I “married into” my synagogue community in late 2002 because my partner was a longtime member, and because we’d made some really beautiful friends there. And for quite a long time, maybe a decade, it worked well. The community was small enough to be agile and spontaneous, while still having a system of leadership that made room for questions and opposing points of view to be held at the same time.
The rabbi was a thoughtful, compassionate human being who loved learning, loved music and fought for justice.
The community did not have a cantor or music director, and that was a conscious choice on the part of the founding families, sustained by leadership over the years. They wanted the musicians to be members who volunteered their time to select music and lead services for the community, because the community was founded upon the ideals of collectivism and volunteerism. At the time, only the rabbi and the education director were paid. Leadership was shared between a Steering committee and the rabbi.
As the community grew over the years, Steering approved the addition of a paid office manager, and some years later a Program Director (which in other synagogues would be called an Executive Director, but this community felt language was important and did not want to give too much administrative power away, so Program Director it was, and is).
It was also decided that lead musicians, who were being asked to do more with planning and leading music on Shabbat and holidays, ought to be paid a little something for that extra work; and that the community had grown large enough that some kind of music leadership was called for. So the Steering Committee created an art time position called the Music Coordinator. They posted a job description online, and. I was approached personally and asked to apply.
I went ahead and applied, even though my music career as a touring artist was just getting off the ground. Who knew? Maybe this job would pay enough that I could reduce my touring greatly in favor of more local work. I was quickly disabused of such notions at the interview. The hiring committee admitted, when pressed, that it had not written a job description. (“We hope you would write it for us as you went along,” one committee member told me, “but we can only pay you for ten hours a month so you’d have to do everything needed within that amount of time.”) Further, when I asked for the chain of communication — an important thing in a cooperative organization — none of the hiring committee could answer me. Finally, when I asked how much musical autonomy the Music Coordinator would have, they got annoyed.
I left the interview hoping desperately that they’d choose someone else, which they eventually did.
If I had to summarize how things went after the Music Coordinator was hired, I’d have to say that music at the shul floundered under her leadership because she was being required to do the job with one hand tied behind her back; and she was not the type to make waves, which I suspect is exactly what the Steering Committee was looking for in the first place.
During her tenure of seven years, several things happened:
— the community grew by leaps and bounds, one of only two synagogues in Portland to show such growth while others were shrinking.
— some musicians were getting older and no longer as interested or available to commit to leading service music on a regular basis. I asked Steering committee members repeatedly if we could talk about how we might recruit younger members to learn how to lead, so that the remaining handful of aging music leaders would feel as burdened, but no one was interested in having those discussions with me. I also asked about bringing more music into the religious school, a parent-taught model with an Education Director who was not keen on having more music during the limited religious school time.
— I was touring more, and therefore less available to make music at home. My name and my music were slowly becoming more recognized as I landed artist residencies across the country, even while I could not find Jewish gigs near home.
— the stipend that music leaders had been paid for coordinating the monthly Shabbat service was suspended by Steering, because half of the Steering Committee apparently hadn’t known we were being paid. (It was a hundred bucks a month, not a fortune but for someone living close to the ground it helped a lot.)
— the rabbi felt that lead musicians ought to be paid, so he began paying them from his discretionary fund instead, until Steering found out and ordered him to stop. Since the rabbi had already announced his intention to retire, he didn’t make a fuss.
— the community hired a new rabbi. It took multiple postings of the job in order to attract enough resumes, because few rabbis wanted to have to share so much of their leadership with a committee. In the end, we got three resumes. One candidate pulled out before her visit, another had his visit and everything was okay until we discovered that he couldn’t read Hebrew fluently, and the third candidate had his visit fall during a bad winter storm that kept a significant number of members away that weekend.
The third candidate also leaned heavily into Jewish Renewal practices like meditation, chanting and contemplation, which made him a hit with the older generation of former hippies who constituted the majority of members at the time — and who possessed the most social capital in the community. The third candidate was chosen by the Steering Committee and confirmed by a vote of the congregation, a vote which required members to be physically present to participate in. Since I was out of town at a Shabbaton that weekend and no one could vote electronically, I did not participate in the vote. And it wouldn't have made a difference.
