These Times, They Are A-Changing

Married Priests and Women Priests Would Revive the Catholic Church*

His journey takes place in the mountains of Calabria, the “toe of the Italian boot,” and spans two days and several hundred kilometers. For my dear friend and colleague, Father Luigi Iuliano, it’s a labor of love that begins every Saturday afternoon and continues through Sunday. After a week of pastoral care to the faithful of our village, Don Gigi, as we call him, continues his priestly duties that now require that he travel among several isolated mountain villages to half dozen tiny parishes to minister to hundreds of Catholics who no longer have a priest to serve them.

Don Gigi is not alone. According to the Vatican’s own statistics nearly half of the world’s parishes and missions do not have a resident priest.

Now that the world’s Catholics have a new leader, Don Gigi has been on my mind.  Since the new pope, Cardinal Jorge Bergoglio has been characterized as a reformer, as a married female rabbi I wonder if he will consider allowing married priests and women priests to join the Catholic clergy – something that many believe would bring an enormously positive change to the Roman Catholic Church.

I arrived in Italy in 2004 to serve as Italy’s first woman and first non-orthodox rabbi. In 2006 I returned to Serrastretta, my father’s village in Calabria to establish the first active synagogue in the south of Italy since Inquisition times. Over the years I have had the pleasure and privilege of getting to know a number of priests, who, like Don Gigi, are deeply dedicated to their work. Yet no matter how meticulously they organize their time, it seems impossible for these priests to keep up. No surprise there. A Vatican sanctioned organization, FutureChurch reports that worldwide there are an estimated 125,000 priests who have left the ministry and their reason for leaving – to get married.

Vatican

In Italy the priest shortage is monumental. In America it’s not much better. In fact at least 25,000 Americans have left the priesthood since 1970, among them my cousin’s husband, Bernie. His wife Patricia recalls that although Bernie loved his secular job, if priests had been permitted to marry, Patricia is certain that Bernie would have stayed. In fact, FutureChurch tells us that 50 percent of married priests would be willing to return to active ministry if they could.

Sadly Bernie died four years ago, but if he were here today he certainly would be surprised to know that although he had to leave the priesthood in order to get married, in America there are now nearly 100 married priests in the Roman Catholic Church.

So who are these priests who serve American Catholic parishes with their wives and children in tow? They are men who formerly served Protestant churches as ordained ministers but who made conversion to become Roman Catholics. Following a period of study and examination, these married men were ordained as Catholic priests.

Throughout history there have been married priests, not excluded from but sanctioned by the Vatican and obedient to the pope. It wasn’t until 1123 that the church prohibited priests from taking wives. Finally in 1980, possibly because the shortage of priests had reached crisis proportions, the church allowed Protestant clergymen who converted to Catholicism to remain married to their wives.  

Last year journalist Mark Oppenheimer examined the phenomenon of married priests (NYT January 2012). Oppenheimer interviewed sociologist Reverend D. Paul Sullins who began his career as an Episcopal priest and is now a married priest serving in the Roman Catholic Church.

Oppenheimer wondered how things were working out. An important question since conventional church wisdom has always maintained that priests, who are the spouses of the church, do better when they devote themselves exclusively to church work without the distractions of family life. Reverend Sullins posed this question to these US married priests and found that, rather than hindering their husband’s vocation, wives were mostly supportive and helpful. Sullins puts it succinctly when he says, “I don’t want to say the difference is great, but if there is a difference it’s in favor of the married priest.”

What about women? The Jewish religion has ordained women since the early 1970’s, although Regina Jonas who was murdered in Auschwitz, holds the distinction of serving as the first woman rabbi in modern times. Today hundreds of women serve synagogues as senior pulpit rabbis. We make up approximately 15 percent of rabbis worldwide and as wives and mothers we divide our time, as do most professionals, between work and home responsibilities.

