A Meditation On Challah

A fabrengen is the Hasidic form of storytelling designed to bring a group of people into a state of spiritual passion and deepened understanding of spiritual practice. Here I will paraphrase a tale told by Rabbi Goldie Milgram with musical accompaniment by Cantor Sol Zim of Temple Beth Zion in Brooklyn, New York.

There was once a young rabbi known for his ability to decipher the most complex and puzzling aspects of Torah. He agrees to marry the daughter of the wealthiest family in town. As is custom, her father agrees to buy them a home and pay for all of their expenses, so he can continue his scholarly work and they'll want for nothing.

But then the family's fortune changes and the rabbi is told that he'll have to seek out a congregation that needs a rabbi, as his wife's father can no longer support them.

"Oy!" moans the rabbi, for he knows that the overwhelming duties of a pulpit rabbi will interfere with his studies.

He sends out inquiries and a small rural community, Yenemsvelt (Yiddish for "the middle of nowhere"), comes back with the best offer. But the offer comes with limitations. Besides the rabbi's living expenses, there is no other available funds for the small synagogue. There's not even money for the challah bread for the oneg (gathering and reception following Shabbat services). So, the rabbi informs his wife that she'll have to make the challah herself.

The rabbi works hard at that first service, muttering through the prayers and presenting a very scholarly sermon. So when he sees the burnt and tattered challah loaves his wife has made, his heart drops. But the community doesn't seem to mind. A festive evening with a special happiness emerges.

Oneg means "delight." Its Hebrew letters are actually the reverse of nega, which means "plague." The Friday night Shabbat services are a mystical wedding between the community (as the bride) and God (the groom) who provides spiritual rest and nourishment. Thus, they are relieved from the plagues of the week and opened up to the blessings of Shabbat.

Word spreads and attendence at the little synagogue grows. Soon, the rabbi tells his wife that they have the funds to once again buy their challah from the local bakery. That next oneg, he gazes upon two beautiful challahs. He's so overjoyed, that he fails to notice the lack of spontaneity and spirit among his congregation.

Believing he's on the right track, he works harder on his sermon. But attendence and discontent grow. Members start murmering and taking bets on how far into the sermon the rabbi will get, before his retired predecessor (who always sits in the second row) will fall asleep.

Attendence continues to decline and soon the rabbi informs his wife that she must once again bake the challah for Shabbat oneg. That next week, there lie the two burnt and bedraggled challah loaves. But the rabbi notices a return of life among his congregants. People look to one another as if to say "ah yes, this is why we come."

That next Friday, the rabbi sets aside his sermon writing to observe his wife's making of the challah. "Today, you are the rabbi. Show me how you make the challah."

"What's there so show?" she questions. "A little flour, some water and yeast and much patience during the rising."

"Show me," he insists.

"Well, dear, you've missed the first portion of challah making. The dough is almost finished rising. Now, one takes it and begins to raise the sparks of energy which give the challah its life. Here I transform this plague of a week from nega to oneg, delight."

She gives the mound a good punch, releasing all of the air from the risen dough.

"This pounding is for the hard time the congregation president gave you about the length of your sermon...And this is for having to sell your favorite study table to buy clothes for the kids, who are growing so fast...This is for how much I miss home....

She pounds the dough a few more times, expressing disappointment with each one.

"And this is a prayer for all these disappointments that they might be transformed into challah and do the world a little good."

For the first time, the rabbi holds his wife as she cries. He feels his own tears and frustrations rising and lets them go also.

His wife continues.

"Now we must create three strands each, two sets, one for each challah."

She hands him some of the dough.

"These are the strands of my Shabbat meditation. As you shape the first strand, bring to mind everyone in the congregation who needs some guidance. Pray for them to see the resources all around them, for all possible blessings to become visible to them and that they receive what they need."

They each complete their first strand.

"Now, for the second strand," she continues. "As you form it, reflect on all who need healing and send a prayer to the Holy One to notice their need and ease their suffering."

For the first time since moving there, the young rabbi cries for his congregants.

"Silly husband," she says. "Look, you are getting tears in the challah! No matter, a few tears will add to its holiness."

She then divides the last bit of dough with him.

"This last strand is a meditation on gratitude," she explains. "This is where I recall with much thankfulness the many blessings that have come to our congregants this week and how fortunate I am to have you as my beloved husband and life partner. I pray that every single person in our congregation will find the type of love that we have."

"What do we do now?" asks the rabbi.

"We braid the strands, bringing our community together in blessing. Gently cover the loaves and let them rise. Now, go back to your writing, while I dress the children."

Instead, the rabbi takes his wife's hand and pulls her closer to him, humming Lecha Dodi ("Come My Beloved...").

We discussed before how Judaism teaches how to find the sacred in ordinary moments. This little tale, I believe, illustrates this point well. By her attention and care in making the challah, the rabbi's wife was able to uplift their congregation as well. Let's all seek the extraordinary to be found in the mundane moments of daily life.

Until next time....

Shmuel