— the outgoing rabbi was given a wonderful, loving sendoff that I was happily able to participate in. The new rabbi, a lovely human fellow with a gentle demeanor, was warmly welcomed into the community.
— the Steering committee sent out an announcement that, going forward, everyone would be expected to donate their gifts and skills as part of their expected participation in the synagogue community. They also sent a few longtime musicians out to interview all the other musicians individually, to find out how the synagogue could best support their efforts. When they came to talk with me, I restated my ideas about more actively recruiting among younger members, offering trainings for new music leaders, and bringing more music into the religious school so that kids could be invited to consider taking on musical roles in the community as they got older. I also said that I thought we needed professional music leadership to coordinate all of this, and that this person needed to be empowered to make musical decisions and they needed to be paid appropriately for their expertise and for their work. My concerns fell, predictably, on deaf ears.
— during this time, I met a few times with one of the co-Presidents of the congregation to discuss my music ideas and concerns. In response, she said that she loved my music, and saw my giving of my music as no different than a lawyer who might donate pro bono work to the community. I gently explained to her that a lawyer who earns a salary and benefits can well afford to donate an hour or two of his time, while a musician only gets paid when they play, and the difference in compensation was so great that such a comparison simply couldn’t be made. She politely disagreed, saying it would “all come out in the wash.”
I was quietly incensed at her show of ignorance and classism, and we never spoke of it again.
— during this time, the congregation had grown to well over 400 families. In response to this growth, the community leadership unveiled a new system of governance that relied heavily on an expanded number of committees, subcommittees and umbrella groups that would coordinate everything and report to Steering. There had been perhaps eight or ten committees when I joined in 2003. By 2017, there were easily almost thirty. Early in my membership, it was still possible to come up with an idea and just do it, Ad hoc. With the new system of governance, there was no longer room for such spontaneity. All ideas needed to be considered in committee and, where necessary, approved by Steering before they could be implemented.
— In response to this new reality, and deeply frustrated by where things stood with music making, I pivoted and thought up a simple gathering of Adult Coloring, basically a time when folks could gather in one of the rooms at the shul and color in adult coloring books while soft music played. It would be a nice way to grab an hour of relaxation and enjoy the company of other members in a gentle, mellow space.
I contacted the office to schedule a room, and was told by the volunteer on duty that there was no longer any room for ad hoc planning. I was referred to the appropriate committee chair. I called her and shared my idea, expecting a simple yes or no. Instead, I was told I’d need to write up a proposal and bring it in person to the Spiritual Life committee, who would consider it and then in turn send it up the ladder for final approval by an umbrella group, or by Steering, or however it worked now. At that point, already wounded by the way music leadership had been handled and by how my concerns had been dismissed, I gave up. I told the committee chair she could keep the idea as hers and do what she wished with it.
Not long after that, the Program Director, a friend, asked to meet me over coffee. The purpose was so that she could relay a message from Steering: stop trying to change the culture. It’s not going to change, this is the way forward and either you’re on board with it or you’re not.
My friend was uncomfortable having to relay the message this way, and I felt badly for her. I thanked her and asked if we could change the subject and enjoy our coffee. We were both glad to. She remains a friend and I am very glad for that.
— by early 2019, I was still leading Shabbat music an average of three to four times a year as a way of maintaining some connection with my friends in the shul. I was also trying to raise money to attend a Jewish musical leadership conference in the Midwest. I didn’t have enough money, so I approached someone on Steering to ask what the process was for applying for some help. I was told there was no money for such a purpose, that the synagogue did not assist members with professional development and I was on my own. I went ahead and hustled on my own, selling off musical instruments and taking in bicycle repair work to come up with the additional funding, and I was able to come up with most of it. I asked the conference organizers for a partial scholarship and they quietly helped me out, while saying that such scholarships were not the norm and that I should brainstorm on how to get my synagogue community to help with funding for next year.
