I have faith. I can’t describe it, but I know it is there and it is both a comfort and a source of strength.
And yet I still have fear. Of the unknown. Of the future. Of death. One could assume that with faith your fear would melt away. If you have faith shouldn’t you believe that God will take care of you? What is left to fear? But, I don’t think that faith works like that. I’m not sure exactly HOW it works, but I know that it doesn’t erase fear and uncertainty.
On Monday I attended the monthly Lunch and Learn that my rabbi does in a congregant's office downtown. It was just a few of us, and the topic for the afternoon was death, the afterlife, and cremation. When your rabbi asks you point blank what you think about the afterlife and your first reaction is immediate anxiety it is perhaps time to examine why you feel this way, except this involves thinking about the very thing that causes you sleepless nights and panic attacks and why, oh why, would you put yourself through that? Isn’t it easier to just go through life and ignore the things that cause our stomachs to contract, our palms to sweat, our pulses to raise, and not in a good way? Can’t we just avoid the things that we are afraid of? I am reading David Wolpe’s Why Faith Matters right now, and of course one of the things he brings up first is death and dying and fear. So, it seems that I will be confronting this sooner than later.
Articulating what I think about faith and God is difficult. I know that when I am with people I love it is easier to express my experience of God—it is in the relationships, the smiles, the laughs, the hugs, the comfort, the support. It is harder to express what I think about faith when it relates to something that I fear, especially when describing that fear is troublesome in and of itself.
This past week the Torah portion dealt with Jacob wrestling with mysterious figure (An angel? Esau? Jacob himself?) and then with his meet-up with his estranged brother, Esau. This is one of my favorite parts of the Torah, because while my rabbi calls Jacob a thug, I think he is a much more relatable figure than say Moses or Abraham. Jacob is altogether human, with human frailties and imperfections. When he wrestles with the stranger we don’t know who it is and are left to draw our own conclusions. But, I don’t think we can understand fully the wrestling episode without considering the reconciliation between Jacob and Esau that occurs in the next chapter. Jacob says to his brother “for to see your face is like seeing the face of God.” When Jacob had wrestled with the stranger he renames the place Peniel, which means “I have seen a divine being face to face.” Whether or not we are meant to believe that the stranger was Esau, or an angel, or God, or even Jacob, what I take away from this (and others have as well--check out G-d Cast) is that it is in our relationships that we encounter God. It is in the face of a person you love that you see God, that you can see your faith manifest.
So, how does this all tie together with what I wrote at the beginning of this entry? I’m not sure. I know that my experience of God has been profound in the past few months as I have struggled and as I have begun to regain my footing. I know that my faith has been strengthened because of the connections that have kept me going and I don’t believe these connections are mere chance. I have seen the face of God in the smiles of friends and I have felt God’s embrace in their hugs and their love. It makes the prospect of confronting that which I fear slightly less daunting.
Showing posts with label God. Show all posts
Showing posts with label God. Show all posts
12.17.2008
7.09.2008
And Let Us Say: Amen
My Friday began late as I relished the opportunity to sleep in, staying in bed until well past noon. I had no specific plans for my day off, I just knew that I didn’t want to take part in any 4th of July celebrations. Seven years ago the holiday was tarnished for me as I stood on the back deck at my sister and brother-in-law’s house in Lexington and silently watched the fireworks on neighboring hills, all the while knowing that the next day we were burying my sister. The only thing I wanted this year was a quiet Shabbat celebration as I marked my sister’s yahrzeit, fully aware that the guilt I carry surrounding her last months will not fade just because I say Kaddish.
I was a 21-year old college student, living 4 hours away from home, working hard at a very demanding higher educational institution, and trying desperately to figure out who I am. My dad had remarried when I was 14 and I had gained a stepsister 13 years my senior. We never lived in the same house, or even the same town. And as a young adult who did not see or hear from her father much while away at college, I was sometimes quite jealous of her. She had gone back to school to get a degree in nursing and all I could think about was that she was supposed to graduate the same year as me and I wanted my dad at my graduation. And then my junior year none of that mattered anymore.
I knew that attendance would be sparse on the 4th of July at my temple; even our rabbi was still out of town at camp. I was right. When I walked in there were 3 people plus the intern, soloist, and pianist. Eventually we gained 3 more, but we never quite got to a minyan, which is rare on a Friday. I waited for the couple, friends of mine, to choose their seats, and then I chose a seat far from them. It’s not that I don’t like them; on any other Friday I would have chosen to sit with them. But that night I wanted to be by myself, to truly delve into the emotion of the coming Shabbat and my feelings surrounding the anniversary of my sister’s death.
She got sick when I was a sophomore. Breast cancer, which had recently claimed the life of her grandmother. 30-years old, too young to need to fight this horrible disease, but she did it gracefully. I was there during her final chemo treatments the first time. We all went out afterwards and celebrated at a restaurant in Lexington. Unfortunately she wouldn’t stay well for long.
We began services singing Shalom Aleichem. Even though the sun had not yet set the sanctuary had a dimness to it; it had been raining that day, thunderstorms as if the sky was as emotional as I would be that night. There is a coziness, a warmth, that I find in the darkness of a thunderstorm, though it hasn’t always been that way. I used to be frightened of the thunder, the lightning, the wind. That night, however, I was far from that fear. I sat quietly, singing along with the melody that always seems to be bittersweet to me. Here we are welcoming guests, helping to bring in the wonder of Shabbat, but there always seems to be that edge of sadness to it, a knowledge that this too will be over, this wonderful respite in time, and we will move back into the ordinary hours of our lives.
Christmas break during my junior year brought the news that my sister would be marrying her longtime boyfriend in March. Everyone was happy; no one commented on the short timeline. She asked me to be a bridesmaid, but having grown uncomfortable years ago at even the thought of wearing a dress, I begged off, saying I’d read a prayer instead, design the program. I made the trip down for the weekend, celebrating with my family. She had a special wig for the ceremony, dyed the red that she had always liked her own hair to be. On Sunday I drove back to school, back to my life away from my family, away from her and the cancer.
