Well, I have been out of the picture for a while, I guess. Things happened, I guess and somehow or other, I was not posting! So, sorry for the disappearance. But I have been practicing Judaism. Basically living my life, I guess. I have a few stories for the week.
1. My boyfriend and I went to a Shabbat dinner at a friends' house.
2. Purim Party in the Mission
3. I met up with an ex-boyfriend from college, who is Lutheran and is now in Theological seminary, and had the joy of telling him I am converting. It went well.
Right now, I am going to write about number 2 on the list - Purim!
This was my first Purim, and the bar is high. Arriving, I wasn't quite sure if everyone would be wearing costumes during the reading or not, so I hedged my bets and had a costume that wasn't too crazy, but was at least funny enough to be different from my usual self. I was relieved, when we got to the place to see a man in bunny ears in line ahead of me. It seemed to say I had made the right choice.
we waited as the room filled up. And filled, and continued to fill. Some men got on stage and started to say blessings, but nothing could be heard above the din, except the occasional "brichu."
Finally, after what seemed like a longer time than I was expecting, the reading began. Our first reader was a woman I knew, but barely recognized, as she was dressed, very convincingly in a Wonder Woman outfit. Bare flesh exposed, breasts lofted high by a red and gold bustier, tight short-shorts, and wristbands, she had the whole thing going on. And in this costume, she swayed back and forth, confidently and lyrically singing out the Hebrew as if it were any other Sabbath morning service. She was brilliant. Gorrilla men, kings, and bunnies filled the room. Princess Leia, dancing girls, and many nondescript costumes held people listening, rapt, to the story of Queen Esther, Haman, and Mordecai.
We dutifully cheered at each mention of Haman's name, but I have to say, I felt a bit wrong about that. Sure he was almost certainly not a nice guy. But what did I have against him personally? And furthermore, what good does it do to boo and hiss, when he got what was coming to him - impaled on a stake, no less?
I am confused about this whole issue of Jews and "others" as a kind of "us against them" theme. I realize it is popular and recurring. But the Judaism that I have found, which I like, sees people as more of all one race. And the Jews are part of that race. Plus, as a convert, I see all people as potential Jews - of only they knew. But I'm not out to proselytize.
When I told my ex-boyfriend that I had gone to a Purim party, he said, is it one of those parties where the Jews celebrate by going around and bashing on other Jews? I was offended, on two counts. One, as I said to him, Do you really think people in San Francisco would be like that, and if they were, do you think I would hang out with them? (What I didn't tell him, but which is true, and made me laugh, is that my friends are the most mild-mannered, bookish people you will ever meet.) But I was offended in a way even to know that other Jews do that. Sure, it happens in the story. Instead of all the Jews in being killed, they go out and kill thousands of the descendants of Amalek. I fail to see how that is such a great victory. I should think that just celebrating the sparing of their lives would have been enough. But I guess in that day, with a more militaristic, survivalist mindset, maybe they had to do that in order to establish their social power. Nasty and mean. And also outdated. Obviously, we don't think that way anymore. Plus, it says in the reading that the prescribed observation for the holiday is feasting and merriment - not repeating the conquering of other tribes.
And that's the way I learned it - that to celebrate Purim includes a commandment to get drunk so that you can't even tell the difference between Haman and Mordecai. You stop knowing who is good and bad, and simply enjoy yourself and enjoy your life.
So the idea that Jews now, today, in Jerusalem, Brooklyn, or anywhere, would "celebrate" Purim by reenacting an out-moded tribal violence seems both incongruous and offensive. And not valid, in terms of my belief. If we are to love each other, we must recognize we are all full of mistakes and transgressions. As the Talmud says, "Even the transgressors in Israel are as full of good deeds as a pomegranate is of seeds" [Eruvin 19a].
Friday, March 13, 2009
Friday, February 27, 2009
Orthodox
Last week I visited a Modern Orthodox synagogue. It was my first American Orthodox experience (my first one ever was in France). And it was probably my first Modern Orthodox time, to my knowledge. And I found out I liked it. I really liked it. In fact, it is kind of shaking up my pre-conceived ideas about how I found myself finding Judaism how much I liked it.
I've always known that I liked Orthodox ideas. I just was never sure how much I would like it in practice. I am a little scared of those cult-like communities I hear about where Ultra-Orthodox Jews live all together and hardly go out of their community. But this was not that.
I even like the Mechitzah. Who would have thought I would like a mechitzah? I found it comforting, in a way. It was like, I didn't have to worry about sitting next to guys I didn't want to sit next to. The only awkward thing was that it meant only women were going to come up and greet me. But a very nice man did come out to see me when I came in the front door, and told me where to go. I was grateful for that.
And I liked the room. I really liked the room. It was odd, because it didn't look very big or special from the outside, but on the inside, it was very big, and it felt very special. Perhaps because it was somewhat of a secret. You didn't know what was inside from looking at it from the outside. The pews were nice. The lighting was nice. The Mechitzah was low - not a full mechitzah - and it, too, was nice. Visually appealing. There, but not too distracting. And of course the Aron was nice. Understated, but clearly attractive in a respectful sort of way.
The most unusual thing about the room was that it was a very large space, with a high, peaked ceiling - it occurs to me now that perhaps I like it because it reminds me somewhat of my parents church from home, only with more rugs. And, like my parents church, it is a dark room, with lots of wood, but that somehow lets in a lot of light. I figured out the secret. They had several rows of small, widely spaced, yellow-glass windows set into the sweeping, high sides of the ceiling/roof. And on the patio side, the women's side, light came in through large glass doors, each of which sported a very large and clearly visible exit sign with an arrow pointing toward the door. I was reminded of the Mitzvah of removing all hazards from your home. This seemed very much in line.
I asked the man who greeted me whether I needed to keep my head covered (even though I'm not married). He said I did not, but that it was perfectly appropriate. I kept my hat on.