— I announced on my social media that I was heading to the conference. While dropping something off at the shul a week before my departure, another member of the Steering Committee and I bumped into each other. She congratulated me on being able to go to the conference after all, and then said she hoped I’d find some great materials to bring back to share with the community.
I was immediately stunned, and then deeply hurt.
This was a community filled with white-collar professionals, university faculty and others with a steadier, far greater income than mine, and was tired of being admired for my music but always having to beg for scraps of support to keep making it. So I responded, “well, since the shul’s leadership refused to discuss the possibility of assistance with my attending this conference, I’ve decided that I am going for ME, and for my own personal and professional development. If I bring home anything that ends up being useful here, it will be incidental to my having attended, and not the reason for my going.” And I walked out of the shul.
— when I came back from the conference, I was refreshed and renewed by the experience. And out of nowhere, the Education Director invited me to come and lead music at the end of a religious school class, a sort of song session for all the families. The religious school had grown along with the congregation, which was by now almost 475 families. Although the religious school met on Saturdays and I did not really like giving up my Shabbat, I agreed to do this, and led the religious school families in a fun, rousing song session that was enjoyed by everyone. Afterwords, while we noshed on snacks and made small talk, four parents approached me and asked, “What would it take to have you come every week?” I smiled and, knowing that the Education Director was standing behind me, I answered, “well, I think a commitment of every week on Shabbat would probably require a contract.” The Education Director glared at me and then silently walked away.
— in August of the same year, I went to services so I could say Kaddish for my mother. When I walked in, I was met at the door by not her member who asked me if I could lead the largest part of the service. “The person who signed up isn’t here and we don’t know if he’s coming or not. We’d like to have it covered, just in case. Would you?” I responded that I was there to say Kaddish for my mom on her yahrtzeit, and that I wasn’t in the right headspace to lead that morning. The fellow pressed me, and then another member came and asked me too. “Please. We don’t have anyone else lined up and you do it so well.” I said no again, and went to take a seat in the back row.
When we got to that portion of the service, the person who’d signed up to lead had not shown up, and the two members who had asked me turned around in their seats and looked at me with an expression of both urgency and expectation. I shook my head, and they stared harder. So I did the only thing I could do in that moment: I got up, gathered my things, and left the shul. I walked to a nearby park and, without putting my tallit back on, stood under a tree and silent said the mourner’s Kaddish for my mom. I did not return.
— because I was partnered with a longtime member of the shul who remained happily connected, I chose to simply keep my head down and focus on growing my musical career. If I was less available for my home shul, so be it, During this time, I also got hired to be. Cantorial soloist for a community up north, who would end up hiring me back every year for High Holy Days. I was concerned at first about not celebrating the New Year with my partner, but she assured me it was totally fine and that I should take advantage of this opportunity to grow and work. So I did, and was welcomed by a small community who respected me as a music professional and welcomed me for my musical soul.
In hindsight, staying a member for so long did me a lot of internal damage, to my emotional and mental health. And colleagues I ran into at conferences or on turn noticed my sorrow. More than one ask me what was wrong. When I gave a very short version of events, one friend advised me, “this isn’t working for you. You are carrying a burden of sorrow that will color everything you love about your Judaism if you don’t put it down and walk away.”
That was in 2019.
Then came Covid, and everything that went along with it.
