Happy New Year, Rosh Hashanah and the blowing of the shofar.
Oh well, that's it for another year and what have you done another year over? Sadly John Lennon may never have stepped inside a synagogue nor was he ever spotted wearing a tallit or kippa. But tomorrow marks the beginning of the Jewish New Year and I for one will spend the next two days in the traditional state of prayer, contemplation, remembrance, reflection and deep solemnity with my wonderful family.
Of course there's time for dwelling on the lighter, happier and brighter aspects of the holiday. The bottom line though is that the Jewish New Year is a time of praying, chanting in harmony with your choir and discovering the profoundly spiritual significance of the Rosh Hashanah service with your family and friends. It happens every year and there have been 5,777 so far which means we've got plenty of historical ground to cover.
Essentially Rosh Hashanah is also a time for festivity, celebration and rejoicing among the Jewish community. It is a time to look outwards and forwards rather than backwards and stuck in a time warp. This is often a time for repentance, saying sorry, counting our blessings and being terribly remorseful. And yet of course this is not really a time for soul searching particularly if you haven't done anything morally wrong or committed the most heinous of sins.
Here in nearby Stamford Hill the chasidim Orthodox community will be gathering their closely knit communities with their equally as closely knit families and devote many a religious hour to their shuls (synagogues) with love in their hearts, a deeply felt sense of togetherness and a collective joy. Then they'll wander over to the common, throw their sins into the water and pray for the sweetest and most joyous of New Years. It is quite the most moving sight of the year in Stamford Hill.
But once inside the synagogue you're embraced by friends and family with a warmth and cordiality that is heart-warmingly uplifting and restores your faith in human nature. We hug each other tightly, pour out our pleasantries and witticisms before suddenly the shofar is blown loudly and emphatically. We stand together united as Jews, always Jews and proudly Jews. There is an unbreakable spirit that holds us together through thick and thin and always will.
My personal recollections of my childhood Rosh Hashanah are both vivid and I think quite amusing. As members of Beehive Lane shul my parents and grandparents were dedicated and loyal New Year visitors. Every year we sat in the same seats surrounded by the same people, the same stained glass windows and the delicate lace curtain that always seemed to keep the men and women apart. Surely the whole issue of gender inequality and division could be amicably resolved by sitting us together but not at Beehive Lane. Rosh Hashanah, after all, is all about integration and assimilation rather than sexism and exclusion. Or perhaps I've missed something. But oh no the women had to go upstairs while the men stayed put downstairs which in a sense makes no sense. For Gants Hill in Essex this was the time to be among our loved ones.
Just over 40 years ago I'd celebrated my barmitzvah at Beehive Lane synagogue and can still vaguely remember the slight knot in my stomach, the fluttering butterflies that accompanied me as I bravely chanted my barmitvah piece which for that time of the year was Vayera. There was a slight sense of nervousness and trepidation as I bellowed out the most high pitched of Hebrew tunes. On reflection it almost seems like an age ago which indeed it is.
I can still remember being bombarded with the presents of time which seemed at the time hilariously inappropriate and utterly superfluous to requirements. I hated Maths and certainly didn't need a lorry load of the fashionable and brand new calculators with their tiny red numbers, even smaller buttons and barely visible numbers.
Most of the assembled guests simply assumed that I'd appreciate elegant fountain pens. Phew, fountain pens. What happened there? This was nothing but outrageous presumption. Did they think I'd put away said fountain pens into my beautiful, wood panelled chest of drawers, a mahogany cabinet with ink, quill and formal letters from the House of Commons? They must have assumed that I was some aspiring literary author whose ancestors were members of Charles Dickens family. Oh for the golden age of the fountain pen.
They must have thought that- wait for it- clothes valets would occupy a much cherished place in my teenage wardrobe. But oh no the only presents that had any practical value were the ones that looked like cheques. Money was hugely appreciated and the others had very little in the way of meaning or relevance to anybody in particular.
Anyway both my mum and dad and grandparents annually turned up at Beehive Lane shul for the big get together, the regular pilgrimage. What followed next bordered on the vaguely farcical. The whole shul and the whole congregation could be probably be heard in nearby Barking and Barkingside. There was a loud and constant hum of earnest discussion that seemed to get louder and louder as the service progressed. The hum did become lower and softer eventually but there was never any variation on a theme. It was the religious soundtrack of the year and then the rabbi blared out that booming reprimand that somehow characterised Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur services. You had to stop talking immediately and remain silent throughout the service at all times and that was the final warning.
It was always hard to know what the members were talking about, nattering, chattering, whispering or endlessly engaging each other. Yet why not? This was the ideal chance for friends and family to indulge in talk about their businesses, their livelihoods, gossip about West Ham and Spurs, their opinions of those mouth watering salmon beigels in the local Sharon bakery and whether the local Maccabi League Jewish football teams would once again walk away with the League and win much coveted trophies.
This was the Jewish narrative, the Jewish way of doing things, the focal point of all communication. But who did those fussy rabbis think they were pontificating on the decencies and protocol that had to be observed on all occasions? Be quiet they told us repeatedly and severely. You'll be ordered to leave the premises if you can't keep quiet. This is a place of religious prayer rather than Petticoat Lane market but no matter how hard he tried the rabbi's learned words fell almost agonisingly on deaf ears. This was no place for babbling on about money, loss and profit figures, bank balances and the financial welfare of all Jewish businessmen.
It was hysterically funny and yet quite clearly and rightly it shouldn't have been because we were all together to pray, to ask forgiveness and follow the service. We all bowed our heads most respectfully and looked down on the endless pages of wonderful Hebrew, pages that were heavy with passages of both scholarship and truly academic commentary.
And so it was that the Rosh Hashanah service slowly wound down amid another bout of intense and admittedly confidential conversation between the members. At times it was almost as if the whole of the Beehive Lane shul simply couldn't hold back their feelings anymore but it didn't really bother me as such because this added to the charm of the day, that determination to articulate thoughts and emotions that had to be expressed now rather than later. What a brilliant festival!
Besides this was the day of days, Rosh Hashanah, when families met up once again, compared contemporary fashions, hats, suits and ties. What a day! Rosh Hashanah is a time for eating apples and honey, delicious sticky honey and apples, for the celebration of life, the acknowledgement of good and bad times, redressing balances, studying our prayer books and deciding that every moment is precious, while always congregating next to the cafe in Valentines Park during the afternoon.
Next week brings us back to our favourite day of the year Yom Kippur, the day of the 25 hour fast, of suffering, self control, discipline, more forgiveness, no eating or drinking, total abstinence, privacy, temporary withdrawal from the outside world and thinking about that world in its most sober perspective- or maybe just be grateful for health at all times. Then there's Succot, the harvest festival where the eating of the fruits of life follows logically while Simchat Torah represents that triumphant unfolding of the Torah and the Jewish knees up of wine and song. My Judaism will always be with me and never leave me. As that great and wise actor Topol once cried. L'chaim L'chaim to life.
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