As we moved into the Sh’ma and its blessings I began to feel a tightness in the back of my throat. Barechu et Adonai hamvorach. Praised be Adonai to who our praise is due. Baruch Adonai hamvorach l’olam vaed. Praised is Adonai to whom our praise is due now and forever. And then the Ma’ariv Aravim. Blessed are you Adonai our God, Ruler of the universe, whose word brings on the evening, whose wisdom opens the gates and with understandings changes the seasons... I could barely say the words, much less see them through the tears that had welled up in my eyes. I felt overwhelmed with the sense of God’s presence and with the sadness I felt at the absence of my sister’s. God creates day and night, rolls light away from darkness and darkness from light.
I chose to stay up at school again that summer, working in one of the offices as I had done the previous year. Mid June I went home for the weekend and went down to visit my sister. By this point the cancer had spread to her abdomen and her brain. She had been having frequent seizures and hospice would soon be called in. But that weekend she was alert and joking and joyous. My dad later told me that she hadn’t been doing well up until that point and afterwards she declined rapidly. I felt lucky to know that the last time I really saw her she was at her best. Two weeks later on a Sunday night I got a call that I should come home, that she wasn’t expected to make it through the next couple of days. I wanted to leave right then, but it was late in the evening already. So, I waited and left in the morning. That afternoon I watched my sister take her last breath, surrounded by her family, her mom, her husband, my dad and my other sister. I said goodbye. The next few days were a blur; arrangements to be made, a funeral in Lexington, burial in Northern Kentucky, reception at my dad’s in Cincinnati. It was hot and humid and I have 4 distinct memories while the rest is hazy at best. The clearest memory I have is standing in the cemetary and listening to my dad, a reserved man most of the time, talk about losing the woman who thought of him as her dad, who called him “papa.”
Saying the Sh’ma that night I felt as if I were truly offering up my heart, my soul. Hear O Israel! Adonai is our God, Adonai is One. The God who made the heavens, who brought on the evening, who gave us life, is our God and God is echad. One. Unique. Ineffable, as Heschel would say. My voice was reaching out, using these words as a path to God, not up or down, but who enveloped me that night. With my eyes closed I could feel the stillness around me and feel the reverberation of my own voice in my chest, something I have grown to love as I say the Sh’ma over the years, as if God is rumbling, answering back my call.
It was through the death of my sister that I began my exploration into Judaism. Not right away. First I railed at God, a God who I had been convinced I didn’t believe in, that is until I was angry enough to acknowledge Him. But it was that acknowledgement, that anger, that wholly emotional response, that gave me that push, that need, to find my spiritual home, which I did in Judaism. And in Judaism I finally found my way to mourn my sister properly.
The rest of the service passed in much the same emotional way. I was worn out, exhausted, as if my soul had run laps around the sanctuary the entire time, pounding the walls with its fists and crying out in fury, while finally collapsing into the waiting embrace of its Maker. All of this felt like it had happened inside and when we reached Kaddish Yatom I knew that I was ready to say the words that praise God.
I was a 21-year old college student, living 4 hours away from home, working hard at a very demanding higher educational institution, and trying desperately to figure out who I am. My dad had remarried when I was 14 and I had gained a stepsister 13 years my senior. We never lived in the same house, or even the same town. And as a young adult who did not see or hear from her father much while away at college, I was sometimes quite jealous of her. She had gone back to school to get a degree in nursing and all I could think about was that she was supposed to graduate the same year as me and I wanted my dad at my graduation. And then my junior year none of that mattered anymore.
I knew that attendance would be sparse on the 4th of July at my temple; even our rabbi was still out of town at camp. I was right. When I walked in there were 3 people plus the intern, soloist, and pianist. Eventually we gained 3 more, but we never quite got to a minyan, which is rare on a Friday. I waited for the couple, friends of mine, to choose their seats, and then I chose a seat far from them. It’s not that I don’t like them; on any other Friday I would have chosen to sit with them. But that night I wanted to be by myself, to truly delve into the emotion of the coming Shabbat and my feelings surrounding the anniversary of my sister’s death.
She got sick when I was a sophomore. Breast cancer, which had recently claimed the life of her grandmother. 30-years old, too young to need to fight this horrible disease, but she did it gracefully. I was there during her final chemo treatments the first time. We all went out afterwards and celebrated at a restaurant in Lexington. Unfortunately she wouldn’t stay well for long.
We began services singing Shalom Aleichem. Even though the sun had not yet set the sanctuary had a dimness to it; it had been raining that day, thunderstorms as if the sky was as emotional as I would be that night. There is a coziness, a warmth, that I find in the darkness of a thunderstorm, though it hasn’t always been that way. I used to be frightened of the thunder, the lightning, the wind. That night, however, I was far from that fear. I sat quietly, singing along with the melody that always seems to be bittersweet to me. Here we are welcoming guests, helping to bring in the wonder of Shabbat, but there always seems to be that edge of sadness to it, a knowledge that this too will be over, this wonderful respite in time, and we will move back into the ordinary hours of our lives.
Christmas break during my junior year brought the news that my sister would be marrying her longtime boyfriend in March. Everyone was happy; no one commented on the short timeline. She asked me to be a bridesmaid, but having grown uncomfortable years ago at even the thought of wearing a dress, I begged off, saying I’d read a prayer instead, design the program. I made the trip down for the weekend, celebrating with my family. She had a special wig for the ceremony, dyed the red that she had always liked her own hair to be. On Sunday I drove back to school, back to my life away from my family, away from her and the cancer.
