So I’m perusing JTA on the off chance Madonna’s announced herself a mohel and has decided to give her new African child a bris, and instead I find little ol’ Savannah, GA smack on the “breaking news” column:

A number of prominent U.S. Jewish and Israeli leaders are attending a conference in Georgia organized by a woman who wants the Jewish temple rebuilt.

Rabbi Arnold Mark Belzer, of the city’s Congregation Mickve Israel, said he would avoid it because Davis “has espoused ideas which qualify as religious extremism.” Diane Cantor, a former Savannah school board president and executive director of the liberal group Brit Tzedek v’Shalom, wrote in an Op-Ed for the Savannah Morning News that the conference “greatly concerned” her.

Man, my Jewdar needs some tweaking. I’ve passed by the JEA marquee advertising this event twenty times a day for weeks, but I just thought it was some Hadassah fundraiser to build another ORT school. I had no idea so many bigwigs would be so close by, discussing things too hot to talk about in Israel. I even missed the pre-coverage in the Savannah Morning News last Sunday.

My only hope now is to appeal directly to organizer Orly Benny Davis for a press pass on the grounds that I am the only Jewish blogger for many, many miles (although surely someone from Atlanta Jewish Life will make the ugly drive east.) Stay tuned to see if my charm and chutzpah get me into the Jewish version of the G8 summit…

After such a light Rosh Hashanah service, I figured Yom Kippur services at Mickve Israel had to be fairly innocuous. Honestly, it wouldn’tve surprised me to see hors d’oeurves in the foyer. (Okay, that’s not fair. But at least a couple of congregants — one related to me, ahem! — felt morning coffee was perfectly justified.)

And just like every Reform Jew knows there will be some joker sucking on a peppermint in the next row, all Reform Jews expect to be hit up for money on the High Holidays. The congregation president’s self-conscious, I-hate-to-ask-but-since-I-have-y’all-here-for-once plea to fill the synagogue’s coffers is as familiar as the Aleinu in the Jewish world I grew up in. So when the parnassus (that’s what they call him here; why, I have no idea) got up on the bima to do his job, I did what I usually do, which is read the parts of the Gates of Prayer that that don’t make the cut into the service. Other people stared into space, some slept (maybe they were repenting, but c’mon, who drools when they daven?), some surreptitiously tried to move the gum they’d been chewing into a piece of paper without making revealing crinkly sounds. The parnassus droned on about the truly fabulous renovation that’s still carrying a half million debt; the congregation accepted it, just like they would accept the rabbi’s rambling sermon afterwards, because it is as much a part of the holy day as the truncated liturgy.

Then a voice yelled from the back pew “Excuse me, but this is the Day of Atonement! How dare you talk about money!” Everyone shook out of his or her stupor and turned to look at a short-haired woman shaking her fist at the back. “I am Jewish, but this is a disgrace! Shame on you all!”

The parnassus, who might’ve been putting himself to sleep with his own speech, stammered only slightly. “Well, thank you for your comments, ma’am. In any case, I know we all have college funds to fill, but —”

“No! Don’t you people know what this is? Moneychangers in the temple, hello?” The heckler grabbed up her purse and her companion and rushed toward the back door. But not before delivering this kicker: “I hope you all find Jesus!”

A small murmur went through the pews. The parnassus recovered admirably. “Well, I guess she probably didn’t leave tzedakah.”

He finished his speech and everyone went back to sleep. Except for the Yenta, who being a nosy little parker, followed the woman outside.

On the stairs, she was already explaining to another young yenta that she had grown up Jewish but had “found” Christ years ago. She had come to Mickve Israel with another Christian friend to “get back to their Jewish roots” but after this service, she didn’t feel that there was a place for her. “That’s just what I can’t stand about the Jewish people! They’re so clannish! So materialistic!”

When we pointed out that she had been welcome at Yom Kippur services precisely because this congregation is open to all — meaning, no spendy High Holidays tickets — the irony was lost on her. I told her I don’t know what they do at Conservative and Orthodox shuls, but I always understood that asking for donations is de rigeur for modern Judaism.