The only part of the Mechitzah I did not love was that when the brought the Torah around before and after it was read, they only carried it through the men's section. And as they did that, the women would line up along the wall to reach over and touch the torah scrolls with their hands or siddurs. It felt low, to me. It felt base. I felt I was being asked to do something undignified. Of course I love the Torah. But if you want me to kiss the scrolls, you are going to have to bring it to me. Even if it means handing it over to a woman. I am told this is done in some synagogues, and I think it is a perfectly acceptable compromise. Otherwise, don't ask me to participate in this ritual. I did it this time, but never again. That will be my protest.
Other than that, I had no problems with the separation of men and women. Children, of course, ambled up and down the aisles of both sides, boys and girls. It got to the point where the rabbi had to stand up and ask parents to go and gather their children ("now"), because there were "roaming gangs of short people." Not that they wanted children silent or out of sight and mind. Just that they were getting a little unruly.
And strangely, it did not bother me that only men read from the Torah, and spoke from the dais. A little boy even sat up front in one of the big chairs beside the Aron. And the rabbis seemed young to me - they were not much older than I was. And only the men wore prayer shawls. But this was somewhat relieving. I respected the fact that they wore prayer shawls and read from the Torah. I appreciated it more because I realize it is a big task to read the Torah, and a large show of humility and devotion to display your faith by wearing a prayer shawl. None of the women wore them, unlike the Conservative synagogue I have been attending. But even though I like wearing a shawl at that synagogue, I appreciated the fact that I was not expected to here. It made me feel that I don't have to measure up to guys on their level. They have their own expectations of who and how they are going to be in Shul, and I have mine. The expectations of me as a woman are different. Not better or worse, just different.
And men don't separate women away because they don't want them to be near them. Quite possibly the opposite. My sense is that they don't want to have a conflict between devotion to God and devotion to their female partner in the same moment. It is upholding one by upholding the other - not diluting each by trying to do too much at once. I respect that. I even appreciate it. And it makes me respect the men more for being who they are, and for not feeling like they have to spend every minute of every day chasing after the feminine in their lives. It is good for them to take time out and focus on something else.
but that didn't stop them from turning around and scanning over the women's section of the room (which was decidedly less full than the men's), blithely, as if we couldn't see them looking at us. And we pretended we didn't. Or at least I did.
And maybe what you have just read will confirm your beliefs that Orthodox Judaism is way off, out of date, and irrelevant to modern society. That may be right. But maybe that's why I like it. It holds onto itself despite what outside ideas and pressures might seem to say. It doesn't necessarily think it's better or more right, just that it's better and more right that it continues to do what it has been doing for a long time. And this Shul, by comparison to many, would probably be considered "loose." But again, I have to say it was scary to me how much I liked it. Scary in an exciting way. Scary in a new way. A way that makes me wonder if Orthodox Judiasm isn't something I want to look into more. Perhaps it isn't something I should be afraid of. Perhaps it is something I have been looking for all along. I don't know. But I guess we'll see.
I've always known that I liked Orthodox ideas. I just was never sure how much I would like it in practice. I am a little scared of those cult-like communities I hear about where Ultra-Orthodox Jews live all together and hardly go out of their community. But this was not that.
I even like the Mechitzah. Who would have thought I would like a mechitzah? I found it comforting, in a way. It was like, I didn't have to worry about sitting next to guys I didn't want to sit next to. The only awkward thing was that it meant only women were going to come up and greet me. But a very nice man did come out to see me when I came in the front door, and told me where to go. I was grateful for that.
And I liked the room. I really liked the room. It was odd, because it didn't look very big or special from the outside, but on the inside, it was very big, and it felt very special. Perhaps because it was somewhat of a secret. You didn't know what was inside from looking at it from the outside. The pews were nice. The lighting was nice. The Mechitzah was low - not a full mechitzah - and it, too, was nice. Visually appealing. There, but not too distracting. And of course the Aron was nice. Understated, but clearly attractive in a respectful sort of way.
The most unusual thing about the room was that it was a very large space, with a high, peaked ceiling - it occurs to me now that perhaps I like it because it reminds me somewhat of my parents church from home, only with more rugs. And, like my parents church, it is a dark room, with lots of wood, but that somehow lets in a lot of light. I figured out the secret. They had several rows of small, widely spaced, yellow-glass windows set into the sweeping, high sides of the ceiling/roof. And on the patio side, the women's side, light came in through large glass doors, each of which sported a very large and clearly visible exit sign with an arrow pointing toward the door. I was reminded of the Mitzvah of removing all hazards from your home. This seemed very much in line.
I asked the man who greeted me whether I needed to keep my head covered (even though I'm not married). He said I did not, but that it was perfectly appropriate. I kept my hat on.
The only part of the Mechitzah I did not love was that when the brought the Torah around before and after it was read, they only carried it through the men's section. And as they did that, the women would line up along the wall to reach over and touch the torah scrolls with their hands or siddurs. It felt low, to me. It felt base. I felt I was being asked to do something undignified. Of course I love the Torah. But if you want me to kiss the scrolls, you are going to have to bring it to me. Even if it means handing it over to a woman. I am told this is done in some synagogues, and I think it is a perfectly acceptable compromise. Otherwise, don't ask me to participate in this ritual. I did it this time, but never again. That will be my protest.
Other than that, I had no problems with the separation of men and women. Children, of course, ambled up and down the aisles of both sides, boys and girls. It got to the point where the rabbi had to stand up and ask parents to go and gather their children ("now"), because there were "roaming gangs of short people." Not that they wanted children silent or out of sight and mind. Just that they were getting a little unruly.
And strangely, it did not bother me that only men read from the Torah, and spoke from the dais. A little boy even sat up front in one of the big chairs beside the Aron. And the rabbis seemed young to me - they were not much older than I was. And only the men wore prayer shawls. But this was somewhat relieving. I respected the fact that they wore prayer shawls and read from the Torah. I appreciated it more because I realize it is a big task to read the Torah, and a large show of humility and devotion to display your faith by wearing a prayer shawl. None of the women wore them, unlike the Conservative synagogue I have been attending. But even though I like wearing a shawl at that synagogue, I appreciated the fact that I was not expected to here. It made me feel that I don't have to measure up to guys on their level. They have their own expectations of who and how they are going to be in Shul, and I have mine. The expectations of me as a woman are different. Not better or worse, just different.