As we moved into the Sh’ma and its blessings I began to feel a tightness in the back of my throat. Barechu et Adonai hamvorach. Praised be Adonai to who our praise is due. Baruch Adonai hamvorach l’olam vaed. Praised is Adonai to whom our praise is due now and forever. And then the Ma’ariv Aravim. Blessed are you Adonai our God, Ruler of the universe, whose word brings on the evening, whose wisdom opens the gates and with understandings changes the seasons... I could barely say the words, much less see them through the tears that had welled up in my eyes. I felt overwhelmed with the sense of God’s presence and with the sadness I felt at the absence of my sister’s. God creates day and night, rolls light away from darkness and darkness from light.
I chose to stay up at school again that summer, working in one of the offices as I had done the previous year. Mid June I went home for the weekend and went down to visit my sister. By this point the cancer had spread to her abdomen and her brain. She had been having frequent seizures and hospice would soon be called in. But that weekend she was alert and joking and joyous. My dad later told me that she hadn’t been doing well up until that point and afterwards she declined rapidly. I felt lucky to know that the last time I really saw her she was at her best. Two weeks later on a Sunday night I got a call that I should come home, that she wasn’t expected to make it through the next couple of days. I wanted to leave right then, but it was late in the evening already. So, I waited and left in the morning. That afternoon I watched my sister take her last breath, surrounded by her family, her mom, her husband, my dad and my other sister. I said goodbye. The next few days were a blur; arrangements to be made, a funeral in Lexington, burial in Northern Kentucky, reception at my dad’s in Cincinnati. It was hot and humid and I have 4 distinct memories while the rest is hazy at best. The clearest memory I have is standing in the cemetary and listening to my dad, a reserved man most of the time, talk about losing the woman who thought of him as her dad, who called him “papa.”
Saying the Sh’ma that night I felt as if I were truly offering up my heart, my soul. Hear O Israel! Adonai is our God, Adonai is One. The God who made the heavens, who brought on the evening, who gave us life, is our God and God is echad. One. Unique. Ineffable, as Heschel would say. My voice was reaching out, using these words as a path to God, not up or down, but who enveloped me that night. With my eyes closed I could feel the stillness around me and feel the reverberation of my own voice in my chest, something I have grown to love as I say the Sh’ma over the years, as if God is rumbling, answering back my call.
It was through the death of my sister that I began my exploration into Judaism. Not right away. First I railed at God, a God who I had been convinced I didn’t believe in, that is until I was angry enough to acknowledge Him. But it was that acknowledgement, that anger, that wholly emotional response, that gave me that push, that need, to find my spiritual home, which I did in Judaism. And in Judaism I finally found my way to mourn my sister properly.
The rest of the service passed in much the same emotional way. I was worn out, exhausted, as if my soul had run laps around the sanctuary the entire time, pounding the walls with its fists and crying out in fury, while finally collapsing into the waiting embrace of its Maker. All of this felt like it had happened inside and when we reached Kaddish Yatom I knew that I was ready to say the words that praise God.
Blessed, praised, glorified, exalted, extolled, mighty, upraised, and lauded be the Name of the Holy One. Beyond any blessing and song, praised and consolation that are uttered in the world. May there be abundant peace from Heaven and life upon us and upon all Israel.I still feel sorrow at the loss of my sister. I still feel sadness when I think of my dad and step mom and her husband who all must live their lives with her palpable absence. I still feel the guilt that only a survivor can feel for not having done enough while she was still alive. And so I will continue to mark her yarhzeit, year after year. I will continue to say the words that praise God and all that God has made. Time may make the ache less pronounced, but as we concluded our prayers on Friday I realized that the mourning will go on and should go on and that it is okay because God is still there at the end of it all.
4.03.2008
Reform Judaism and the Holocaust
I have a Google news feed on my blog that searches out mentions of Reform Judaism in the news and I try to make a point of looking at most of the articles that it collects. Yesterday I followed a link with the headline "People of the Cloth?" because it seemed odd. It was a column by Rabbi Naphtali Hoff in The Jewish Press online edition, which states on their "About Us" page that "For four-and-a-half decades now The Jewish Press has championed Torah values and ideals from a centrist or Modern Orthodox perspective." And I have to say it really frustrated me.
Rabbi Hoff starts off with a story about a father who wanted special allowances made for his child to have tutoring instead of attending Hebrew School. When the rabbi wouldn't give in the father proclaimed that "You know, rabbi, you people of the cloth can be so inflexible!" Which leads the rabbi into a rambling discourse that begins with the clothing of the Jews and distinguishing ourselves from other cultures and ends up blaming the Reform Jews of Gemany for the Holocaust. At one point he writes:
Rabbi Hoff bluntly states that Reform Judaism brought on the Holocaust. And I'm sorry, you can disagree all you want with Reform ideals and theology, but when you blame a group of Jews, who were simply figuring out how to be Jewish in a modern world, for the destruction of 6 million of their own... well, then you've just gone round a bend that I can't follow. I think it is disgusting and immoral to suggest that it wasn't a lunatic like Hitler acting on his crazed ideas that brought about the Holocaust, but rather it was God punishing the German Jews for their reforms.
I do not subscribe to the theology that God causes bad things to happen, or that God punishes with natural disasters, or that God has a hand in the actions of evil men. Maybe in a time and place long since past God was much more active in manipulating the world; obviously there is plenty of mention of it in the Torah. But, maybe that was the early Jews' way of explaining things they couldn't explain, or rationalizing why they were run into exile, or were defeated by a more powerful enemy. But, I refuse to believe that God would actively punish His people for attempting to adapt their Jewish lives to a modern world.
I will not apologize for being a Reform Jew. And I refuse to let people like Rabbi Hoff suggest that Reform is the root of all that is wrong with American Judaism.
