Bat Mitzvah and Jam
I recently attended my adult daughter’s bat mitzvah via Zoom. Generally speaking, religious ceremonies don’t resonate with me. And when much of the service is in a language other than English, I necessarily miss a lot of the message. But in this case, the proceedings were often musical—and music makes sense to me.
In fact, music is one of the things about which I feel religious. It occurred to me while viewing the temple in action, there’s a lot of crossover between a music jam—my particular music passion— and a religious service. In both instances, people gather in a specified meeting place, often on a regular schedule. There exists some procedural structure that participants adhere to. There’s a sense of belonging—of community.
While secular music jams aren’t built around the worshipping of a deity or saintly people, we sometimes worship given songwriters, or music genres. At the First Friday jam in Compton—which has been going on for about 2 decades—there’s a lot of communal praise when Steve Goodman, Guy Clark, or John Prine songs are performed.
When the Berryville Bookworms jammed on Saturday mornings, the standing joke was—if you don’t know who wrote the song, guess Bob Dylan or Willie Nelson. We honored these songwriters often by playing their compositions.
On the Zoom event, folks extracted what appeared to be two very large scrolls from a beautiful cupboard at the front of the temple. They were carried around the room, read from by various people, and carried back to their safe place.
My banjo generally lives in the same battered case in which it arrived 55 years ago. I bring it out daily, stroke the neck, finger the strings, and sing along with it. Even Tootsie the Wonder Dog has a spiritual reaction: As soon as I play the first note, she trots into the living room and hops up on the sofa next to me and remains there until the music stops.
Members of music jams sometimes communally worship particularly noteworthy instruments that get passed around for the laying on of hands. Sometimes the instruments are too old and delicate—and are praised from afar.
At my daughter’s temple there appeared to be no formal rule of dress. I saw shorts, slacks, dresses, leggings, sandals and sneakers. Most of the men wore a yarmulke. Some women covered their heads, others didn’t. The cantor appeared to be barefoot.
That’s how I worship—even during a public performance: barefoot. (Or sock footed in winter.) I’ve become rather famous for it. But I don’t do it for notoriety. I just feel the groove better in bare feet.
My daughter sang and chanted in the front of the temple—by herself. Facing the congregation. It seemed to me Judaism has been training her vocal chords. The music of her voice has gotten lovelier since she began her conversion journey. I know she studies and practices.
Like I do.
A couple of times she faltered a tiny bit—but her community took it in stride. Just like when I play the wrong note or forget the lyrics. We are safe in our respective communities. People applaud.
I sense my daughter adores the community of the temple. Like family. Maybe, in some ways, even better than family, because these are people she chose—and who chose her. I get it. Nothing soothes my soul better than a lengthy jam with people who, like me, simply love to play—especially with other people.