And men don't separate women away because they don't want them to be near them. Quite possibly the opposite. My sense is that they don't want to have a conflict between devotion to God and devotion to their female partner in the same moment. It is upholding one by upholding the other - not diluting each by trying to do too much at once. I respect that. I even appreciate it. And it makes me respect the men more for being who they are, and for not feeling like they have to spend every minute of every day chasing after the feminine in their lives. It is good for them to take time out and focus on something else.
but that didn't stop them from turning around and scanning over the women's section of the room (which was decidedly less full than the men's), blithely, as if we couldn't see them looking at us. And we pretended we didn't. Or at least I did.
And maybe what you have just read will confirm your beliefs that Orthodox Judaism is way off, out of date, and irrelevant to modern society. That may be right. But maybe that's why I like it. It holds onto itself despite what outside ideas and pressures might seem to say. It doesn't necessarily think it's better or more right, just that it's better and more right that it continues to do what it has been doing for a long time. And this Shul, by comparison to many, would probably be considered "loose." But again, I have to say it was scary to me how much I liked it. Scary in an exciting way. Scary in a new way. A way that makes me wonder if Orthodox Judiasm isn't something I want to look into more. Perhaps it isn't something I should be afraid of. Perhaps it is something I have been looking for all along. I don't know. But I guess we'll see.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Menses
I think, at first blush, it might appear that the Orthodox convention of not touching a woman during her menses because she is "impure" is a nasty, mysogynistic, patriarchal trope. But that's only looking at it from the man's side.
What about the women? Who asks the woman, do you want to be touched during your period? My feeling is, it may even be a highly reverential convention. In fact, I kind of like the idea. Because if you ask me, I would rather NOT be touched while I'm menstruating.
It is hard to explain some of the things that occur to a woman during her period. Quite possibly, there is no explanation, so it is futile trying. It is more a question of accepting a series of facts - something men find difficult, because they like the idea of having control over their immediate surroundings. The fact that they cannot (and nor can the women) control their periods then probably appears quite frightening for them. And disturbing, given the essential nature of the event.
But an essential fact, at least for me, is that I become quite sensitive at that time. Beforehand, it takes the form of emotional volatility, and after it begins, it becomes a physical sensitivity, wherein I do not want to be touched, because to be touched by anyone amounts to sensory overload, and what I need is sensory deprivation. It's like there is so much going on inside me, that I can't quite understand, and so it is unhelpful for people to try and make it better by putting their hands on me, because that would actually make it worse.
In general, I don't want to be asocial, but those first few days of menstruation almost always cause me to get the sense that I'd like to just crawl into a cave for a few days and not go anywhere.
So in that sense, I think the Biblical injunction for a man not to touch a woman during her period makes sense. MAYBE THE WOMEN DON'T WANT TO BE TOUCHED. But it's hard to get the men to "hands-off" with their hands-on propensities. Therefore psychological reasoning has to be employed. There is almost no way, I am sure, to get a man to not want to touch his wife, and so by calling the whole episode "ritually impure" could quite possibly be the only way.
In our language, the ideas of "impure" and "unclean" have immoral connotations. But I wonder if this is really the case with the original intention of the commandment? Does calling something "unclean" or "impure" necessarily mean that it is evil, or just that it is something that should not be approached or messed with? I vote we should turn the idea around. Because English has obviously corrupted the idea of what this whole process is supposed to mean, I suggest we should call the menses "holy." They should be set apart. But they should be untouchable. Even a woman herself cannot mess with her menses, and so why should she be forced to interact with a man during that time, who understands even less about what is going on with her than she does?
I suggest we elevate the status of menstruating women to almost or nearly a kind of "holy of holies," since it is not only an incomprehensible force of nature, it is also the force of nature that allows human life to continue. It is the sign and the wellspring of human procreation. It is a reminder of the trauma that brings us into life, as well as the end we will eventually meet. It is eternity and death, entwined together, in one bright, crimson flow.
Who could touch that? Who could say, I will have my way over you, in that time? That time is sacred, as it should be. The woman should have every right to wall herself away, and say, hands off me. That is the time when men DON'T get to say what happens. It is when a woman's body says, "This is my time, you will obey the order of my universe." There is no arguing with such a command. Argue at thy peril, I should say.
And if you choose to do otherwise, that's your choice. If there is one thing we have, it is free will. But on my time, and in my life, I have to say, if I could enforce this commandment in my life, I would be grateful for a few days off, and a little bit of time for myself. Everyone needs that once in a while. Just how lucky are we that we have it built in for us?
1-15-09
Taylor M.
What about the women? Who asks the woman, do you want to be touched during your period? My feeling is, it may even be a highly reverential convention. In fact, I kind of like the idea. Because if you ask me, I would rather NOT be touched while I'm menstruating.
It is hard to explain some of the things that occur to a woman during her period. Quite possibly, there is no explanation, so it is futile trying. It is more a question of accepting a series of facts - something men find difficult, because they like the idea of having control over their immediate surroundings. The fact that they cannot (and nor can the women) control their periods then probably appears quite frightening for them. And disturbing, given the essential nature of the event.
But an essential fact, at least for me, is that I become quite sensitive at that time. Beforehand, it takes the form of emotional volatility, and after it begins, it becomes a physical sensitivity, wherein I do not want to be touched, because to be touched by anyone amounts to sensory overload, and what I need is sensory deprivation. It's like there is so much going on inside me, that I can't quite understand, and so it is unhelpful for people to try and make it better by putting their hands on me, because that would actually make it worse.
In general, I don't want to be asocial, but those first few days of menstruation almost always cause me to get the sense that I'd like to just crawl into a cave for a few days and not go anywhere.
