Our Torah tells us that on the other side of this narrow passage to a different way of being is a lot of wandering, confusion, uncertainty, conflict, mystery unfolding, learning, and the opportunity (and need!) for amazing growth and creativity and re-creation. And it lasts into the next generation and beyond. No short cuts. My hope is that we can use the counting of the Omer to help us prepare ourselves for the challenges ahead, strengthen our spiritual core, and respond to each day of the journey with compassion and maybe just a little more wisdom than the day before. See you at Sinai.

Lately I have been intrigued with Barchu, our “call to worship.” We find Barchu at the doorway between our preliminary warm-up prayers/psalms, and the formal communal prayers. It welcomes us into the portion of the liturgy known as “Shema and its Blessings.” Barchu signifies the official beginning of our communal worship.

It’s easy to see Barchu in the context of the siddur. The shaliach tzibbur, or service leader, calls upon us to praise God. (This is why the first line is traditionally recited only by the service leader.) We respond appropriately, blessing God as has been requested, and we continue to do so for the remainder of the service. But where does Barchu fall in the context of our lives? What do we take from it beyond the logistical and liturgical information just described?

As I reflect on our “call to worship,” I begin to think not only about what it means to be called, but the source of the call as well. It is easy to know when a person is calling. It’s audible, it’s concrete, it rings like a telephone or a text message. But calls do not only emanate from people. A moment, a recipe, a musical arrangement – all of these instances and more can cry out to us for something that will improve or complete what is not quite yet finished or resolved to satisfaction. Every day seems to call, “Are we there yet?” The answer is no. We are potentially being “called to task” with every breath.

Barchu, our call to worship, is not merely a call to worship. We are being called to bless. We may understand what that means in the context of worship, but how do I take this unique call and response into the world with me each day? Am I able to see each moment as opportunity to affect, change, raise, or complete a sacred interaction? When I hear a call, am I able to respond each time with blessing?

Contemporary Jewish composer Noah Aronson issued a Facebook invitation some months back, asking people to compose their own words to his musical kavanah for Barchu, entitled “Am I Awake.”

I was inspired by Noah’s invitation. Here’s what I considered: Am I awake, do I hear the call? Will I let these words change my life at all? How will I respond to the prayers’ request? When I have the choice, will I choose to bless?

If I can allow the call of Barchu to leave the synagogue with me and accompany me on my way, I remain awake to my potential to bring blessing to every-day moments and interactions. Seeing each day as a calling enables me to reflect and respond. Before I react, before I speak, before I turn away, before I dive in, I hear a call to bless. And then I give it my best shot.

So many personal and professional beginnings are this way. We are presented first with the abstract – the model, the vision, the philosophy, the potential. The stage is set. It is up to us to expand/concretize/customize the ideal model to our specific life circumstances. As happens in the ensuing chapters of this week’s parasha, mistakes will be made, and challenges will be set before us; great discovery (the fruit), confusion and risk (Hmmm … to touch or not to touch? To eat or not to eat?), stress (eviction from our comfort zones), and self-doubt (Cain’s jealousy of Abel), just to name a few. But none of these erase the blessings of the first creation, the larger context in which we operate, or the knowledge that these challenges were, and are, necessary for our growth and continued success. We learn from our mistakes, we grow from the stories of those who came before us, we continue to be inspired by the big picture, and we rely on the support of those around us.

Now that the flurry, celebration, and serious reflection of the chagim is (almost) behind us, we return to our individual and continual process of creating and learning. In our morning prayer Yotzer Or, we express gratitude for “m’chadeish b’chol yom tamid ma-asei v’reishit” – the never-ending, ever-changing, daily opportunities for us to be challenged, renewed, and refreshed by our role in the constant re-creation of the world at hand. Here’s to a sweet year ahead.