During the loackdown, the leadership decided to hire a Music Director, someone who would be slightly more empowered to make musical decisions, working more,hours and earning some kind of salary. Although I didn’t want to,I applied for the position because we needed the money and I was not traveling for work. I knew I would not be chosen but I applied anyway. In the end, a talented young woman from Chicago was hired to work remotely, on zoom, with the idea that eventually she would move to Portland to begin in-person work when it was possible. I liked her, and we hit it off. When things began to open up in 2021, she did visit Portland with her partner, to look for housing and meet people in person. We had a lovely afternoon playing music together on our lawn, and I felt hopeful that at long last things might work out musically for the shul after all. But it was not to be. She and I worked together on a Zoom service for teens, bd getting teens to be involved was like pulling teeth. The service felt flat and difficult, even though we both tried our best to be encouraging. Later that summer, shortly before High Holy Days, it was announced to the congregation that she had resigned. I asked her later what had happened. She admitted that (a) it had been nearly impossible to find affordable housing on the salary she was earning, and that (b) she felt it didn’t make sense to leave the life she’d built in Chicago for so many unknowns. It was a shame, but understandable.
While I was really sick with Long Covid, my Sweetie asked the synagogue’s Helping Hands group for some help with meals for a couple of weeks, so she could have a break from cooking while she looked after me. Some of our friends responded with simple soups, salads, a vegetarian stew. I got get-well cards from the rabbi and a couple other folks, and I was so glad that Sweeite was able to ask for and receive the help she needed..
When I got better from the Long Covid and the shul opened up again, I went to a midweek minyan with Sweetie (she was leading) and sat and prayer quietly. People were very glad to see me. But something had changed, and although I couldn’t describe it in words, I felt it. Deeply. Later, I understood that what had felt was a lot of things still left unresolved, and a way forward that I still couldn’t feel comfortable with because of everything that had happened, and the fact that some of the same people remained in leadership. So I had no faith that anything would feel different enough for me to go back.
That was maybe a year ago. I haven’t been back since. In the end, after wrestling with it for so long, I decided to follow my colleague’s advice and resign my membership. I adjust couldn’t make it work anymore and I was tired of waiting for things to change, in me or with the leadership. Nothing was changing, I didn’t feel like engaging with the same leaders again for issues that would not be resolved. I guess I got tired of waiting for something that wouldn’t happen, an apology or anything else that might make me feel like wanting to keep trying. I was exhausted with trying, and I was done. I shared with sweetie my desire to end my membership and just be unaffiliated, at least for awhile. She told me she understood, and that she supported my decision. We did not discuss exactly what it might look like when she wanted to go and I stayed home, though I certainly had that on my mind. I simply had to trust that she was really okay with it, and do what I needed to do for my own mental and spiritual health.
I emailed the rabbi and the office manager that I intended to resign. The rabbi, whom I’d worked with musical several times but never really got to know responded with his concerns and asked if there was anything he could do to help. I thanked him and said no. It was fine. None of this was his doing, he hadn’t been here for a lot of it, and I felt I was making the best decision I could under the circumstances. I thanked him and wished him well.
Ths morning, Sweetie drove into town to take her turn leading the midweek minyan. When she returned, she told me that lots of people said hello and sent best wishes, and I admit that I felt a pant of sadness and anxiety in my chest. I had a moment of doubting myself and my choices. I missed The Way Things Used To Be. And I felt sad that ths was something Sweetie and I could not share anymore. I wondered what it would look like going forward, if we found that we could share lower and fewer parts of our Jewish lives together because of how things had gone and my decision to leave.
I know that my absence. Has changed almost nothing about how the shul continues to operate. It’s still a cooperative sort of structure, and since I’ve unmasked so much I’ve come to understand that I cannot function well there, except as a silent, nonparticipating sort of member. And if that’s the case, why bother? Especially when the pain will remain unacknowledged and unresolved in a helpful way.
I know that, even though it brings up discomfort, I made the right decision. Being who I am and being what the shul is, I couldn’t have made any other. Still, I admit that it brings up some hard feelings, and I am still figuring out how to live with those.
Now that I am in this highly transitory time in my life, I am doing my best to stay in touch with my family and closest friends. I don’t have a ton of energy for the folks that I’m not as close with right now. I don’t know when or how — or even if — enough of that energy will return. I truly hope that all of my friends will understand and know that I still love knowing them and having them in my life, even if can’t throw a lot of energy in that direction right now. I’m doing the best I can.
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