So in that sense, I think the Biblical injunction for a man not to touch a woman during her period makes sense. MAYBE THE WOMEN DON'T WANT TO BE TOUCHED. But it's hard to get the men to "hands-off" with their hands-on propensities. Therefore psychological reasoning has to be employed. There is almost no way, I am sure, to get a man to not want to touch his wife, and so by calling the whole episode "ritually impure" could quite possibly be the only way.
In our language, the ideas of "impure" and "unclean" have immoral connotations. But I wonder if this is really the case with the original intention of the commandment? Does calling something "unclean" or "impure" necessarily mean that it is evil, or just that it is something that should not be approached or messed with? I vote we should turn the idea around. Because English has obviously corrupted the idea of what this whole process is supposed to mean, I suggest we should call the menses "holy." They should be set apart. But they should be untouchable. Even a woman herself cannot mess with her menses, and so why should she be forced to interact with a man during that time, who understands even less about what is going on with her than she does?
I suggest we elevate the status of menstruating women to almost or nearly a kind of "holy of holies," since it is not only an incomprehensible force of nature, it is also the force of nature that allows human life to continue. It is the sign and the wellspring of human procreation. It is a reminder of the trauma that brings us into life, as well as the end we will eventually meet. It is eternity and death, entwined together, in one bright, crimson flow.
Who could touch that? Who could say, I will have my way over you, in that time? That time is sacred, as it should be. The woman should have every right to wall herself away, and say, hands off me. That is the time when men DON'T get to say what happens. It is when a woman's body says, "This is my time, you will obey the order of my universe." There is no arguing with such a command. Argue at thy peril, I should say.
And if you choose to do otherwise, that's your choice. If there is one thing we have, it is free will. But on my time, and in my life, I have to say, if I could enforce this commandment in my life, I would be grateful for a few days off, and a little bit of time for myself. Everyone needs that once in a while. Just how lucky are we that we have it built in for us?
1-15-09
Taylor M.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Hanukkah night One
I thought it was nice that the hosts of the party wanted everyone to have their own menorah. They even brought a supply of extras to give those who didn't have one. It's a cheap tin thing, but it holds eight candles - nine, counting the one you use to light them.
Again, it's about synergy. One menorah probably would have done it. But the effect of lighting so many more candles means the light combines to create even more light, not in an additive way, more of a multiplication. Two candles isn't one plus one so much as two times two. Which is twice as bright as two on their own.
Kind of like human relationships.
And I had another gift. After I arrived and washed my hands, I came into the kitchen and announced to the host that it was my first Hanukkah, and that I was converting. "Mazal tov!" she cried. She thew her arms around me, and sang the "Mazal tov" song while dancing with me in circles around the kitchen. It was a magical moment.
That is how I see Judiasm. Magical moments that enhance the light of your soul without regard for who you are on the outside. It honors the truth of your just being there. Which is worth dancing about.
Some people believe you have to be born Jewish in order to be Jewish. Other people say a Jewish soul is a Jewish soul, whether you were born into the tradition or not, and can only be revealed by exposure. I don't know if it is presumptuous to say I might have one or not. All I know is I feel like I'm coming home.
Again, it's about synergy. One menorah probably would have done it. But the effect of lighting so many more candles means the light combines to create even more light, not in an additive way, more of a multiplication. Two candles isn't one plus one so much as two times two. Which is twice as bright as two on their own.
Kind of like human relationships.
And I had another gift. After I arrived and washed my hands, I came into the kitchen and announced to the host that it was my first Hanukkah, and that I was converting. "Mazal tov!" she cried. She thew her arms around me, and sang the "Mazal tov" song while dancing with me in circles around the kitchen. It was a magical moment.
That is how I see Judiasm. Magical moments that enhance the light of your soul without regard for who you are on the outside. It honors the truth of your just being there. Which is worth dancing about.
Some people believe you have to be born Jewish in order to be Jewish. Other people say a Jewish soul is a Jewish soul, whether you were born into the tradition or not, and can only be revealed by exposure. I don't know if it is presumptuous to say I might have one or not. All I know is I feel like I'm coming home.
Hanukkah by surprise
Hanukkah started over a week ago, on December 12, when I went for a home-grown Shabbat dinner for those seeking their way in Jewish spirituality. Those in attendance included a former Ultra-Orthodox woman who now felt nervous about wearing pants and her not-so-Christian Christian boyfriend, some old, thoughtful men, a woman with a strong accent, another old woman who had lost a lot of relatives in the Holocaust in Germany, but who's own family had "assimilated" themselves and consequently she was raised in a highly anti-Semitic atmosphere, and to this day cannot go to synagogue because she can't stand to be around 'a lot of Jewish people,' and future converts, like myself.
Just after I walked in the front door and met the hosting rabbi, a young girl, about six, trotted up to me, in a woven hoodie, and said, "Would you like a dreidel?" She held out a bright orange plastic dreidel, and I said yes, thank you. I told her, this is the best dreidel I've ever had! Which was true. It is the only dreidel I've ever had. Not counting one that we played with at my grandmother's house when I was small, and we learned about spinning dreidel and Hanukkah gelt as sort of a cultural curiosity, in comparison to our Christmas traditions, which were clearly more advanced.
This dreidel was real.
"You're welcome!" the girl chirped, and scampered off to the kitchen to offer more dreidels to other guests.
That was Lucy. She was a special girl and a real light to the evening. She lit up the room, and seemed like she knew what she was doing. I knew her mother. I had taken a class with her, and she is the one who had told me about the organization, and that's how I ended up at the Shabbos dinner. And I knew that her mother was converting. What I didn't know was that both she and her husband were converting together. They both looked like they could have been Jewish, if they had said, "we're Jewish," and you didn't know any differently. (I am only now becoming familiar with what Jewish "looks" like - though my caveat here is that there really is no way that "Jewish" people "look." For every one person that fits the stereotype, there are five or seven who do not. And the "stereotype" is not even a fixed definition. So you really can't know.) But they were choosing it together. I thought that was just beautiful. And I think their inspiration was their child. It almost seems as if she came along and infused their lives with a love and need of God that they hadn't known was there before. And she took on the job of a child with zeal and unadulterated enthusiasm. She was there to take the cover off the challah, to offer words of wisdom, to greet people, read their souls, and give them gifts.
