Being a Kohen (KoHan), Bar Mitzvah, and OBSERVING other RELIGIOUS Rituals IN THE SHTETEL

It all started a very long time ago during the exodus from slavery in Egypt and the long trek to the promised homeland in Israel.  Both the leader, Moses, and his brother Aaron, realized the majority of their charges were simple people.  Some were, in fact, idol worshipers.  It was vital that order and control be initiated and maintained.  How to worship the single, invisible God had to be defined, and so three classes were formed with their duties clearly delineated so that all the Israelites could understand and practice the process.

Moses declared that all his personal descendants would be the primary clergy, called Kohanim.  They would be the conduit between the people and Yehova-Adonai, Our God.

Their service would keep the Temple functioning.  They chose one leader who became the Kohan Godel – the highest position holder – the chief.  Once a year, during Yom Kippur, he alone would enter the sanctum sanctorum, the room where God resided, and after purification, admit all possible sins that the people committed and beg God for forgiveness.

This was the most supreme moment in the ceremony of Temple worship.

No one could become a Kohan through appointment, rank, wealth, nor brought into this class in any fashion other than birthright.

The sole passage was from father to son, from Moses to the present time.

I am a Kohan because my father, and his father before him were of this clan, thus so is my son, and his son.

Aaron’s descendants became the second class.  They are called Levis (Lee-vis);  also servers in the temple rituals, but who conducted the prescribed services mostly by singing.

And the third class were all the rest of the Jews. Their duties were to live ethical lives, praise their divine God, bring sacrifices to the Holy Place, and to go up to Jerusalem at least three times a year.

They brought their choicest barn animals to be sacrificed at the altar.  They brought the best fruit and grain to their deity.  Of course, after the ritual, all of this went to the Kohanim who must have had it quite good, not having to work otherwise.

After the destruction of both Temples, during the Diaspora, the rabbis still maintained the Kohanim class, prescribing duties and behavior to this chosen group of clergy.

In our home in the Shtetel, in the large living room, in a prominent corner, we had a holy ark where two Torahs (Holy Bibles) written on parchment were kept.  The corner looked as though it were a private chapel, but it wasn’t.  We had our own minion, a congregation of about forty men who came in every Saturday to worship.

The makeup of this minion were honest simple working men; tailors, woodworkers, milkmen, rope makers, shoemakers, and tradesmen of all sorts.  They were religious observers of all traditions, serving their God, who to them was a very personal deity.  They were comfortable with their beliefs and their relationships with each other.  

My grandfather started this minion when my parents' home was built for them as a newly wed couple.

Every Saturday, all year long, they came in at about 8:00 in the morning, and the service lasted until about noon.

The reader of the Torah during the service was the man who had the horses and the covered wagon that took passengers from our little township to the big city of Zamosc.  He normally said little in his work, but on Saturdays, he, with his sweet voice, became a leader to bring his people to the Jewish God.

The Bible (Torah) is divided into weekly portions, each following another in prescribed sequence.  By Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, the last chapter is read, and we begin again with the first chapter.

Men are called up to witness the reading, and the first one to be called is always supposed to be a Kohan, but there was, understandably, always a shortage of Kohanim, and it was not unusual for an ordinary man to be called up who loudly declared that he was a substitute for a Kohan.

Our minion had a built-in Kohan in the person of my father, who to please my family, had to attend every service.

Sometimes he skipped – having other things to do.  Eventually he ceased to be a believer.

The minion began to look at me.  I was then twelve years old.  Soon I would be a Bar Mitzvah boy - truly a man to take my place in our little community.

To become Bar Mitzvah in the shtetel was a simple affair - not the way it is now celebrated in America.  No big crowds, no music and food as though it were a wedding.  No celebratory safari to Africa.  

The boy of the shtetel, among other rituals, had to learn how to put on the Tfilim (phylacteries) properly.  I learned this quickly.  You put one little black box on your forehead, and the other one on your left arm, twine the black strap in a precise pattern around and around, stopping at your middle finger, which has to be bent in the proper way, and continue with your prayers.  You are supposed to do this all the days of your life, except for Saturdays and holidays. 

You also learn how to chant a specific blessing before and after your portion of the Torah is read for you during your Bar Mitzvah ceremony.  But I insisted on reading my portion by myself as I knew Hebrew - it was my second language.

The day of my thirteenth birthday approached and a hitch came up.

My birth certificate, as recorded in the city hall, showed a birth date of June 17th, but I was born on a day when the portion of the Torah reading was called Pinchos (Philip).  I was NOT named after a deceased member of the family – all names were taken.  So my Grandfather, my father’s father, the Rabbi of Chelm, decided to name me Philip.

But this portion is read in July, so it was decided that I would become a full-fledged man one month later than my official birth month.  There goes all the stargazing.  I am not a Gemini; I am probably a Cancer, and all the speculation of horoscopes is void.

The important Saturday finally arrived.  I wore a brand new hat.  My father, being in America at this time, missed this event.  My grandfather took his place.  We sat together.  I held on to a new Talis (prayer shawl) given to me that morning.  Grandpa adjusted the prayer shawl so it would show up and be clearly visible.  He told me to stand up straight, and when it was my turn to read the Torah, the Chazzan (Cantor) sang out: 

"Yamod, Pinchos Ben Boruch ha kohan." (Stand up Philip, the son of Boruch, the Kohan).