Rabbi Hoff starts off with a story about a father who wanted special allowances made for his child to have tutoring instead of attending Hebrew School. When the rabbi wouldn't give in the father proclaimed that "You know, rabbi, you people of the cloth can be so inflexible!" Which leads the rabbi into a rambling discourse that begins with the clothing of the Jews and distinguishing ourselves from other cultures and ends up blaming the Reform Jews of Gemany for the Holocaust. At one point he writes:
Historically, God has taken an active role where necessary to ensure that His chosen people not lose their distinctive identity. Often, He has even recruited gentiles to force us into a position of separateness, by imposing the threat of annihilation or restrictive legislation.He details the reforms made in 19th century Germany, the changes in rabbinic garb, changes in liturgy, the rise of assimilation into German society, etc. Arguments I have heard before. And then came the following paragraph:
As in the past, God did not allow this trend to continue completely unchecked. In Germany, the Nazis passed the Nuremburg Laws (1935), which set out to redraw the line between German and Jew. These laws stripped Jews of German citizenship, forbade intermarriage, barred Jews from most professions, and ordered that the letter "J" be printed on their identity cards. In time, Jews would be forced to wear distinctive badges identifying them as Jews. Ultimately, most were murdered, going to their deaths as despised Jews, not as proud, assimilated Germans.
Rabbi Hoff bluntly states that Reform Judaism brought on the Holocaust. And I'm sorry, you can disagree all you want with Reform ideals and theology, but when you blame a group of Jews, who were simply figuring out how to be Jewish in a modern world, for the destruction of 6 million of their own... well, then you've just gone round a bend that I can't follow. I think it is disgusting and immoral to suggest that it wasn't a lunatic like Hitler acting on his crazed ideas that brought about the Holocaust, but rather it was God punishing the German Jews for their reforms.
I do not subscribe to the theology that God causes bad things to happen, or that God punishes with natural disasters, or that God has a hand in the actions of evil men. Maybe in a time and place long since past God was much more active in manipulating the world; obviously there is plenty of mention of it in the Torah. But, maybe that was the early Jews' way of explaining things they couldn't explain, or rationalizing why they were run into exile, or were defeated by a more powerful enemy. But, I refuse to believe that God would actively punish His people for attempting to adapt their Jewish lives to a modern world.
I will not apologize for being a Reform Jew. And I refuse to let people like Rabbi Hoff suggest that Reform is the root of all that is wrong with American Judaism.
2.19.2008
אחד
How do you describe something perfect with imperfect language? How do you truly describe God with our human tongue? You can’t, really. All we can do is attempt to speak of God in the only way we know how. That is the beauty of it—God can never truly be known because with our need to translate Him into language, both out loud and in our heads, we are immediately reducing our true understanding. Perhaps our first breath is our only truly aware moment in our lives; before our minds are cluttered with human-made language and thought.
Heschel points out that in Hebrew אחד means “one” and “unique,” and it is the 2nd definition that is present in the Sh’ma. If that is so, it further illustrates why God cannot be described, for how do you describe something but in relation to others? If God is unique you can’t truly describe Him in relation to anything else and be spot-on. I believe that when we describe God we are describing our limited understanding, and to an extent, our hope of what God is. We hope that God is merciful and kind, but these are human qualities and to say that God possesses human qualities is to say that God is not unique. But, then we also have the quandary of humans being created in the image of God; if you believe the Torah to literally be God’s word, transcribed to Moses on Mt. Sinai, how can you believe that God is also unique if we, as humans, are made in God’s image? But, if you instead are able to step back and view the Torah as man-made and inspired by God, I think that it is perfectly logical to still believe that God is unique and that we are also made in God’s image. Because we understand that the qualities we are ascribing to God to be human qualities and that our hope is that these qualities that we see and value in ourselves are God-like qualities. God is still one, unique—אחד—because we still do not truly know God. And perhaps what makes God unique is that he is MORE than these qualities we ascribe to Him. God is more and beyond and we cannot know. We will never know what is beyond the event horizon of a black hole and we will never know how God is more than us.
“To think of God is not to find Him as an object in our minds, but to find ourselves in Him. Religion begins where experience ends, and the end of experience is a perception of our being perceived.”
--A.J. Heschel, Man Is Not Alone, p. 127
"The task is not to know the unknown but to be penetrated with it; not to know but to be known to Him, to expose ourselves to Him rather than Him to us; not to judge and to assert but to listen and to be judged by Him.
--Man Is Not Alone, p.129
Heschel points out that in Hebrew אחד means “one” and “unique,” and it is the 2nd definition that is present in the Sh’ma. If that is so, it further illustrates why God cannot be described, for how do you describe something but in relation to others? If God is unique you can’t truly describe Him in relation to anything else and be spot-on. I believe that when we describe God we are describing our limited understanding, and to an extent, our hope of what God is. We hope that God is merciful and kind, but these are human qualities and to say that God possesses human qualities is to say that God is not unique. But, then we also have the quandary of humans being created in the image of God; if you believe the Torah to literally be God’s word, transcribed to Moses on Mt. Sinai, how can you believe that God is also unique if we, as humans, are made in God’s image? But, if you instead are able to step back and view the Torah as man-made and inspired by God, I think that it is perfectly logical to still believe that God is unique and that we are also made in God’s image. Because we understand that the qualities we are ascribing to God to be human qualities and that our hope is that these qualities that we see and value in ourselves are God-like qualities. God is still one, unique—אחד—because we still do not truly know God. And perhaps what makes God unique is that he is MORE than these qualities we ascribe to Him. God is more and beyond and we cannot know. We will never know what is beyond the event horizon of a black hole and we will never know how God is more than us.
“To think of God is not to find Him as an object in our minds, but to find ourselves in Him. Religion begins where experience ends, and the end of experience is a perception of our being perceived.”