Throughout the dinner, Lucy would go off to the other room, and periodically return with a "Happy Chanukah" card, colored in marker, for each of the guests. To me, she gave a puzzle. "Do you like puzzles?" She asked. I do, I replied. She disappeared and returned with a "Happy Chanukah" puzzle, colored primarily in purple marker. "You can put it in a special place and work on it every day," she told me. Thank you, I said.
I did put the puzzle in a special place. But I wouldn't dream of taking it apart. It's the work of a special girl, and also a very special gift.
I like the thought of Hanukkah. To me, before it arrived, I had the sense it was a minor holiday. It's not as important as Rosh Hashanah or Pesach, and it's a more recent addition to the Jewish calendar, sometimes derided by Jews as a lame way of competing with other major religions who also have a light-related holiday around the darkest time of the year. But why shouldn't they have one? It makes rational sense.
At the beginning of the Shabbos dinner, the rabbi asked us all to say one thing that made us feel a sense of light and warmth. I thought it seemed a little condescending, a little childish, and the answers were predictable. The answers were of course the things that we do in the dark and cold to make us feel light and warmth - gathering with family and friends, lighting candles, and eating warm, spicy foods. My answer was that we can be thankful for the dark and the cold for making us appreciate these things all the more.
But later on, I could see the wisdom of focusing on the light instead of the dark. Even if the light is very small and the dark is very big, and the cold more pervasive than the warm, it is still a good practice to focus on the good within the bad. It makes you feel better. If you lament the cold and dark that is everywhere, that is where you will be - alone, and outside longing to be in. It is better to be drawn in by the light. Let yourself fall into that tractor beam, and then your worries and your self-delusions will be a little less harsh. You will all leave your baggage outside, to be consumed by the wind, or eroded by the elements, and your tiny, shining inner self will join with the light of others to create not one tiny flame, but a great ball of warmth that will effectively thwart the effects of loneliness and create a cohesive whole. It's about synergy. Inclusivity. Focusing on the positive. It's about strength.
Just after I walked in the front door and met the hosting rabbi, a young girl, about six, trotted up to me, in a woven hoodie, and said, "Would you like a dreidel?" She held out a bright orange plastic dreidel, and I said yes, thank you. I told her, this is the best dreidel I've ever had! Which was true. It is the only dreidel I've ever had. Not counting one that we played with at my grandmother's house when I was small, and we learned about spinning dreidel and Hanukkah gelt as sort of a cultural curiosity, in comparison to our Christmas traditions, which were clearly more advanced.
This dreidel was real.
"You're welcome!" the girl chirped, and scampered off to the kitchen to offer more dreidels to other guests.
That was Lucy. She was a special girl and a real light to the evening. She lit up the room, and seemed like she knew what she was doing. I knew her mother. I had taken a class with her, and she is the one who had told me about the organization, and that's how I ended up at the Shabbos dinner. And I knew that her mother was converting. What I didn't know was that both she and her husband were converting together. They both looked like they could have been Jewish, if they had said, "we're Jewish," and you didn't know any differently. (I am only now becoming familiar with what Jewish "looks" like - though my caveat here is that there really is no way that "Jewish" people "look." For every one person that fits the stereotype, there are five or seven who do not. And the "stereotype" is not even a fixed definition. So you really can't know.) But they were choosing it together. I thought that was just beautiful. And I think their inspiration was their child. It almost seems as if she came along and infused their lives with a love and need of God that they hadn't known was there before. And she took on the job of a child with zeal and unadulterated enthusiasm. She was there to take the cover off the challah, to offer words of wisdom, to greet people, read their souls, and give them gifts.
Throughout the dinner, Lucy would go off to the other room, and periodically return with a "Happy Chanukah" card, colored in marker, for each of the guests. To me, she gave a puzzle. "Do you like puzzles?" She asked. I do, I replied. She disappeared and returned with a "Happy Chanukah" puzzle, colored primarily in purple marker. "You can put it in a special place and work on it every day," she told me. Thank you, I said.
I did put the puzzle in a special place. But I wouldn't dream of taking it apart. It's the work of a special girl, and also a very special gift.
I like the thought of Hanukkah. To me, before it arrived, I had the sense it was a minor holiday. It's not as important as Rosh Hashanah or Pesach, and it's a more recent addition to the Jewish calendar, sometimes derided by Jews as a lame way of competing with other major religions who also have a light-related holiday around the darkest time of the year. But why shouldn't they have one? It makes rational sense.
At the beginning of the Shabbos dinner, the rabbi asked us all to say one thing that made us feel a sense of light and warmth. I thought it seemed a little condescending, a little childish, and the answers were predictable. The answers were of course the things that we do in the dark and cold to make us feel light and warmth - gathering with family and friends, lighting candles, and eating warm, spicy foods. My answer was that we can be thankful for the dark and the cold for making us appreciate these things all the more.
But later on, I could see the wisdom of focusing on the light instead of the dark. Even if the light is very small and the dark is very big, and the cold more pervasive than the warm, it is still a good practice to focus on the good within the bad. It makes you feel better. If you lament the cold and dark that is everywhere, that is where you will be - alone, and outside longing to be in. It is better to be drawn in by the light. Let yourself fall into that tractor beam, and then your worries and your self-delusions will be a little less harsh. You will all leave your baggage outside, to be consumed by the wind, or eroded by the elements, and your tiny, shining inner self will join with the light of others to create not one tiny flame, but a great ball of warmth that will effectively thwart the effects of loneliness and create a cohesive whole. It's about synergy. Inclusivity. Focusing on the positive. It's about strength.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Paradox
I am wrestling with a paradox right now. I always seem to be wrestling with one paradox or another - and not even just recently. It seems everywhere I turn, I want to define or understand something, but what it is I want to define defies definition. Whatever it is turns out to be both one thing and something else at exactly the same time and at the same time, both of those things that it is are still it. Does that make sense? Probably not. Because it makes no sense. And yet, at the same time, It makes all the sense in the world. See what I mean?
