My wife, Denise Sherer Jacobson , had this blog published in the Union of Reform Judaism (URJ) website.
Inclusion:
Leaving Our Comfort Zone
I remember the day
I first entered the Temple Sinai sanctuary. At once impressed by it's
amphitheater-like magnificence, complete with dome ceiling and
stained-glass windows, I was, at the same time, totally overwhelmed
by the sizable throng of adults along with their noisy, rambunctious
children attempting to settle in the pews waiting for Religious
School orientation to begin. With my seven-year-old son David beside
me, I maneuvered my power wheelchair through the human 'sea of reeds'
and found an empty spot on the aisle where David could sit and I
could park alongside him, leaving enough room so that I wouldn't
block the slanted pathway. While parents chattered with other
parents, and children with other children, no one seemed to pay my
son and me any mind. Although I must have engaged David in some kind
of chit-chat (as the conscientious good mother I always tried to be),
I felt my skepticism growing. Was this really a good idea? Why did I
think it was so important to give David a Jewish education and be
part of a Jewish community when I never had that sense of belonging?
In that moment, in that beautiful sanctuary, I was way out of my
comfort zone!
Having grown up
with cerebral palsy, I had the life-long experienced of being seen as
“the other” by a nondisabled society. My disability was
obvious—my arms and legs affected by incoordination, my speech,
slow and labored. Most people assumed I also had a cognitive
impairment. Only when they got to know me did they realize I was
pretty self-reliant, easy to understand (if the room was quiet and
they exerted some patience), and I had a wicked sense of humor and
could easily slaughter them in a game of Scrabble, to their chagrin!
By the time I was in my thirties, I had become a successful
disability advocate, writer, peer counselor, and teacher. I had given
disability-related trainings and lectures throughout the country and
the world to college and medical students, educators, social service
professional.
But I stayed away
from Judaism, the religion and culture of my birth. The few times I
ventured into a synagogue, I felt unwelcome. People stared or looked
aside. I never saw a warm smile or a friendly face. I came away
feeling disappointed and rejected.
I could make sense
of the aloof reaction from society in general, but I expected more
from the Jewish community. Jews, of all people, knew first hand about
oppression and prejudice. Almost every Jewish holiday I celebrated as
a child, Pesach, Chanukah, Purim, reminded us how we struggled for
our freedom and right to exist. Although the men in my family were
mostly High Holiday Jews and their sons became B'nei Mitzvahs,
Judaism was central to my family's tradition. I remember hearing
nightmarish stories about the horrors of The Holocaust from my
American-born relatives, and my mother would talk about the
restrictions Jews faced—barred from joining social clubs, the
unfair quotas limiting Jews entrance into medical schools. We were a
people who championed the Civil Rights Movement. I had thought that
because of our Jewish legacy, welcoming me as a Jew with a disability
would be a no-brainer, but that was far from my experience. So, if
the Jews didn't need me, I certainly didn't need them!
And then I became a
parent, a Jewish mother, if you will. With my husband's family, as
well as my own, living 3,000 miles away, I wanted David to learn the
richness of his Jewish heritage, which led us to the Temple Sinai
sanctuary that morning.
Twenty-two years
later, David has long since graduated from religious school and
Midrasha, yet I'm entrenched in my Temple Sinai community. It's where
I've learned and studied Jewish texts and values, had my Bat Mitzvah,
served on committees, chanted Torah, and formed friendships. I've
also educated our congregation about disability and access, sometimes
getting into heated debates about the importance of having integrated
seating in the sanctuary (so those of us in wheelchairs don't stick
out in the aisle like a sore thumb and can sit with people we know)
and the need for Braille prayer books, among other things.
I've also learned
that not everyone in the congregation has to accept me or be
comfortable around me, just as I won't feel warm and fuzzy toward all
of them. But by allowing ourselves to experience individuals who our
different from us, we are challenging ourselves to be better human
beings. Had I given in to my temptation to return to my comfort zone
that morning twenty-two years ago, I would never be writing this
article.
Judaism, as a
religion, teaches us the values of rachamim, chesed, tzedek,
Tikkun Olam (compassion, kindness, justice, bettering the world).
It encourages us to venture outside our comfort zones. Inclusion give
us a chance to practice what we are taught, to go out of our comfort
zones, but within the safety of our very own backyard.