New Pope, Jorge Mario Bergoglio

The new pope, should he move forward with these reforms, would have even better statistics on his side. FutureChurch also reports that of the number of Catholic lay people and deacons currently providing pastoral care, 50 percent are women. Maybe more important are the results from a survey of a group thought to be the most traditional among all Catholics - Irish priests. When they were asked to respond anonymously, 58 percent supported the ordination of women priests. Given that there are a paltry 406,411 priests in service compared with the 783,000 women religious serving Catholics worldwide, the ordination of women could be the force to bring priests back to abandoned parishes.

Could these changes really happen? Absolutely. In the 1960’s, under Pope John XXIII, the Second Vatican Council made sweeping changes to the Code of Canon Law.  One change, which permitted priests to offer mass in the language of the congregation, created a significant surge in church attendance. Since the rules regarding priestly celibacy and the ordination of women are not dogma but are included in canon law, the new pope could revive interest and participation by permitting priests to marry and women to be ordained.

Would it work out? If the Jewish experience is any indication, the advent of women rabbis created opportunities for small and struggling synagogues to have their own ordained spiritual leaders. Fewer synagogues closed their doors as congregants seriously considered hiring women and adjusted emotionally to the presence of a woman on the pulpit. As a woman rabbi in traditional Italy, I am still seen as an anomaly and most days I feel like a pioneer, but I have a loving congregation, a positive public presence and a husband who supports and enjoys synagogue life, all of which contribute to professional success and personal satisfaction.

Pope John Paul II

The late Pope John Paul II said it best 27 years ago when he told the world, “With Judaism, therefore, we have a relationship which we do not have with any other religion. You are our dearly beloved brothers, and in a certain way, it could be said that you are our elder brothers.”

With that statement the late pope rekindled the familial relationship between Jews and Christians – a relationship that had been dormant for centuries. It is my hope that we Jews can continue to lead by example so that our Catholic brothers and sisters might have the opportunity to embrace the positive changes that married priests and women priests would bring to their Church.

*This article first appeared as a featured piece on The Times of Israel blog.

Queen Esther's Legacy

In his compelling book, Triangle: The Fire that Changed America, David Von Drehle reminds his readers in vivid detail of the events of March 25, 1911. By day’s end 146 young girls, burned from the fire or crushed and mutilated by death-defying leaps from nine stories up, lay dead on the sidewalk.  Until the tragedy of 9/11 happened, the Triangle fire was the worst workplace disaster in the history of New York City.

In a review of the book Vince Piro writes: “Back in 1911, the Triangle Waist Company employed hundreds who sewed blouses (or shirtwaists) in its 10 story factory located in Manhattan. Most of these employees were immigrant women, of which 40 percent were Italian and about 60 percent were Eastern European Jews.”

Hamantaschen, the favorite cookie for Purim

Just one week before the fire, on March 19, 1911, Europe marked its very first International Women’s Day when more than one million women and men in four countries rallied for a woman’s right to vote and right to work. Ironically, only six days later the deaths of teenage immigrant girls half a world away led to sweeping changes in labor legislation and to a worldwide observance of International Women’s Day. 

But if ever there was a first Women’s Day it had to be the one more than two thousand years ago on the 14^th day in the Hebrew month of Adar, the day that marks the feast of Purim. The hero of the story is not a man. 

She’s a woman and her name is Esther. Rebbetzin Tzipporah Heller writes about Esther’s ordinary and humble beginnings:  “Her father had died while her mother was pregnant with Esther; her mother died at her birth. Thus, she came into this world with the gaping wound of belonging to no one.” 

Fresco of Queen Esther by Andrea del Castagno

As Esther grew into girlhood, the Jews of Persia descended into despair. King Achashverosh assumed power and, aided by his wicked henchman, Haman, systematically began to repress the Jews. Rebbetzin Heller reminds us that the root for the Hebrew word “ester” is “saiter,” which means “concealment.” Our Esther at first concealed her Jewish identity but later broke through a self-imposed and society-imposed barrier to reveal her background. Esther spoke truth to power and with that act she pierced through the armor of public hatred and personal denial which defined her no more.