And I wonder, is this a little bit of what it feels like to "wrestle with G-d"? If the people Israel are so called because that, reportedly, is what they do, or what Jabob did, then is this what it's like? Wrestling with an unknown being, who is both an Angel of G-d, and G-d at the same time? Is wrestling with G-d in fact wrestling with the immense and unending paradox of existence, which also both ends and doesn't end, begins and doesn't begin? And we come up with a draw, don't we? We wrestle with G-d, but we don't really get anywhere. That's because there pretty much isn't anywhere to get. We're already here. And we are going to be here. And once we're done wrestling, everything will likely be much more boring in fact, and we'll probably remember having a lot more fun being in the game than out of it.
So this wrestling business is tough. I can't say I like it. It's actually quite frustrating, and I do feel like I'm getting nowhere, because all of my answers lead back to the question. And that's always the way, isn't it? But at the end of the day, I think I am going to feel that if I haven't at least grappled with these notions, then I haven't even really done my job.
And I wonder, is this a little bit of what it feels like to "wrestle with G-d"? If the people Israel are so called because that, reportedly, is what they do, or what Jabob did, then is this what it's like? Wrestling with an unknown being, who is both an Angel of G-d, and G-d at the same time? Is wrestling with G-d in fact wrestling with the immense and unending paradox of existence, which also both ends and doesn't end, begins and doesn't begin? And we come up with a draw, don't we? We wrestle with G-d, but we don't really get anywhere. That's because there pretty much isn't anywhere to get. We're already here. And we are going to be here. And once we're done wrestling, everything will likely be much more boring in fact, and we'll probably remember having a lot more fun being in the game than out of it.
So this wrestling business is tough. I can't say I like it. It's actually quite frustrating, and I do feel like I'm getting nowhere, because all of my answers lead back to the question. And that's always the way, isn't it? But at the end of the day, I think I am going to feel that if I haven't at least grappled with these notions, then I haven't even really done my job.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Holy Baptism
I just had a striking realization this morning. I was writing the date down, and I realized that it was 28 years ago to this day that I was baptized in the Episcopal Church.
This is a pretty big deal for a Christian family. It's almost as important as your birthday, but you don't really celebrate it, and nobody bakes you a cake. It's kind of like a second birth, in the Christian mind, really. It's where you get to be born in front of everybody, but it's clean, it's sterile. The baby wears a long, white frock, and there's no blood, only water. No screaming, only prayers and promises, with your parents and Godparents standing around, and the whole church watches on.
The Christian church seems to think it owns baptism. But it sometimes forgets that its baptism, as far as I can figure, comes from the same source as the Jewish Mikveh. And Jesus wasn't the only one who went around Baptizing people in the waters of the Jordan. In fact, Jesus himself was Baptized, and it's one of the major stories in the Christian Bible, when he gets baptized by John, and the voice comes from the clouds, and all that. So why do they think that baptism is all theirs, and it's so darn special?
Besides, I think Christians really get cheated on the baptism front. What you get, as a Christian, is somebody splashing a token amount of water on your forehead as a baby (some churches do more), when you are completely helpless, and have no long-term memory or decision-making capacity - and then they stamp the sign of a torture instrument on your forehead with some oil and call you a Christian. Who got to decide that was going to happen to you? Certainly not yourself, that's for sure. And since Christianity is a converts-only religion, it's kind of a nasty trick to say you "converted" when you were a baby. They give you the "opportunity" to "confirm" your "belief" when you are older, but by that point, your head is so filled with lies, you don't know what is true anymore.
Jews get it a lot better, I think. And of course, I haven't done it yet, but I at least have an idea of what goes on. You get a whole pool to yourself. There is no white garment. No aura of sterility to your existence. No, you go in NAKED. You go in with all of yourself, and only yourself. You get cleansed without any additional baggage. So that when you come out, you can truly feel that something is different, because there was nothing between you and the waters of the Mikveh. I find just the idea of it to be extremely profound. In fact, if I had looked at the calendar this way a while ago, I might have even scheduled my Mikveh and my Beit Din to take place on this day. I am about ready to do it. I feel like there is basically nothing that can change my mind at this point. Not the doubts of others, not the derision of my family, not the questions from any Jewish person about why in God's name would I want to choose to become a part of a persecuted people? Hey, well, that's just normal, as far as I am concerned. It's a moot point. The list of reasons for me doing it are long, the list of detractors is both short and filled with flawed logic. So therefore, my choice is clear.
And baptism is purported to wash aways one's sins and make you a new person. This is exactly what my rabbi tells me the waters of the Mikveh are for, such that once I go through them, I will no longer be who I was before, whether I like it or not. There is no going back. It's a tough choice to make, with a lot of pressure, and a lot of reasons to back out. Those are the same reasons, in my opinion, to keep going. So I look forward to going into the Mikveh. I see it as the baptism I choose, and the one I have always desired.
This is a pretty big deal for a Christian family. It's almost as important as your birthday, but you don't really celebrate it, and nobody bakes you a cake. It's kind of like a second birth, in the Christian mind, really. It's where you get to be born in front of everybody, but it's clean, it's sterile. The baby wears a long, white frock, and there's no blood, only water. No screaming, only prayers and promises, with your parents and Godparents standing around, and the whole church watches on.
The Christian church seems to think it owns baptism. But it sometimes forgets that its baptism, as far as I can figure, comes from the same source as the Jewish Mikveh. And Jesus wasn't the only one who went around Baptizing people in the waters of the Jordan. In fact, Jesus himself was Baptized, and it's one of the major stories in the Christian Bible, when he gets baptized by John, and the voice comes from the clouds, and all that. So why do they think that baptism is all theirs, and it's so darn special?
Besides, I think Christians really get cheated on the baptism front. What you get, as a Christian, is somebody splashing a token amount of water on your forehead as a baby (some churches do more), when you are completely helpless, and have no long-term memory or decision-making capacity - and then they stamp the sign of a torture instrument on your forehead with some oil and call you a Christian. Who got to decide that was going to happen to you? Certainly not yourself, that's for sure. And since Christianity is a converts-only religion, it's kind of a nasty trick to say you "converted" when you were a baby. They give you the "opportunity" to "confirm" your "belief" when you are older, but by that point, your head is so filled with lies, you don't know what is true anymore.