--A.J. Heschel, Man Is Not Alone, p. 127
"The task is not to know the unknown but to be penetrated with it; not to know but to be known to Him, to expose ourselves to Him rather than Him to us; not to judge and to assert but to listen and to be judged by Him.
--Man Is Not Alone, p.129
1.25.2008
Loneliness = Belief in God & Loving Your Dog?
I recently read an article on MSNBC.com about how lonely people are more likely to believe in God.
When people feel lonely, they may try to rekindle old friendships, seek out new ones or, as Epley's study suggests, they may create social connections by anthropomorphizing nearby gadgets, such as computers or cars, pets, or by believing in supernatural events or religious figures.In their study, detailed in the February issue of the journal Psychological Science, Epley's team tried to induce feelings of loneliness in people to see how it affected how they thought of pets and their belief in religious figures.
I'm not sure what to think of this. I find it interesting that belief in God and anthropomorphizing pets is lumped into the same type of thing. I personally don't think that my belief in God stems from loneliness. I think it could be argued that joining an organized religion can grow out of loneliness, but I think you could make the same argument that joining an intramural sports team, a book club, or whatnot also stems from loneliness and a need to be social. The behavior I can understand, but the belief? No. I think belief in God is much deeper and more complex than loneliness.
1.15.2008
Torah As An Entry Point
The following was originally written out free-hand and kind of meanders through a number of concepts that I've been mulling over.
I think that one of the major challenges facing Jewish converts is the concept of Judaism as a people hood. How do you convert to a people? How do you legitimately adopt what can be seen as ethnic customs? How can you do so and at the very least feel legitimate? We have this hurdle, and it is one that can be, at times, insurmountable, and at others like stepping over a crack in the sidewalk. We did not grow up with traditional, or even nontraditional, customs that our fellow Jews have. We can feel like pretenders when we try these out. I think it can be difficult to separate the rituals that we do to sustain our religious lives from those that sustained the culture of the Jews. Lighting candles, praying, studying, putting on tallit and tefillin, keeping kosher--these are ways, rituals, that enhance our religion (and by extension, culture). We should never feel illegitimate by adopting these, but it happens.
I think it is important to emphasize the concept of a Jewish people hood to converts, but to do it through Torah, through religious aspects. Not through food or Eastern European customs or Yiddish phrases. Torah should be the entry into Judaism, for all Jews, not just converts. Developing in people a love of Torah is essential.
When I was going through my conversion, each Saturday my rabbi would allow us all to come up to the bimah with him as he read from the Torah. And as I learned Hebrew and the stories I was hearing, I had this amazing physical connection to the Torah that I don't think a lot of people in the conversion process do. It wasn't just a spiritual or intellectual connection. And as I write this now I find myself thinking about how ironic it is that I don't kiss the Torah--clearly I feel a connection to its physicality, but to me the physicality is human-created manifestation of God's word and so I don't want to kiss the object of the Torah. I want to kiss the words of the Torah through my devotion to learning it, my quest for a closeness to God, my yearning to be holy. I don't want to fall into revering this physical presence more than I do the presence of God in the words.
I read Torah for the first time 2 years ago, though it wasn't on the morning of my bat mitzvah, but rather a few weeks prior. And it was such an intense and emotional experience it truly cemented my love of and connection to Torah. It is was the combination of how hard I had worked + the fact that I was reading from the scroll which I had been seeing my rabbi read for years + the feeling that for the first time I was really speaking the word of God. For those few minutes I was completely overwhelmed by God's presence--I had opened myself up to it and sought Him by seeking out the Torah and there He was.
Heschel says that "to sense the presence of God in the Bible one must learn to be present to God in the Bible" (God in Search of Man, 252). We must make ourselves open to the idea that the Bible is a living document, a living ideal, and that God lives through it. We cannot just study the Torah for its historical meaning, or for literature (though those are both legitimate studies). We must be willing to see the spiritual realm of the Torah for God to be present when we read and study it.
I am a fairly rational person--I want good reasoning behind the whys and wherefores of things, but when it comes to Torah, I'm okay not having a rational explanation for the parting of the Red Sea or for the prophets or for any of the miracles. Because God is not rational. Belief in God cannot be reasoned out.
Heschel also says that "we do not explore first and decide afterwards whether to accept the Jewish way of living. We must accept in order to be able to explore. At the beginning is the commitment, the supreme acquiescence" (282). And I disagree with that. While my belief in God may not be rational and reasoned, my journey into and through Judaism is. Because Judaism is my approach to my belief in God I feel it is vital to do what is right for me. And blindly accepting traditional Judaism and then learning about what I've accepted just doesn't make sense to me. And I think this is how many serious Reform Jews approach their Judaism--we believe in God, and we accept that, but we aren't willing to just accept everything and every practice within traditional Judaism. I think it is somewhat insincere to accept the idea of Judaism without informing yourself about what you are accepting.
But, you might say, what about when the Israelites said (and I paraphrase) "we will do and we will hear?" Is it truly antithetical to Judaism to learn and then decide? I don't believe so because we are not standing at Sinai as the Israelites did. The Judaism we would be accepting today is not the Judaism that they were accepting at Mt. Sinai. And honestly we each do have our own Sinai moments where we accept the idea of God and then try to hear what he wants of us. "Even the laws of the Torah are not absolute," (415) Heschel writes. Therefore the laws that man derived from the Torah are not absolute. Heschel says that "nothing is deified: neither power nor wisdom, neither heroes nor institutions" (415). But has traditional Judaism not done just that? Is it not just as big as sin (by traditional standards) to break the laws that man derived from the Torah as the actual Torah laws themselves? If the laws of the Torah are not absolute, and by extension the laws of man are not absolute, isn't it being a responsible Jew to study and to learn and to make informed decisions about what is right?
1.09.2008
Awareness of God
A couple of months ago I read Abraham Joshua Heschel's God In Search of Man. It was an amazing book and it gave me a lot to think about. I'm going to take the opportunity to share some of my thoughts I wrote out as I read the book.