A Google search of the topic tells us that International Women’s Day is a way to recount the stories of ordinary women who made history. One site takes us back to ancient Greece where Lysistrata organized what was probably the world’s first strike. She encouraged women to withhold sex from men who made war. From the women of the French Revolution who stormed Versailles calling for “liberty, equality and fraternity,” to the bravery of Michela Marciano whose life began in the ashes of a tiny Italian village at the foot of Mount Vesuvius and ended in the ashes of the Triangle fire, International Women’s Day in the month of March remembers them all.

Here in Italy we celebrate our International Woman’s Day, “La Festa della Donna,” on March 8 when it is customary to give sprigs of bright yellow mimosa to every woman you know. Men give mimosa to women but maybe more important, women present the flower to one to another. 

Mimosa blossoms

Why mimosa? Romans say that the mimosa signifies sensitivity, a trait that propels many women to stand strong for their beliefs. Others say that the mimosa represents “concealed love,” the love that Esther had for her people that led her to make her awesome declaration. 

And then there is the memory of the few young girls who survived the Triangle fire. On that fateful day some recall seeing wild mimosa blooming in the vacant lot adjacent to the factory. For nearly 150 beautiful, vibrant and determined Italian and Jewish women the ordinary mimosa was the last flower they ever saw. It makes me think that if Esther were here today she would wear mimosa in her hair.  

Zachor! Memories From Italy

My First Holocaust Memorial Day

January 27, 1945 marks the liberation of the Auschwitz death camp where one million Jews were murdered by the Nazis. Sixty years later, in November 2005 the United Nations General Assembly resolved that January 27 should be observed as a day to honor the memory of Holocaust victims and encourage the development of education programs about Holocaust history to help prevent further acts of genocide.

The calendar pages have turned and January 2013 marks my tenth year as rabbi in Italy. I began my work in the north, in Milan, where I served Italy’s first modern liberal synagogue as Italy’s first woman and first non-orthodox rabbi.

My father, Antonio Aiello (z’l) was a liberator of the Buchenwald death camp and his experiences, coupled with my living and working as I do  as an Italian Jew on the “doorstep” of the Shoah, gave special significance to each January 27 – known throughout Europe as Holocaust Memorial Day.

One in particular touched my heart.

It was the morning of January 27, 2006 when Milan was hit with the biggest snowstorm in a quarter century. But that did not deter us – we were eight hearty souls from Synagogue Lev Chadash who, in the driving snowstorm, accompanied me, their rabbi, to the prison at San Vittore to remember the incarceration of Italian Jews and the murder of the Jews of Europe.

As the snow fell we recalled the horrors of death camp life. One of our group, a young teen, noted that although the snow was deep and the temperature in Milan was below freezing, we Jews were dressed in coats and hats, scarves, gloves, boots and heavy shoes – things the Jews of Auschwitz never had.

Streets of Milan

In front of the prison, we cleared snow from a park bench to make a place for our candles. Our ceremony included the lighting of six candles to represent the Six Million and to recall the significance of “Zachor,” the Hebrew word which means “remember.” 

“Zachor,” we said, in voices loud enough for passersby to hear and for some of them to pause and listen. The first candle, recalled “Shabbat Zachor” when we hear the story of Amalek and we remember as well that Haman was a direct descendant of one of the first men who set out to kill the Jews.  The first candle served as a reminder that evil still exits in our world. 

“Zachor,” we said to candles two and three. Additional definitions of Zachor include “to mention,” and “to articulate.” We remember to speak about those we lost and to tell their stories, like our own Becky Behar Ottolenghi, now of blessed memory, a survivor of the Jewish massacre at Meina (near Lake Como) whose tireless efforts at sharing her experiences with school children earned her Honorary Citizenship from cities all over Italy.