Jews get it a lot better, I think. And of course, I haven't done it yet, but I at least have an idea of what goes on. You get a whole pool to yourself. There is no white garment. No aura of sterility to your existence. No, you go in NAKED. You go in with all of yourself, and only yourself. You get cleansed without any additional baggage. So that when you come out, you can truly feel that something is different, because there was nothing between you and the waters of the Mikveh. I find just the idea of it to be extremely profound. In fact, if I had looked at the calendar this way a while ago, I might have even scheduled my Mikveh and my Beit Din to take place on this day. I am about ready to do it. I feel like there is basically nothing that can change my mind at this point. Not the doubts of others, not the derision of my family, not the questions from any Jewish person about why in God's name would I want to choose to become a part of a persecuted people? Hey, well, that's just normal, as far as I am concerned. It's a moot point. The list of reasons for me doing it are long, the list of detractors is both short and filled with flawed logic. So therefore, my choice is clear.
And baptism is purported to wash aways one's sins and make you a new person. This is exactly what my rabbi tells me the waters of the Mikveh are for, such that once I go through them, I will no longer be who I was before, whether I like it or not. There is no going back. It's a tough choice to make, with a lot of pressure, and a lot of reasons to back out. Those are the same reasons, in my opinion, to keep going. So I look forward to going into the Mikveh. I see it as the baptism I choose, and the one I have always desired.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
The Flood
I was all set to write an entry about the Noah story and politics. How this Parsha comes at a time when our very country is being cleansed of one system and being replaced by another, and even the economy, it seems, is doing its own version of purging or cleansing, somehow.
Now my story feels slightly more personal. Without going into details, I can mainly say that this rain pouring out my window seems strangely appropriate.
And why do my bad breakups always happen on a Saturday?? I thought I would hold off - so as not to break the Sabbath. But to no avail. The Sabbath has chosen this day to be broken anyway. A day that was intended to be for joyful reunion and togetherness is instead a day of mournful reflection and loss.
But maybe what I thought were general intentions were just my intentions, or the intentions I imagined on somebody else's behalf. What about the world? Why should my intentions have any significance?
And I can't help but think how my actions contributed to it. I know it's not great to sit around and think, oh, it's all my fault. I am not doing that. I am actually sitting here smiling. Because I know I am not wholly responsible. But I do take the weight of responsibility for the actions I know I have done that caused, or served to bring about this loss.
From what began as a simple offer, simply received, we have a chain reaction and a series of events that slowly, but surely, brought about some kind of destruction which was worse than I had imagined.
But maybe this was God's way of aligning the forces so that I did not go and make a rash and faulty decision I would later regret. Still, I believe there was some flaw in my actions, and I do believe a little bit in karma, or at least that sort of response that means what you do doesn't go off into nowhere. It is received by the world and reflected back to you directly.
It is sad, what happened, but in a way, it's a relief. This had been coming for a long time. All the insults and the tension that I/we had been experiencing lately have melted away into one great wash of no-longer-thereness. We needed something to get us to stop arguing. It seems, apparently, that this is the way. He let me go, but I already had my hands off the reins. And there is nothing I can do about it now, and there is nothing I want to do about it. It just is, and I want to let it be that way, to soak into the ground, and saturate the atmosphere, with warm, comforting drops of blessed love and release.
Now my story feels slightly more personal. Without going into details, I can mainly say that this rain pouring out my window seems strangely appropriate.
And why do my bad breakups always happen on a Saturday?? I thought I would hold off - so as not to break the Sabbath. But to no avail. The Sabbath has chosen this day to be broken anyway. A day that was intended to be for joyful reunion and togetherness is instead a day of mournful reflection and loss.
But maybe what I thought were general intentions were just my intentions, or the intentions I imagined on somebody else's behalf. What about the world? Why should my intentions have any significance?
And I can't help but think how my actions contributed to it. I know it's not great to sit around and think, oh, it's all my fault. I am not doing that. I am actually sitting here smiling. Because I know I am not wholly responsible. But I do take the weight of responsibility for the actions I know I have done that caused, or served to bring about this loss.
From what began as a simple offer, simply received, we have a chain reaction and a series of events that slowly, but surely, brought about some kind of destruction which was worse than I had imagined.
But maybe this was God's way of aligning the forces so that I did not go and make a rash and faulty decision I would later regret. Still, I believe there was some flaw in my actions, and I do believe a little bit in karma, or at least that sort of response that means what you do doesn't go off into nowhere. It is received by the world and reflected back to you directly.
It is sad, what happened, but in a way, it's a relief. This had been coming for a long time. All the insults and the tension that I/we had been experiencing lately have melted away into one great wash of no-longer-thereness. We needed something to get us to stop arguing. It seems, apparently, that this is the way. He let me go, but I already had my hands off the reins. And there is nothing I can do about it now, and there is nothing I want to do about it. It just is, and I want to let it be that way, to soak into the ground, and saturate the atmosphere, with warm, comforting drops of blessed love and release.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Bitter Cheshvan
Once again, my life spontaneously resembles or reflects the Jewish calendar. The Joyous and spiritually renewing slew of Jewish Holidays is followed by a bitter beginning to a mysterious episode in my life. A precious and valuable friendship has taken a turn for the worse, and I feel like a parent about to watch a child make a horrible decision. I feel at a loss, because it seems no matter what I say, I make no difference, or I make the situation worse.
I feel the only real cause of the situation is the strength of the relationship, and the deep caring and sense of connection that is there. But right now those things are producing strain and distress, not the pleasure and fulfillment they should produce. It is particularly exacerbated by sudden geographic proximity, which is not the norm, which allows for some real possibility of reconcilition, but only if the other party is willing to meet me face to face, which I am in doubt as to his predisposition toward accepting right now.