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Such is the awareness of the presence of God. Knowing that there is a God is not the same as feeling the presence of God in our daily lives. Do we seek out that feeling? You bet--I think that's what prayer is. God may always be around, but we are only aware of Him, or feel that awareness, at certain moments of our lives. Perhaps the awareness is always there, living inside of us and there are certain experiences, deed, or thoughts that can unlock this box of awareness (mitzvot) and bring it to the forefront of our consciousness. We must seek out these moments and create them–they will be rare if we simply sit back and wait for God to happen. The Jewish idea of God is a hard one--we must work for it, we must strive to bring about the moments of awareness–maybe this is why we are commanded to pray 3 times a day, to care for the sick and the poor, to honor our parents, etc. It is through mitzvot, however you define it (commandments, good deeds, etc.) that we give ourselves opportunities to experience God, but that can't be the initial reason behind our deeds. Our deeds must come from a place of giving and kindness; perhaps it is only through pure selfless acts that we bring about our awareness of God.
So, each time we worship it is an opportunity to unlock our awareness of God. Each time we sit down individually or with others to learn we give ourselves an opportunity to unlock that awareness. The same with our actions, our mitzvot.
And one we have experienced that awareness we will seek it out more and more. Will we alway feel it? Probably not, but I think we will feel other things–the growth of relationships, of our awareness of our own abilities and potential, an awareness of the world around us. Does all of this equal an awareness of God? Some might say yes. I don't think so, because an awareness of God is like experiencing all of that at once x1000. It is emotional and overwhelming and a magical moment.
I do think we get glimpses of it at other times, though. When I feel a surge of love for someone, or awe at the beauty of nature, or wonder at the vastness of the universe, this is my awareness of God sneaking out, touching me, allowing me to feel these things. And it is a gift.
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What happens when we seek God when He is not near? Does our seeking make God near? Does God withdraw when we do not seek Him? How must we seek God to make Him near? With an open heart and a mind open to the possibility of God–we can't approach God with a closed spirit and expect Him to respond. But, we also can't expect God to respond in terms we necessarily understand. What happens if God responds and is present and we are not aware of it? How long will He wait around for us until we become aware? Must we become aware on the level of "Ah-ha"? Or does god show up, patient, when you call out to Him, and stay with you as you journey towards awareness of His presence? I think it is a gradual awareness, at least it was for me. I call out for God at some point in my life and I might not have know I was even doing it. And at some point I became aware. Now, the huge question is, was God always there and just waiting for me to cry out? Or does God wait for us to seek Him? And what is the difference if each situation ends in awareness? Because how we got there is just as important, if not more so, than actually getting there. I'm going to get more out of a long, rambling journey through the country-side than a congested and straight-forward freeway, but for others the freeway is the best and most useful option. Each journey is different and God responds to them all. But does God respond differently?
We can read and learn and memorize all we want, but we must experience God to have faith.
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"Awareness of wonder is not the same as knowing the wonders that happen to us. Wonders happen without our being able to notice them." (p. 50)
Such is the awareness of the presence of God. Knowing that there is a God is not the same as feeling the presence of God in our daily lives. Do we seek out that feeling? You bet--I think that's what prayer is. God may always be around, but we are only aware of Him, or feel that awareness, at certain moments of our lives. Perhaps the awareness is always there, living inside of us and there are certain experiences, deed, or thoughts that can unlock this box of awareness (mitzvot) and bring it to the forefront of our consciousness. We must seek out these moments and create them–they will be rare if we simply sit back and wait for God to happen. The Jewish idea of God is a hard one--we must work for it, we must strive to bring about the moments of awareness–maybe this is why we are commanded to pray 3 times a day, to care for the sick and the poor, to honor our parents, etc. It is through mitzvot, however you define it (commandments, good deeds, etc.) that we give ourselves opportunities to experience God, but that can't be the initial reason behind our deeds. Our deeds must come from a place of giving and kindness; perhaps it is only through pure selfless acts that we bring about our awareness of God.
So, each time we worship it is an opportunity to unlock our awareness of God. Each time we sit down individually or with others to learn we give ourselves an opportunity to unlock that awareness. The same with our actions, our mitzvot.
And one we have experienced that awareness we will seek it out more and more. Will we alway feel it? Probably not, but I think we will feel other things–the growth of relationships, of our awareness of our own abilities and potential, an awareness of the world around us. Does all of this equal an awareness of God? Some might say yes. I don't think so, because an awareness of God is like experiencing all of that at once x1000. It is emotional and overwhelming and a magical moment.
I do think we get glimpses of it at other times, though. When I feel a surge of love for someone, or awe at the beauty of nature, or wonder at the vastness of the universe, this is my awareness of God sneaking out, touching me, allowing me to feel these things. And it is a gift.
---------------------
What happens when we seek God when He is not near? Does our seeking make God near? Does God withdraw when we do not seek Him? How must we seek God to make Him near? With an open heart and a mind open to the possibility of God–we can't approach God with a closed spirit and expect Him to respond. But, we also can't expect God to respond in terms we necessarily understand. What happens if God responds and is present and we are not aware of it? How long will He wait around for us until we become aware? Must we become aware on the level of "Ah-ha"? Or does god show up, patient, when you call out to Him, and stay with you as you journey towards awareness of His presence? I think it is a gradual awareness, at least it was for me. I call out for God at some point in my life and I might not have know I was even doing it. And at some point I became aware. Now, the huge question is, was God always there and just waiting for me to cry out? Or does God wait for us to seek Him? And what is the difference if each situation ends in awareness? Because how we got there is just as important, if not more so, than actually getting there. I'm going to get more out of a long, rambling journey through the country-side than a congested and straight-forward freeway, but for others the freeway is the best and most useful option. Each journey is different and God responds to them all. But does God respond differently?