Rabbis Nehemia Polen and Larry Kushner, in their book, “Filling Words with Light,” share the teaching of Zev Wolf of Zhitomir, who interprets the Hebrew root shin/yud/resh not as shirim/songs, but as sh’yarim/leftovers. In certain Chassidic circles, being able to gather and share in the crumbs from the Rebbe’s table was considered an honor and a gift. In this context, shirei zimra become the remnants of melody. There is a certain type of beauty in a song, but what is of equal importance is what happens when we are done singing. Rabbis Polen and Kushner remind us of the ways in which the silence on the way home from the symphony is different than the silence on the way to the symphony. Experiencing the music has the ability to change everything that comes after.

I learned somewhere along the way that our name, Yisra-El/God-wrestler, could also be interpreted as “Yashir-El,” or “God will sing.” (I acknowledge that the two roots only sound the same, hence the use of “could be interpreted….”) I do love the idea that each of our lives is a melody that is somehow sung in this universe and, to a great degree, I am the composer of that song. I get to choose what gets sung through me. It also makes a difference to remember that I leave a trail of sh’yarim/crumbs behind me as I go.

We leave behind bits of ourselves in conversation and interaction, through teaching and parenting, with friends and strangers, consciously or unconsciously, whether we like it or not. We are making a difference of some sort, every day. It’s impossible not to. Each of us has a lifetime of after-effects/crumbs/remnants of our song.

In the book of Exodus, at the end of Chapter 33, Moses wants to see God, and is placed in the cleft of the cliff while God passes by. He then realizes that one cannot really see God as God is happening. We can, however, know God’s “after;” that is where the real difference is felt. I am reminded that, perhaps having been created in God’s image, each of us has our own “after.” What does it feel like after we have left a room? A relationship? A world? What crumbs have we left behind for others to digest?

For me, this is the significance of “HaBocheir b’shirei zimra,” the One who places the emphasis on the echoes of our songs. As precious as our words are, talk is cheap. Are we walking the talk on a day-to-day basis? Are we leaving little disasters in our wake, or the foundations upon which others can build? Are we increasing kindness, or unnecessary drama? Are we holding doors open for others, or slamming them behind us as we leave?

We do not get to choose whether or not we leave crumbs. But whether our shirei zimrah, the leftovers of our melodies, are nourishing for those who follow, that’s another story.

When various household chores needed attending to in our home, I would often call upon my children to perform those tasks. Not because they were particularly skilled in this area, and there was certainly no reward involved. They were either in the right (or wrong) place at that time, and the job needed doing. They were chosen. The jobs were theirs to do, simply because they were raised in this particular family. Other families may very well function differently than ours.

The Jewish story is different than other stories of the earth. Our Torah, our travels, our tragedies and our triumphs are unique to our community. And no more or less unique than those of other religions and races and cultures. These stories and histories are our foundation. There are no better or worse stories. There is no contest. To think that we all have the same world-view, or that our values are prioritized in the same way is unrealistic. I hear Aleinu as an expression of appreciation for my community’s assumed responsibility for the betterment of the world. My entire Jewish upbringing tells me that in order to live with integrity, and in harmony with others, I must embrace the reality of our differences, and fulfill the vision that my Jewish journey has handed me.

I am obligated to repair the world. I am obligated to seek out the k’doshim b’chol yom, the holiness inherent in every day. I am obligated to take care of others, to love unconditionally, to use my words wisely, to maintain an open heart, and to have positive relationships with those around me. For all that I am expected to do, which takes up my entire life and is the real reason that I am here, I am obligated l’shabei’akh/to sing praise. In reality, the attempt to live in that way is the praise. It is the choosing to be chosen.

I think that we say Aleinu at the end of the service, with one foot out the door, so that we remember why we came to begin with – to embrace our chosenness, to gather communal strength for the journey, and to mindfully incline ourselves toward that unending sense of responsibility that is our inheritance.

“Aleinu l’shabei’akh” may be my favorite prayer of all. Especially in these troubled times. There is great work to be done.