Zachor also signifies remembering those who are different. Our fourth candle recalled all of those who, along with the Jews, were also killed, including homosexuals, gypsies, disabled persons and political prisoners. 

As the candles struggled and hissed in the falling snow, the Zachor of candle five recalled the murdered children.  We honored the Holocaust survivors who frequented our synagogue and we paused to honor our own child survivor, Fernanda Diaz, who was saved from certain death by a righteous gentile, an Italian pescatore who shoved her into a trap door in the floor of his fish market. We pondered a horrific statistic; that for every Jewish child that lived through the Holocaust, thirteen Jewish children were murdered by the Nazis.

The sixth candle is the Zachor of Shabbat.  We are reminded that the first strand in the braided challah, the bread of the Sabbath, is called Zachor. “Remember Shabbat and keep it holy,” Torah tells us.  And no matter what our trials have been or will be, Shabbat brings us peace, hope and joy.

Later on as we sipped cappuccino in a nearby bar, we learned that in the early morning, just hours before our ceremony, former German President Johannes Rau had passed away. He was the first person to speak the German language in the halls of the Israeli Knesset. The mission of Rau’s presidency was to improve German–Israeli relations by first seeking forgiveness for the Holocaust.  He told the Israel Parliament, “…I bow in humility before those murdered and … I am asking forgiveness for what Germans have done…”

Sadly international news services hardly mentioned President Rau’s death that day, in part because the news was dominated by events in the Middle East. On that January 27, Europe was reeling. Hamas was officially designated the winner of the Palestinian elections. This prompted journalists all over Europe to ask how we Jews felt about the upset victory by an organization that vowed to destroy the Sate of Israel. 

Image of Auschwitz.

As we readied ourselves to brave the cold, the bar’s television set blared overhead.  Mittens and scarves in hand, we stopped to watch as a sprightly BBC journalist asked an Auschwitz survivor, “Just what lesson did you learn from your experiences?” Without missing a beat, the elderly gentleman pulled the microphone close and said, “Dahling, this I learned.  If someone says he wants to kill you, believe him.”

Our ceremony of remembrance on January 27, 2006 in Milan was a day filled with contrasts. Leaving the warmth of the bar behind us, we visited our candles once more.  As they flickered in the snow we offered the Kaddish Memorial prayer and ended with the words of Psalm 133.  Hinei MaTov, How good and pleasant it is when we dwell together as brothers and sisters.” We joined hands, sang and promised to remember.  Zachor. 

Havdalah: Seniors Say Good-bye to Shabbat

On Friday night, either at synagogue or around the family table, we light two candles to welcome the day of rest and renewal. As we kindle the lights of Shabbat we invite the light of creation to enter our spirits and, after our hectic work or school week, we allow the Shabbbat lights to “nudgie” us toward a well-deserved breath of peace.

With light we inaugurate Shabbat and with light we conclude it. That’s what Havdalah is all about. It is beautiful ceremony that allows us to say “Shalom” to Shabbat and prepare ourselves for the week ahead. 

The origin of the Havdalah ceremony has been attributed to the men of the Great Assembly in the fourth or fifth century B.C.E., and for the last 1500 years we Jews have honored Shabbat, not only by saying hello, but also by taking time to say good-bye.  Havdalah comes from the Hebrew word, “l’havdil” which means “to separate.”  And that’s just what Havdalah does.  It is a time divider, creating an important division between the serenity of Shabbat and what has become the workaholism of our busy weekdays.

Here at the Kobernick House, a senior independent living campus where I live and work as the resident rabbi, we have begun a weekly celebration of Havdalah.  Thanks to local Sunday school students whose creative hands crafted individual spice boxes for our residents, each one of us can interact with the Havdalah symbols and give personal meaning to our ancient traditions. 

The Kiddush cup and wine, the spice boxes and the large braided candle are the ritual items that make Havdalah come alive.  As we begin it is customary to overfill the kiddush cup so that some of the wine spills over.  We are reminded of the words from psalm 23: “My cup overflows,” which signifies that we have all we need for a good week ahead.