We can read and learn and memorize all we want, but we must experience God to have faith.
1.08.2008
Let's Be Honest w/ Ourselves
I'm going to take a break from recounting my experience at the Biennial to write about something else, something I think that as a serious Reform Jew, one who converted through the Reform movement, I should address. And that is conversion itself. The following might be controversial and is a bit jumbled but here it is:
I just read a post on a blog (here if you want to read) that deals with the emotional frustrations when confronted with born Jews or Orthodox converts who believe that you aren't "really" Jewish. The poster, a Reform convert, had a troubling conversation with an older Jewish gentleman whose questions about her observance and her process, and his eventual pronouncements on her actual Jewishness, seemed to really shake her foundation of how she sees her Jewish self. I think this highlights the problem that people going through, or have gone through, the conversion process within the Reform movement face: their feelings of inadequacy when faced with more traditional Jews. It is something I don't know if rabbis address enough, and I think it is damaging, not just to the converts, but to the entire Reform movement. Because at the heart of the matter is what is considered "authentic" Judaism and who is an "authentic" Jew.
I began my formal conversion process 5 years ago, and became a Jew, officially, on March 30, 2004. But, in reality my process began much earlier, in college, and by the time I had my beit din and received my Hebrew name, I had felt Jewish for a long time. I am a Jew. I don't equivicate that and say I am a Reform Jew. I am, simply a Jew. I belong to the Reform movement, and I am proud to be affiliated with it. I am not Reform because I want to do the least amount of observance. I am Reform because I believe in figuring out what is right for you and not just blindly following tradition; that is one of the many problems I had with my Catholic upbringing. I believe that tradition and observance is important but only if there is meaning behind your actions.
This sentence is going to be contentious, but it is what I feel: being a serious Reform Jew is hard, harder than being Conservative or Orthodox, because a Reform Jew must inform themselves about what they are doing. You must educate themselves and discover the whys of doing something and not just do it. You aren't just told "this is what Jews do, so just go and do it." Each level of observance I take on is a very conscious choice that I debate and struggle with before I take it on. I've recently started down the path towards keeping kosher, and it is a path that I have gone back and forth on in my head since before I converted. Was this meaningful me? Would it be meaningful for me? I needed to make sure that I wasn't choosing to do something simply to take on a traditional observance.
People who convert through the Reform movement with the idea in their head that they will eventually convert again through Conservative or Orthodox to be "more authentic" are dishonest. Those who convert Reform, seriously, and are later drawn towards Conservative or Orthodox, well I believe that if they come to the conclusion by being honest with themselves and not out of some sense of inadequacy, it is valid. However, I find it troubling to read or hear these Reform converts doubt their own Jewishness or allow others to question it and not be able to defend themselves. I think this is a failing of their rabbi. I think it is just as important for a rabbi to help the convert learn about the what of Judaism as it is to learn about the why, especially the why of converting in their specific movement. Reform rabbis who are working with people in the conversion process MUST address the inevitable questioning that these people will get about themselves and their Jewish identity, and they must do it in an open and honest way, with no pressure, no agenda. I think that if someone goes into the conversion process with some doubts as to the movement they are going through, this should be addressed at the beginning. Why Reform? What does being Reform mean in the 21st Century? What does being a committed Reform Jew mean? These rabbis need to be able to help converts find and feel comfortable in their identities as Jews. If other people can make them doubt their own Jewishness (as opposed to genuinely being drawn to a different movement) then the rabbi has not done a good job in helping to shape and solidify that person's identity.
It is vitally important that Reform rabbis help the people studying with them towards conversion understand what it means to be a committed Reform Jew. They need to stress that this isn't the "easy" way towards conversion and that it isn't Judaism-lite. They must help instill a pride in being Jewish, and pride for the Reform heritage they are coming into, for the Jewish heritage they are coming into.
Converts will never have the same experiences that people born Jewish have. We won't have the experience of Jewish summer camp, of learning to our prayers for b'nei mitzvot with our friends, of being a part of a Jewish home from an early age. This can cause stress and sometimes depression in people who are converting, and it must be addressed by rabbis. It should be talked about, frequently, and with many people. It is not just enough to talk to rabbis. It is just as important to talk to other Reform converts who are comfortable with who they are as Jews. I think it is probably difficult for a rabbi to fully understand the stress that converts can feel unless they were converts themselves.
It is completely valid to have these feelings; at one point I had them myself--I was surrounded by people who had experienced all these life events as Jews, while I was attending mass and Catholic school. But after awhile I realized that my past experiences were just that--the past. What I did with my present and my future was going to be important in shaping my Jewish identity. In a sense I felt lucky because I didn't have the family baggage or expectations weighing me down. Who I became as Jew would be up to me and me alone.
So, I ask fellow Reform converts and those in the conversion process: let's be honest with ourselves. Be honest up front with why you are converting through the Reform movement. Is it because they temple is closest or it's the only game in town? Is it because you like the rabbi? Or is it because you genuinely feel that this is how things should be done, that the Reform approach of informed decision is what is right for you? Do you think that somewhere down the line you will convert Conservative or Orthodox to be more authentic in the eyes of more Jews? Who is your conversion for? You or a future spouse who may or may not see you as Jewish? Or is it for the faceless others who you feel will judge you and your conversion?
Becoming a Jew is becoming part of a larger whole, a people. But it is also about becoming YOU. It is important to feel a connection with the Jewish people, but it is just as important to forge a personal relationship with Judaism, and in the ultimate end, with God. Because when it comes down to it you are presumably converting to Judaism because it is how you are connecting to God and that is the most important thing. I think we get so caught up in what makes a Jew a Jew that we lose sight on the fundamental reason for converting in the first place is our relationship with God, not our relationship with man-made constructions of identity.