Those of us who lead communities in worship (shlichei tzibbur) are always striving toward this goal. Rarely do we encounter more challenge than when attempting to lift our communities with a new musical setting for a particular prayer. In defense of our congregations, I often feel that we are guilty of an unintentional lack of transparency from the bima. And so I share some thoughts that I hope will open minds and hearts to a broader perspective on the introduction of new music within the context of communal worship:

• The use of new melodies in worship grows from a desire to help the words of the siddur or the poem or the iyyun (contextualization or illuminating thought) jump off the page and into someone’s heart. The musical settings are means to an end. As a shaliach tzibbur, with any number of diverse congregants present at any given moment, we must make use of a vast repertoire. Not every melody will unlock every heart, and the “right” melody is dependent not only upon the individual desires of each congregant, but upon the ever-changing needs of the community and the world from week-to-week, or even day-to-day.

• I do not have to produce sound in order to pray. I’m always surprised when new musical settings for our prayers are judged primarily by their capacity for immediate communal singing. There are times when I have so much more to gain by opening my heart and my ears instead of my mouth, and allowing the music to carry me to places that my own voice cannot go. Many of us awaken suddenly and significantly at the symphony, or a Broadway musical, or in numerous other venues where deep engagement is achieved simply by means of a listening heart. We do not participate in a sunrise or a rainbow or other awe-inspiring moments except by bearing witness, and allowing them to “do their thing.” These are moments of blessing. In worship, I do not want the enormity of my gratitude, or longing, or grief, or joy to be limited by my own capacity for vocal expression. Sh’ma. Listening from the heart, sometimes even to melodies that we have heard a hundred times or more, is also participating, unifying, strengthening, and praying.

• Really beautiful communal melodies often take time to learn. What if we treated new melodies as honored guests? Wanting to put our best foot forward, we can welcome them warmly, engage them in conversation, listen to and learn from them, and invite them to return in order that we can get to know each other better. I need to open myself up a bit, in order to give them permission to do the same. Every beloved, cherished, old melody was once new.

Some melodies will become old friends, some will challenge and teach me, some will hold the key to someone else’s heart, and I can appreciate that as well. I will enjoy sitting quietly with some, and audibly expressing my joys, hopes, or sorrows with others. Some relationships will deepen more quickly, and some melodies will never be more than acquaintances. But they can be recognized as members of our congregations who have come to share their gifts, and are strengthened in turn by our open doors and hearts.

I have been thinking about two English phrases lately – “taking something for granted,” and “it’s a given.” Both cause us to slough something off as too common to be useful, old information, routine on its way to rut. But think for a moment – if something is “granted,” it’s given freely, a wish come true; the “givens” in our lives are gifts that are shared with us through no merit of our own – gravity, sunlight, intelligence, creativity, conscience, to name a few. What we take for granted may be as far away as another solar system, or as close as our next breath.

The climactic verse of the entire book of Psalms reads, “Kol han’shamah t’hallel YaH,” most often translated along the lines of, “Let every soul praise God.” Often-times it is noted that the Hebrew word for soul, “N’SHaMah,” shares a root with “N’SHeeMah,” the word for breath. And so we might just as credibly conclude our psalms with “Each and every breath will praise God.” How is that supposed to work? I have sung/proclaimed/taught that verse in Hebrew hundreds of times. So what? What difference does it make?

When sharing Psalm 150 in the context of a morning/shacharit service, I often ask people to hold their breath. Only until they are ever so slightly uncomfortable and would like to take another.

Within a few seconds, everyone is breathing normally again, and we are reminded that, whether or not we agree on where our breath comes from or goes to, we must all agree that this most essential element of our continued existence on this earth is not ours to keep. Along with all of the elements of our bodies and the universe that enable us to breathe at all, each individual breath is a given, which we take. No matter the giver, it is a gift that has been granted, through no effort of our own.

Now, how many times have you received a gift from a friend, and have had the opportunity to say to him/her, “You know that ____ you gave me? I use it all the time!” What a treat to either share or receive such a comment.

How much the more-so when you can say, or get the chance to hear, “You know that ____ you gave me? I use it all the time … and I think of you every time I use it.”

Kol han’shamah t’hallel YaH – you know that breath I was just given? And the next one? And the one after that? I use it all the time. And if I can remember to literally “take it for granted” every time I use it, I will learn to truly appreciate it as a “given," and take special care as to how it is shared with the world.

It could be a game-changer.