I stepped up, proudly pronounced the blessing, and when the silver pointer (used to guide the eye to the proper line to be read, without allowing a finger to touch the sacred, precious Torah) was directed to the first reading, with a clear voice, I read that part of the Bible.

I looked back to the partition where the women were sitting.  My mother, my grandmother and my aunts had happy tears in their eyes.  Everyone was proud to see me become a man.

After the Sabbath services were over the women brought out a honey cake and a bottle of vodka.  The minion drank to my new station in the community. They were happy to have a Kohan again for the Saturday services.

By becoming a Bar Mitzvah, I also assumed new responsibilities.  Besides having to be present every Saturday to be called up to the Torah, I also had to serve in other rituals.

I remember one evening, as I was rushing to a meeting with my Zionist group, and already late,  a hand reached out and grabbed me. 

"We need a 10^th man for the minion."

Services were being held for a bereaved family (a seven day ordeal), and they needed 10 Jews to complete the prescribed ritual.  I had to stay for more than an hour to fulfill my obligation.

Two months after becoming Bar Mitzvah, I had a most intense spiritually moving experience - an experience that still stays with me.  

It was during the most important holiday – Rosh Hashanah.  The Shul was packed with fearful, praying Jews.  Everyone physically capable of being there was present.  In the center of the huge hall was the "balemer," the pulpit, raised about six feet from the floor, with two staircases leading to it.

The Torah was read from there, the Cantor conducted the service from there, the Rabbi and the other clergymen were sitting there, and the call went out: 

"All Kohanim please come up."

Shoeless, in stocking feet, about 25 men solemnly pushed their way up to the balemer.  There were old men, younger men, and there I was - the youngest.

The service went on.  When the proper time came, I noticed that every man pulled his talis down over his face, covering his eyes and lowering his head.  We, Kohanim, in a circle, pulled our prayer shawls down over our heads.  It was told and believed that when the Kohanim give their blessing to the community, a special luminous light emerges from their hands and faces, and anyone looking at them will surely become blind.

We, the Kohanim, raised our hands over our heads, spread our fingers, two by two, forming a large space between them, and then touching thumb to thumb, and index finger to index finger (We were told that only real Kohanim can spread their fingers in this form.  Even little baby Kohanim are said to be able to do this from childhood on without practicing.) we recited our blessing in the name of God to all present,

 "May you be blessed and protected, may God’s grace be unto you………" (spoken in Hebrew, of course.)

It was an awesome moment.  I felt the deep solemnity of this occasion.  I recognized that I was a link in the chain of thousands of years of my family who were chosen to speak in the voice of God.

For that moment I knew I had the power of giving blessings and forgiveness and the promise of better times.

This feeling never came back again.  I began to question and doubt, and I formed my own, not so secure, view of life.

I started to prepare myself for a journey away from this shtetel.  But not before I participated in another ceremony in a Kohan’s life, which incidentally was also profitable.

Yes, you can earn special money for being a Kohan. It is called Pydion Ha-Ben. The redemption of the son (the first born).

Since Biblical times, the first-born son of a married couple belonged to the Temple. He became a server to God and the clergy.  But the Temple didn’t need all these young men.  They had enough freeloaders, besides, the parents wanted to keep their first son, so a loophole was devised.  The parents could redeem their child by buying him back for five shekels.  The redeemer must be a Kohan.

The ritual starts when the baby is thirty days old.  A family celebration is a must. Food and drinks are served, proper prayers are spoken, the child is brought out in the arms of the father and presented to the invited Kohan, who of course, blesses the child, and recites the prescribed prayers.

The father then must give the Kohan the ordered five coins.  They are usually in silver (there were no shekels available then, or now).

I was selected to be the redeemer of a first-born son, and received five shiny coins. I do not remember if they were zlotyo or rubles, but I put them in my pocket and played with them, enjoying the sound they made.  Before leaving this happy gathering, I returned the coins to the parents as a gift to their son.

Three years later, just before leaving for America, I was invited to participate in a second Pydion-Ha-ben.  This time, after receiving the five coins, I added five of my own to give for the child’s early education.  I could have kept the money for myself, but the gift gave me enormous pleasure.

Before leaving the shtetel, I packed my suitcase and included my Bar Mitzvah talis and the phylacteries.  By then I wasn't performing any religious rituals, but still I took the tokens of my becoming a man with me – and then I forgot all about them.

A few months ago, rummaging in an old drawer, I found the Tfilim, still in their pouch.  The talis has disappeared.  I opened the bag.  The two black square boxes were there, but the adhesive had deteriorated, exposing pages and pages of holy script, the Ten Commandments, and other writings.  The black straps were also falling apart and were badly faded.

I put them back as the 79 years of memories since my Bar Mitzvah rushed by.

I always maintained that I was born a Jew, and I will die as a Jew.  Now I am contemplating the idea of whether or not I should instruct that the Tfilim should be interred with me when the last goodbyes will be said.

It can’t hurt.