This did not console her. “These are the End Times, people!” (I swear, I could hear the capital letters.) “Israel is surrounded! You all need to come to Christ and be saved!” And then she and her friend, who was obviously mortified by this her friend’s very un-Christian behavior, walked off across Monterey Square.

By this time folks were trickling out of the sanctuary, using the end of the parnassus’ unexpectedly dramatic half hour to escape the rabbi’s upcoming sermon. I reported what had happened and in typical Reform fashion, the reaction was mild.

El Yenta Man laughed and said “I don’t need to find Jesus. I know exactly where he is, thanks.”

Dr. Doris Greenberg, a longtime family practioner and congregant, snorted and said “Let her go over to the Jews for Jesus place on Abercorn. See how she feels when they ask her for her ten percent tithe.”

Here someone disrupted the holiest of days, and people made jokes. No one called the police, no one got too upset, no one even suggested that the doors be closed to non-members next year. I suppose some might interpret this as apathy, but instead I saw something else in this congregation that I’ve been judging as too casual and unobservant: Everybody I spoke to wished the Jesus intruder well on this day of forgiveness. This congregation may only wear yarmulkes half the time and attend synagogue infrequently, but at that moment, it seemed to understand the gist of being Jewish. Let’s hope they thread that understanding to their checkbooks so the parnassus can keep it to under fifteen minutes next year.

Note: The graphic, borrowed from fancydresscostumeshop.com, is NOT what the parnassus was wearing. But maybe the congregation wants to add a little something to the tzedakah box to get him this for next year’s speech?

Just so you know what you’re missing at the Jewish Family Services senior lunch, here’s an excerpt of yesterday’s conversation:

Beezy, who deserves the title “Head Yenta” far more than I: “Oy, dahlink, where are your sleeves?”

Me, looking down at my H&M tank top and realizing I should have worn something more modest to a religious old persons’ gathering instead of worrying about pit stains: “Eeep, do you think I’ll offend anyone?”

Beezy, motioning towards the men’s table across the room: “Ach, they can’t see you anyway. I meant I could never wear such a thing anymore. Y’know, this.” She reaches under one arm and gives herself a pinch.

Dorothy, who we’ll crown Lieutenant Yenta: “That’s nothing. Look at this!” She holds up her 89-year-old arms and swings them to and fro, the jigging flesh visible beneath her blouse resembling nothing so much as wet laundry swaying in the breeze.

Beezy: “Oh, yeah? When my grandkids come over, they all ask ‘Bubbie, who let the air out of your arms?'”

Cackles all around.

Anne, of the fabulously manicured hands, waves them dismissively: “Pshhh! You ladies have obviously never seen my Hootchie Kootchie Man dance.”

Mickey, 90 years old with a tiny little girls’ voice, claps her hands like a tiny little girl: “Yes, Annie, show them the Hootchie Kootchie Man!”

Anne, turns to me and nods, raises up one arm clad in turquoise polyester and grabs a handful of skin, forming an ersatz face. “Hootchie, hootchie, kootchie, kootchie!” As she shimmies in her chair, her arm does in fact resemble a dancing man. The entire table explodes into hysterical laughter, then dissolves into coughing fits. “My grandkids just love that one. Every time they visit I have to do it four or five times!”

At this point I have surrendered to the surreality of this situation and I say: “It’s a shame you don’t have a tattoo; you could charge for that. Or at least get a spot on Jay Leno.”

More cackling, more coughing.

Larry, the JFS coordinator comes over to see what a bunch of old women could possibly find so funny. “What’s going on here?”

Mickey, who has a high-pitched giggle that matches her sweet, tiny voice: “Show him, Annie!”

Anne: “Hootchie kootchie, hootchie kootchie!”

Larry, who moonlights as a jazz radio DJ and has probably never seen such ribaldry on his day job: “That’s…that’s very entertaining, Anne. But y’all need to calm down before the men’s table starts in with their tricks. I promise you don’t want to Morty Solomon to start with his ‘pull my finger’ routine.”

Beezy: “Hey Morty! Get over here!”

Who knew arm flap could provide such joy to people? Screw tricep curls, yo.