It's a really painful situation, I think for both of us, but it seems almost insurmountable. I know that means that it probabaly is surmountable - that it is in fact a thing which we can both overcome - but all the same, it feels like grinding sand in my stomach right now, and keeping me up at nights. I want to help, but the one thing I don't want to do is make it worse.
Reading about Cain and Abel in Torah study this week, I was struck by how involved God was with Cain's decision. He doesn't just let Cain go and make his mistake, he instructs him, and tells him what will happen if he doesn't just act cool and accept his lot. But no, he goes ahead and does it anyway! He loses his cool, and therefore he loses all the good things that could have come out of his life. I feel in one way like I am in a position to tell my friend not to go and do something stupid, not to make a decision that both of us will regret. On the other hand, I have a personal stake in the decision, so I am slightly biased in my hopes for what he wants to do. Maybe what I should do is let that go.
Because I also don't want to be like Cain. If Cain gets himself into trouble by wanting some sort of recognition for what he's done, then he can't advocate too much for his own desired. But wait. That's my friend again. Why is he doing this? I know he has his reasons, but they are not good ones. It's just that he really believes them.
And actually, that's where I think my pain is coming from. God says, if you do right, then that is its own reward. But if you do not do right (presumably, either do not make a sacrifice, or else, get upset when your sacrifice is not recognized, and then do something destructive), then sin couches at your door, etc.
So we should all be careful of looking for recognition of our good deeds. It not only sets us wrong with God, but it sets us wrong with the people that we really love and really want to connect with. It makes us adversarial without us even realizing it.
The really surprising thing about this passage is that God is essentially helpless. He has one weakness, and that is Human free will, which he, of course, gave us. So, in essence, he created his own monster. That is his Kryptonite, and it breaks his heart every day.
The good news is, we can always overcome this. Our freedom of choice means we can choose a different course, if only we are open to the suggestion of it, which comes, slyly and subtlely, but it means the difference between life and living Hell. For all of us included.
I feel the only real cause of the situation is the strength of the relationship, and the deep caring and sense of connection that is there. But right now those things are producing strain and distress, not the pleasure and fulfillment they should produce. It is particularly exacerbated by sudden geographic proximity, which is not the norm, which allows for some real possibility of reconcilition, but only if the other party is willing to meet me face to face, which I am in doubt as to his predisposition toward accepting right now.
It's a really painful situation, I think for both of us, but it seems almost insurmountable. I know that means that it probabaly is surmountable - that it is in fact a thing which we can both overcome - but all the same, it feels like grinding sand in my stomach right now, and keeping me up at nights. I want to help, but the one thing I don't want to do is make it worse.
Reading about Cain and Abel in Torah study this week, I was struck by how involved God was with Cain's decision. He doesn't just let Cain go and make his mistake, he instructs him, and tells him what will happen if he doesn't just act cool and accept his lot. But no, he goes ahead and does it anyway! He loses his cool, and therefore he loses all the good things that could have come out of his life. I feel in one way like I am in a position to tell my friend not to go and do something stupid, not to make a decision that both of us will regret. On the other hand, I have a personal stake in the decision, so I am slightly biased in my hopes for what he wants to do. Maybe what I should do is let that go.
Because I also don't want to be like Cain. If Cain gets himself into trouble by wanting some sort of recognition for what he's done, then he can't advocate too much for his own desired. But wait. That's my friend again. Why is he doing this? I know he has his reasons, but they are not good ones. It's just that he really believes them.
And actually, that's where I think my pain is coming from. God says, if you do right, then that is its own reward. But if you do not do right (presumably, either do not make a sacrifice, or else, get upset when your sacrifice is not recognized, and then do something destructive), then sin couches at your door, etc.
So we should all be careful of looking for recognition of our good deeds. It not only sets us wrong with God, but it sets us wrong with the people that we really love and really want to connect with. It makes us adversarial without us even realizing it.
The really surprising thing about this passage is that God is essentially helpless. He has one weakness, and that is Human free will, which he, of course, gave us. So, in essence, he created his own monster. That is his Kryptonite, and it breaks his heart every day.
The good news is, we can always overcome this. Our freedom of choice means we can choose a different course, if only we are open to the suggestion of it, which comes, slyly and subtlely, but it means the difference between life and living Hell. For all of us included.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Pure Joy
My Arms hurt from carrying a Torah Scroll. My first one! It was so exciting. I think, based on what I saw at the Conservative Synagogue I went to for Simchat Torah, that I am considering personally renaming Simchat Torah to "International Day of Silliness." One leader/reader brought up a bunch of hats with him and changed hats every few paragraphs throughout his reading. When they opened the Ark, they had all the children gathered up at the front, and when it was opened, it turned out the whole thing was filled with, in addition to Torah scrolls, balloons and ballooon animals, which they handed out to the kids.
It was a great and beautiful day. We pushed all the chairs back and danced like fools who love their Torah. I even got a chance to carry one. And I danced with a lovely 3-year-old girl named Jessie, as we all went outside in the sunshine for our final Hakafah. Someone even told me what a Hakafah is - a circuit. Which is basically what you do. You dance in a circle. What a great physical manifestation of eternity. Someone asked me to dress the Torah after, but I couldn't do it, owing to the fact that I haven't become officially Jewish yet. But I said I'd be happy to do it once I do have my Beit Din.
Meanwhile, that does not seem to have prevented me in any way from enjoying the Simchat Torah. And I'm happy about that.
It was a great and beautiful day. We pushed all the chairs back and danced like fools who love their Torah. I even got a chance to carry one. And I danced with a lovely 3-year-old girl named Jessie, as we all went outside in the sunshine for our final Hakafah. Someone even told me what a Hakafah is - a circuit. Which is basically what you do. You dance in a circle. What a great physical manifestation of eternity. Someone asked me to dress the Torah after, but I couldn't do it, owing to the fact that I haven't become officially Jewish yet. But I said I'd be happy to do it once I do have my Beit Din.
Meanwhile, that does not seem to have prevented me in any way from enjoying the Simchat Torah. And I'm happy about that.
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