As the 50th anniversary of my bar mitzvah approached in February, I began to ask myself if it left any lasting marks.
Five decades after turning 13, I still had the tallit and a pop culture museum piece — a half-used bottle of Jade East, a strongly scented cologne popular with teenage boys at the time — to remind me of the day the Jewish community said I was a man. But what else did I have?
My bar mitzvah took place in Temple Beth Emet, a suburban Orange County synagogue located just down the street from Disneyland, the Magic Kingdom, and I wondered if anything, magical or not, remained of the day.
Certainly, history remembers the time: Held in 1966, it was when the Vietnam War heated up under our commander in chief, President Lyndon B. Johnson, and both the Gemini 10 spacecraft and TV show “Star Trek” were launched.
Looking into my personal time capsule, however, there was no drama or trauma during the two days of services (Friday night and Saturday morning). There was no stage fright or teen rebelliousness, though weeks before the event, I do recall losing an argument with my father over his insistence that I wear a red sport coat to the bar mitzvah party.
I remember that my service, speech and haftarah reading (from Isaiah) were uneventful, with the only memorable thing being the congregation laughing from the “ick” face I made after drinking a little wine after leading the Friday night Kiddush. And I still have some vinyl that I received as a gift — two copies of the Beatles’ “Rubber Soul” album!
Like any good bar mitzvah boy, I thanked everyone at the end of my speech — the rabbi, Aaron Tofield, and the cantor, Philip Moddel, for teaching me, and my family and friends for showing up. I remember that in preparing my speech, the rabbi, my mother (who grew up in a time when a Jewish woman did not have a bat mitzvah) and my father (who had an adult bar mitzvah about 10 years after mine) each made a big deal about who I should thank at the end of the speech. The message being: “Don’t leave anyone out.”
Back then, I thought it was a polite, adult thing, even though many kids rush through it because it sounds like the credits. Today, I understand it as the genesis of my understanding of the importance of community.
See, those months leading up to my debut as a Jewish man taught me more than the basic liturgy and how to wrap tefillin. What I really came away with — in addition to a Cross pen — was a budding appreciation for Jewish communal life.
When my bar mitzvah class and the vinyl recording of my cantor singing my haftarah failed to clear my confusion on the finer points of leading the Musaf service, a friend sat down and tutored me. When it was time for Shabbat morning services on the big day, my parents came forth to wrap me in a tallit, and when I chanted my Torah blessings, the congregation affirmed them with a solid, “Amen.” When it was time to celebrate, synagogue members shared a Kiddush at the shul, and later, friends and family visited us at home.
Yes, there were gifts and checks, but a 13-year-old doesn’t completely understand is that the sharing of resources is community, too — another way of showing love. What a newly minted “man” like me could understand was that my community had showed up. They were there to kvell, pat me on the back, wish me “Mazel tov!” and tell me what a great kid I was. They were there to welcome me into their world.
Some might say the bar or bat mitzvah experience, especially the excessive parties in the ’60s, contributed to the creation of the Me Generation, which tended to emphasize the individual over community. But at my bar mitzvah celebration, I discovered a better balance between the two.
On that day, I discovered I had a tribe, and that I was now a member with communal responsibilities who was expected to grow. The community had watched me come of age and now was celebrating that passage. What could be more reassuring? Or welcoming?
As I ponder this 50 years later, I wonder what possibly could leave a longer-lasting mark — that is, besides having to wear that red sport coat?
Edmon J. Rodman writes for several pub-lications and news services from his home in Los Angeles and maintains the award-winning blog Guide for the Jewplexed. He is a founder of the Movable Minyan, a chavurah-style, independent congregation.