I am a Jew because I believe Judaism to be the best way to connect with God. I am a Reform Jew because I believe it is the most authentic and valid way for me to forge my Jewish connection to God, opening up a world to me that is precious and genuine.
I just read a post on a blog (here if you want to read) that deals with the emotional frustrations when confronted with born Jews or Orthodox converts who believe that you aren't "really" Jewish. The poster, a Reform convert, had a troubling conversation with an older Jewish gentleman whose questions about her observance and her process, and his eventual pronouncements on her actual Jewishness, seemed to really shake her foundation of how she sees her Jewish self. I think this highlights the problem that people going through, or have gone through, the conversion process within the Reform movement face: their feelings of inadequacy when faced with more traditional Jews. It is something I don't know if rabbis address enough, and I think it is damaging, not just to the converts, but to the entire Reform movement. Because at the heart of the matter is what is considered "authentic" Judaism and who is an "authentic" Jew.
I began my formal conversion process 5 years ago, and became a Jew, officially, on March 30, 2004. But, in reality my process began much earlier, in college, and by the time I had my beit din and received my Hebrew name, I had felt Jewish for a long time. I am a Jew. I don't equivicate that and say I am a Reform Jew. I am, simply a Jew. I belong to the Reform movement, and I am proud to be affiliated with it. I am not Reform because I want to do the least amount of observance. I am Reform because I believe in figuring out what is right for you and not just blindly following tradition; that is one of the many problems I had with my Catholic upbringing. I believe that tradition and observance is important but only if there is meaning behind your actions.
This sentence is going to be contentious, but it is what I feel: being a serious Reform Jew is hard, harder than being Conservative or Orthodox, because a Reform Jew must inform themselves about what they are doing. You must educate themselves and discover the whys of doing something and not just do it. You aren't just told "this is what Jews do, so just go and do it." Each level of observance I take on is a very conscious choice that I debate and struggle with before I take it on. I've recently started down the path towards keeping kosher, and it is a path that I have gone back and forth on in my head since before I converted. Was this meaningful me? Would it be meaningful for me? I needed to make sure that I wasn't choosing to do something simply to take on a traditional observance.
People who convert through the Reform movement with the idea in their head that they will eventually convert again through Conservative or Orthodox to be "more authentic" are dishonest. Those who convert Reform, seriously, and are later drawn towards Conservative or Orthodox, well I believe that if they come to the conclusion by being honest with themselves and not out of some sense of inadequacy, it is valid. However, I find it troubling to read or hear these Reform converts doubt their own Jewishness or allow others to question it and not be able to defend themselves. I think this is a failing of their rabbi. I think it is just as important for a rabbi to help the convert learn about the what of Judaism as it is to learn about the why, especially the why of converting in their specific movement. Reform rabbis who are working with people in the conversion process MUST address the inevitable questioning that these people will get about themselves and their Jewish identity, and they must do it in an open and honest way, with no pressure, no agenda. I think that if someone goes into the conversion process with some doubts as to the movement they are going through, this should be addressed at the beginning. Why Reform? What does being Reform mean in the 21st Century? What does being a committed Reform Jew mean? These rabbis need to be able to help converts find and feel comfortable in their identities as Jews. If other people can make them doubt their own Jewishness (as opposed to genuinely being drawn to a different movement) then the rabbi has not done a good job in helping to shape and solidify that person's identity.
It is vitally important that Reform rabbis help the people studying with them towards conversion understand what it means to be a committed Reform Jew. They need to stress that this isn't the "easy" way towards conversion and that it isn't Judaism-lite. They must help instill a pride in being Jewish, and pride for the Reform heritage they are coming into, for the Jewish heritage they are coming into.
Converts will never have the same experiences that people born Jewish have. We won't have the experience of Jewish summer camp, of learning to our prayers for b'nei mitzvot with our friends, of being a part of a Jewish home from an early age. This can cause stress and sometimes depression in people who are converting, and it must be addressed by rabbis. It should be talked about, frequently, and with many people. It is not just enough to talk to rabbis. It is just as important to talk to other Reform converts who are comfortable with who they are as Jews. I think it is probably difficult for a rabbi to fully understand the stress that converts can feel unless they were converts themselves.
It is completely valid to have these feelings; at one point I had them myself--I was surrounded by people who had experienced all these life events as Jews, while I was attending mass and Catholic school. But after awhile I realized that my past experiences were just that--the past. What I did with my present and my future was going to be important in shaping my Jewish identity. In a sense I felt lucky because I didn't have the family baggage or expectations weighing me down. Who I became as Jew would be up to me and me alone.
So, I ask fellow Reform converts and those in the conversion process: let's be honest with ourselves. Be honest up front with why you are converting through the Reform movement. Is it because they temple is closest or it's the only game in town? Is it because you like the rabbi? Or is it because you genuinely feel that this is how things should be done, that the Reform approach of informed decision is what is right for you? Do you think that somewhere down the line you will convert Conservative or Orthodox to be more authentic in the eyes of more Jews? Who is your conversion for? You or a future spouse who may or may not see you as Jewish? Or is it for the faceless others who you feel will judge you and your conversion?
Becoming a Jew is becoming part of a larger whole, a people. But it is also about becoming YOU. It is important to feel a connection with the Jewish people, but it is just as important to forge a personal relationship with Judaism, and in the ultimate end, with God. Because when it comes down to it you are presumably converting to Judaism because it is how you are connecting to God and that is the most important thing. I think we get so caught up in what makes a Jew a Jew that we lose sight on the fundamental reason for converting in the first place is our relationship with God, not our relationship with man-made constructions of identity.
I am a Jew because I believe Judaism to be the best way to connect with God. I am a Reform Jew because I believe it is the most authentic and valid way for me to forge my Jewish connection to God, opening up a world to me that is precious and genuine.
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