anti-racist

  In what used to be the sisters’ laundry building, I sit in a standard-issue, burgundy, vinyl, wingback chair. Marylhurst University’s conference center. Lake Oswego, Oregon. At the time, I am the only rabbi in the world teaching mathematics in a Catholic high school. Both non-teaching staff and us with more direct youth interface are […]

**My Mourning Neighbor** I walk home in the early evening light from using my friend Dave’s chop saw. I’ll later assemble the parts I’m carrying into a base for an abstract, stained-glass lamp I’ve been working on. Across the street from our Hamilton-blue Dutch Colonial, I see Nancy descend the flight of steps in front

I’m sorry; I seem to have had a revelation.   Revelations 101 I’m not 100% certain how to deliver these messages that I have—or if you are one of the people who is supposed to heed my words.   I mean, who, other than a pompous ass, tells people they had a revelation and asks

Photo of me on the Union College Campus. I couldn’t think of what better image to put along with this article.     The Music by Hafiz Many people don’t know it is my friend’s words on the bumper sticker, “Even after all this time the Sun never says to the Earth, ‘You owe me.’

Image: Leslie and Maryellen’s wedding. Me officiating. Los Angeles, CA. 1998. Unity. NonBinary.   *Jesse, calmer* Most of my millennial friend’s ever-present anxiety is notably absent as we sit in the clutter of their apartment.    I sit, cross legged on a bench, heart filled with delight to see my friend so beautifully mellow.   

***A Rabbi’s Open Letter*** To those affected by the discovery of unmarked graves of First Nation’s children In Canada.I am Rabbi Brian Zachary Mayer. As a clergy person, I deem it part of my responsibility to the collective to apologize onbehalf of my fellow clergy when they fail to do so. Today I apologize on

A few years before children and my beloved minivan, I sit behind the wheel of my red Acura TSX in a line of cars waiting to enter a parking garage. Yet another opportunity to practice patience. Soon enough, I am next to the man in the booth. “$10,” he says. I give him a twenty

Some. Experience. A certain type of experience I first remember having a certain type of experience in late 2007. Emmett is a wee-little one. Annie, not yet born. Jane and I are asleep in our bed. Sleeping as well as exhausted new parents sleep.  The baby monitor alerts us to Emmett’s stirring.  Jane nudges me,

Challah Limits Phone in hand, I upload a photo of a three-braided round and a five-strand long that just came out of my oven. Confirmation—“The large one looks really complex”—comes with a photo of hers.  Coincidentally, this week, she, too, made a round and a long. Our Friday-night-challah-texting club started during the pandemic. “I experimented,”

Annie’s 14-year-old brother isn’t accompanying us on the trip to get Annie’s 12-year-old booster shot, so she’ll earn the front passenger’s seat automatically, without claiming it by saying, “Shotgun.” Our 2003 Odyssey’s bumper is attached with cable ties and flex tape. Jane says the minivan went from being ironic to an eye sore during COVID.