We gather around the card table in the center of our Activity Room and begin by making the familiar kiddush blessing. Then each of us takes in hand an individual spice box and, giving it a shake, we take a deep sniff of the fragrant spices inside.  We make the blessings to remind us that these beautiful mixed scents symbolize the calming of our souls that are saddened at the departure of that “extra soul” that comes to us during Shabbat. We celebrate our Shabbat soul as we share special Shabbat memories.

“My grandchildren came for dinner!”  says Freda. 

“I had my 105^th birthday party,” says a beaming Philip.

“I heard from my best friends from grade school,” says Dorit.

The spices literally unlock our memories as their mingled fragrance fills the room.

Finally we dim the house lights and light the braided Havdalah candle.  The candle is made of two twisted pieces with multiple wicks at the top.  Different colors, usually blue and white, demonstrate how our lives are entwined and that the material and the spiritual aspects of our lives are always linked.  Our challenge, our candle tells us, is to create a place for God’s light in all that we do. We recite a blessing over the flame which recalls the midrash that explains that light was first created on Saturday night when Adam hit two stones together. A divine light illuminated the world during the first week of creation.

As the candle glows, our residents follow many different traditions while they enjoy the Havdalah flame. Some of us hold our fingers near the flame so that we can see the light reflected on our fingernails.  Why?  Some say this reflection reminds us of the work our hands will do in the coming week.  The reflection asks us to conduct our daily lives with the love and peace that Shabbat has given us. Then, holding the candle high, we lean it into the kiddush cup and extinguish the flame in the wine. The light makes its way to the wine, as we make the “zzz-ing” sound in unison. The wine douses the flame and Shabbat has ended.

As an Italian Jew, I’ve added a piece from my own heritage to the familiar Havdalah ceremony. After we extinguish the flame, it is an Italian Jewish tradition to pass the kiddush cup to each person, allowing each one to dip a “pinky” finger into the wine. Then we place two drops of wine, one drop each on the cheek of  the person next to us. It’s the Italian way of embracing the sweetness of Shabbat for one last moment.

We sing Eliahu HaNavi, as we share our hope for the messiah to come speedily and in our time. Then our seniors, who range in age from their seventies to our oldest, Fay at 107, join hands and sway back and forth. “dancing” to our “sitting Hora,” as we sing Shavuah Tov (A Good Week) together.

Wine and spices, light and song. Each combines to signify our hope for a week filled with sweetness, brightness and joy. 

The Midnight Shofar

Tales from Jewish Italy

Reventino mountain range in Southern Italy.

It is New Year’s Eve in Calabria, the deep south of the Italian peninsula. At the stroke of midnight the bells in the church tower in the tiny village of Serrastretta ring twelve times. But if you are very quiet and the night is very still, you will hear something more. From deep in the forest of the Reventino, a local Calabrian mountain range located in the “instep” of the “boot,” you will hear first one, then another, then another long low moan of the ancient ram’s horn. The same ram’s horn that in Hebrew is the “shofar.” The same ram’s horn that inaugurates Rosh HaShanah, the Jewish New Year. Yet, for centuries on the night that marks the beginning of the secular New Year, families in southern Italy blow a shofar-like instrument that is the hallmark of the Jewish celebration that occurs, not in December, but in the autumn of the year.

It is a custom that on the surface seems strange, but a deeper look into the life and traditions of the B’nei Anousim (a Hebrew term that means “force ones”) who inhabit this area makes sense of it all. Centuries ago, during Inquisition times, the Jews of Spain and Portugal had one of two choices: convert to Christianity or leave their homes. Those Jews who were forced from Spain and Portugal found refuge on the island of Sicily and on the tiny islands that make up the Aeolian chain. There they lived in relative peace until the long arm of the Inquisition reached them there as well. Forced to flee yet again, Jewish families made their way onto the Italian mainland, first to the “toe” and then north through the “foot” of the Italian “boot” and into the Calabrian mountains.

