerness to innovate along with our apprehension of change.

There is loss felt across the pews. It would be odd if there was not a sense of sadness at an end. Generations of families and newcomers alike have celebrated simchas, mourned loved ones and connected to their Jewish faith in their legacy shuls. This feeling of connection demonstrates that we care and value our communities, which is also what makes building a new community exciting. These past months have very much felt like we are in a dark chrysalis unable to fully envision what is to become, what swirls and colors will fill our wings, but knowing there is a fluttering future ahead.

Everything is at once new and yet also steeped in tradition and history. It’s hard to remember that as Reform Jews, and especially Reform Jews in Pittsburgh, we have been doing this duality of work between ancient and modern since before the steel mills. German Jewish settlers were as eager to shed their immigrant status as others but not abandon their faith; our yinzer ancestors encouraged English from the bimah and accepted treyf at the dinner table. Confirmations took the place of b’nai mitzvahs and back again. Tunes have changed; organs have gone out of fashion. How would an 1850’s congregant feel about the guitars slung across many cantors’ chests, or women on the bimah?

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Less far back, in March of 2001, a younger version of myself was preparing to become a bat mitzvah at a Rodeph Sholom (notably in New York City, and with a “ph” spelling). My Torah portion was a dry one for a teenage girl, Parshat T’rumah — the building of the Mishkan. It was difficult to get invested in cubits-by-cubits and other construction-like instructions. But as is typical of Torah, it has a way of sticking with you, revealing new interpretations and connections.

In many ways, Beit Kulanu congregants are doing the same work as the Israelites in Genesis. We are building our Mishkan. Torah tells us that Moses is instructed to gather building materials from the Israelites, noting that “you shall accept gifts from every person whose heart is so moved.” (Genesis 25:2) Our gifts are neither gems nor cloth, but rather our hearts. Our hearts have been moved to do the work; the long meetings, the feelings of loss and excitement, the anticipation of what’s next, are all gifts to create our modern Mishkan. Our hearts are in fact the building blocks.

“It’s not about you” is the best piece of advice I got from therapy. Beit Kulanu is not about me. It is about creating a place that God might dwell in for generations to come. PJC

Carolyn Frischer is a congregant of Beit Kulanu, who served on Rodef Shalom Congregation’s board during the process of its unification with Temple Sinai.