For centuries these Jewish families lived in relative safety but fear is a “minestra,” a soup that cooks slowly. Stories of persecution, arrests and public burnings percolate through these mountains – so much so that if one were to ask about a family’s Jewish heritage, the downcast eyes and blank expressions say it all. That’s why it is such a great challenge to connect these B’nei Anousim with their Jewish history. But for me, the first rabbi of the first synagogue in Calabria since Inquisition times, it is a “sfida e gioia” a challenge and a joy. 

During my ten years in the Calabrian hills I’ve finally learned to ask the right questions.  No longer do I ask, “Do you think your family was once Jewish?” No. Calabrians have learned that admitting to a Jewish heritage can be dangerous.  Instead I ask, “What does your family do when a baby is born? When a couple marries? For a funeral and mourning? Do you have special family customs to celebrate the holidays?”  That is how I learned about the shofar at midnight.  

Francesco, a local baker, explained it all to me when he said, “Tanti anni fa… Many years ago our families celebrated a different new year. It was the at the harvest time when we found a ram and made his horn into a musical instrument. But it was dangerous to be different so we learned to wait. To wait for the last day of the year when everyone else was celebrating. Now there are fireworks and trumpet blasts. When the ram’s horn is sounded, it is not so strange anymore.”

Cautiously I asked Francesco, “Do you know that the ram’s horn is a Jewish tradition?” Francesco replies that he once heard something like that but he prefers to say that the practice is an ancient family tradition.

And so it goes. For centuries we Calabrians took our Jewish traditions into our homes and our hearts and slowly, at first for safety reasons, and then for cultural reasons, the religious meanings of these rituals were lost.  Our precious Jewish customs became family traditions and sadly, nothing more.  

Serrestretta, Calabria: View from Sinagoga Ner Tamid del Sud

It has become my mission and my passion to uncover more of these family traditions that were once a part of a thriving Jewish past. It is my hope that I can continue to give my Calabrian relatives, my meshpucha, the B’nei Anousim who have so carefully and cautiously preserved the vestiges of their Jewish heritage, an opportunity to discover and embrace their Jewish roots.  

A Jewish View of Jesus

Several years ago when I was a synagogue rabbi, I had an interesting and eye-opening experience. Our synagogue was host to 38 eighth graders from St. Joseph's Catholic School. They were studying about world religions and their teacher brought them to the synagogue to learn about Judaism. Before my presentation, I asked them to write down any question they had about Jews and our religion, and the one question that came up a dozen times or more was this one;  "What do Jewish people think about Jesus?"Rabbi Joseph Telushkin, author of "Jewish Literacy," talks about Jesus as a young observant Jew, who grew up in provincial Galilee. Jesus spoke Aramaic, a dialect of Hebrew that was the language of the marketplace, the street and the family table. Jesus never questioned his allegiance to the Jewish faith, a religion that was already a thousand years old at the time of his birth. Rabbi Telushkin goes on to add that Jesus lived within the community of Jews, paid his dues to the Temple and attended the "Bet Knesset," the Jewish house of assembly – or, to use the Greek term, the synagogue.

In the Christian New Testament we find that Jesus was a law-abiding, highly nationalistic Jew, who was deeply concerned about the morals and ethics of the society in which he lived. Like many of the great rabbis within the Jewish tradition, Jesus believed in the Torah—the Five Books of Moses that Christians refer to as the "Old Testament." Jesus believed what the Torah taught about the central theme of the Jewish religion, which is, "What is hateful to you do not do to another." As a good Jew, Jesus preached, "Love your neighbor as you love yourself."

Christ the Redeemer, Andrea del Sarto

What was Jesus like? We Jews turn to Jewish scholars who tell us that at the time when Jesus was growing up, there was great activity in the ancient Jewish community which boasted more than 26 different Jewish denominations. As a young man, Jesus was attracted to one of these.

Historians believe that Jesus joined a branch of Judaism called the "Essenes."  They were highly disciplined, lived communally and pooled their resources and income. Jesus' long hair wasn't just an artist's depiction. It was accurate. For religious reasons the Essenes deliberately did not cut their hair and Jesus followed in that tradition—the same tradition that Samson followed, because he also was an Essene.

Most likely Jesus dressed in a loose fitting linen or wool garment, with four fringed corners, (described in the Book of Numbers) which was the typical dress of the pious Jew.  And when we Jews wear the tallit (the prayer shawl) today, we are wearing the vestiges of the long garment that religious Jews, like Jesus, wore in ancient times.

Some Jewish scholars believe that Jesus may have been a prophet, in the style of Micah, one of our own recognized prophets. Micah was courageous and fearless in his denunciation of the leaders of Judean society who often used their position to abuse the disadvantaged. Like Micah, Jesus had a deep sympathy for the underdog, the poor, and the victims of social injustice. Yet many scholars believe that Jesus never saw himself as the founder of a new religion.

The Last Supper, near to Stamford, Lincolnshire

Jews and Christians have more in common than many might think. Most of us are aware that Jesus was observing the Jewish holiday of Passover when he celebrated “The Last Supper.” But there are more examples of our common heritage – a heritage that affirms that the values and ethics that are attributed to Jesus are the values and ethics that are the bedrock of the Jewish tradition.

If Jesus said, "Love your enemy," then he got it from the Jewish tradition that tells us that "if your enemy is hungry or thirsty, give him food and drink." And if Jesus did indeed say, "Turn the other cheek," he was talking about the essence of his own Jewish traditions from the book of Lamentations, which tells Jews, "He gives his cheek to him that smites him.”

 

Jews appreciate Jesus, just as we appreciate Micah, Ezekiel, Jeremiah, and all the other prophets and holy men and women of ancient times. We hold Jesus in esteem because we Jews are grateful to Jesus for teaching Torah, for living Torah and for being the fine Jewish man that he was.  

Candlelabra of Calabria

Italian Anousim – Celebrating Shabbat with Unique Candlelabra

For thousands of Italians who live in the southern Italian region of Calabria, the island of Sicily and the Aeolian Islands as well as for many more Italian Americans and Italian Canadians, connecting family traditions with an ancient Jewish heritage can be little more than a lucky guess.  But as we continue to search for our lost and hidden Jewish roots, one ritual item, the Shabbat candlelabra offers an important clue. 

The triple candlelabra pictured here is Rabbi Barbara Aiello’s family heirloom. Her grandparents descended from a Calabrian crypto-Jewish background where a three-branched candlelabra was integral for the family Shabbat table.

“The middle candle served as the “shamus” or helping candle, and just as Jews use the shamus to light the eight candles on the Chanukah memorah, a shamus candle was used to light the two candles for Shabbat,” says Rabbi Barbara, who now lives and works in Calabria where she searches for hidden traditions such as these.

The peacock motif offers another Jewish clue. For the Jews of Calabria, the peacock was an important element in Jewish design. Originating with the Kabbalists, the Jewish mystics of medieval times, it is the male peacock’s special feather configuration that is reminiscent of the Kabbalistic “third eye.”  This symbol connects with the message of Shabbat by reminding us that with the “third eye” we can see into a person’s soul and thus bring peace to the world.

Families in Serrastretta, the tiny village where Rabbi Barbara organized “Ner Tamid del Sud, the first active synagogue in Calabria in 500 years since Inquisition times, recall the three branched candlelabra at their own Friday evening dinner table.  Some recall a beautiful ritual where the matron of the house first lit the middle “shamus” candle, removed it and then passed it to the youngest family member. Each person around the table had her/his own personal candle which was kindled by passing the shamus candle from person to person.  Finally the shamus candle returned to “Mama” who then kindled the last two candles, the lights of Shabbat. 

Questions and comments welcome below!