Last night I posted over at JBC.org on why I am a Reform Jew. Per the rules of the blog, I'm not going to cross-post here, but I am going to link to it because I'm pretty proud of what I wrote.
So, if you are interested: Why I Am a Reform Jew.
Showing posts with label spirituality. Show all posts
Showing posts with label spirituality. Show all posts
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.
6.12.2008
The Spirituality of Pain?
A couple of months ago I posted about the Book of Job class I attended at my temple. Since then I've begun reading (and am close to finishing) The Journey Home: Discovering the Deep Spiritual Wisdom of the Jewish Tradition by Rabbi Lawrence A. Hoffman. There are a number of passages that speak directly to the issues that the Book of Job class brought up and I'm going to chat a little bit about them now.
Rabbi Hoffman states that "in Deuteronomic theology... we always get what we deserve" and goes on to detail the 2 instances where this theology is challenged–Ecclesiastes and Job. Throughout Ecclesiastes the author "recognizes the futility of imagining that if we are only good, we will prosper," but in the end "the great skepticism...is denied in a simple one-line conclusion that reasserts Deuteronomy's promise of justice: 'The sum of the matter, when all is said and done: revere God and observe his commandments, for this applies to all man-kind, that God will call every creature to account for everything unknown be it good or bad' (12: 12-13)." [all quotes p. 165]. I don't agree with Hoffman that the last line necessarily negates the rest of Ecclesiastes (though I am speaking here based on just what he has written and not with first-hand knowledge of the book, which I've never read completely). Does the last statement really deny the idea that prosperity comes from doing good and downfall comes from doing bad? Could it be that yes, what you do or don't do may not cause your suffering or your blessing, but you WILL eventually have to answer to God, whether that be on Yom Kippur or when you die, or whenever. We don't know how God will call us to account, but we can certainly imagine, and isn't it just like children to imagine the worst from their parent? If we go with the idea of God as Father or as King (melekh), do we not fear the worst when going against what they have asked?
Hoffman turns to the Book of Job, taking time to go through the arguments set forth by Job and by his friends, pointing out that the "ostensible point of the book is Job's unswerving faith in God despite his sufferings. But though he refuses throughout to curse God, he refuses equally to blame himself his afflictions" (166). In the end Job never admits he is the cause of his own suffering, nor does he curse God, instead just admitting that God is mighty and that he (Job) does not understand His ways. In response to the ending of Job, Hoffman states that "God admits, then, how wrong it is to hold that only the guilty experience tragedy and how equally mistaken to argue that God offers suffering as a loving corrective to human beings" (167).
Rabbi Hoffman states that "suffering may have meaning. People want to believe that it does. But the dominant meaning-making schemes that surround it are morally unsavory. Sickness is not sent by God; it is not God's way of punishing us; we are not responsible for it ourselves; it does not express our inner character; and pain is not good for anyone" (173). He isn't saying that we aren't responsible for ourselves at all, because we can just as easily fall into the pattern of not taking any responsibility, but if you just think about it logically, who can honestly say that pain is good? That suffering is good?
Rabbi Hoffman states that "in Deuteronomic theology... we always get what we deserve" and goes on to detail the 2 instances where this theology is challenged–Ecclesiastes and Job. Throughout Ecclesiastes the author "recognizes the futility of imagining that if we are only good, we will prosper," but in the end "the great skepticism...is denied in a simple one-line conclusion that reasserts Deuteronomy's promise of justice: 'The sum of the matter, when all is said and done: revere God and observe his commandments, for this applies to all man-kind, that God will call every creature to account for everything unknown be it good or bad' (12: 12-13)." [all quotes p. 165]. I don't agree with Hoffman that the last line necessarily negates the rest of Ecclesiastes (though I am speaking here based on just what he has written and not with first-hand knowledge of the book, which I've never read completely). Does the last statement really deny the idea that prosperity comes from doing good and downfall comes from doing bad? Could it be that yes, what you do or don't do may not cause your suffering or your blessing, but you WILL eventually have to answer to God, whether that be on Yom Kippur or when you die, or whenever. We don't know how God will call us to account, but we can certainly imagine, and isn't it just like children to imagine the worst from their parent? If we go with the idea of God as Father or as King (melekh), do we not fear the worst when going against what they have asked?
Hoffman turns to the Book of Job, taking time to go through the arguments set forth by Job and by his friends, pointing out that the "ostensible point of the book is Job's unswerving faith in God despite his sufferings. But though he refuses throughout to curse God, he refuses equally to blame himself his afflictions" (166). In the end Job never admits he is the cause of his own suffering, nor does he curse God, instead just admitting that God is mighty and that he (Job) does not understand His ways. In response to the ending of Job, Hoffman states that "God admits, then, how wrong it is to hold that only the guilty experience tragedy and how equally mistaken to argue that God offers suffering as a loving corrective to human beings" (167).
As we saw previously in our discussion of Gnositicism, the Rabbis thoroughgoing monotheism made them concede that somehow, even the evil in the universe must come ultimately from God. But their balanced estimate of human character prevented their painting everyone as a complete sinner, and they seem to have recognized that suffering cannot be explained solely as punishment that is never undeserved or even that it is a blessing in disguise, a mild rebuke that is ultimately for our own benefit. - p. 168So, where does that take us? What does it mean to suffer? Can we find anything spiritually fulfilling in it? Honestly, it depends on how you look at it and how you deal with it; if you believe that you have sinned and therefore caused your own suffering, is that going to help you get better? Will you, in fact, cause your situation to worsen because of this attitude and belief? Conversely, if you say "what will happen will happen" will you treat all situations as being left up to fate, to random chance? Should there not be a middle ground, where we can grant that suffering and illness are not caused by sins we commit, but are caused by something? If you get lung cancer after you have smoked 3 packs a day for 50 years are you being punished for sins, or are the physical repercussions of your actions just finally catching up to you? It would be a comforting thought to know that if we did good we would be happy, and when it does work out that way we feel vindicated in our beliefs. But, when we base our beliefs on a system that can, in the end, disappoint us, where does that leave our beliefs?
Rabbi Hoffman states that "suffering may have meaning. People want to believe that it does. But the dominant meaning-making schemes that surround it are morally unsavory. Sickness is not sent by God; it is not God's way of punishing us; we are not responsible for it ourselves; it does not express our inner character; and pain is not good for anyone" (173). He isn't saying that we aren't responsible for ourselves at all, because we can just as easily fall into the pattern of not taking any responsibility, but if you just think about it logically, who can honestly say that pain is good? That suffering is good?
6.06.2008
תהו ובהו
In a famous passage from a fifth-century collection of rabbinic musing, we find the Rabbis wondering how God knew in advance what the universe should look like. If, as the Rabbis staunchly maintained, God created the universe out of nothing, there could have been no preexistent model available. How, then, did God, the divine architect, imagine a universe when no such architecture had ever existed before. The Rabbis solve the problem by imagining that God used the Torah as a primal blueprint. It is as if the Torah is eternal, transcending all time, even the moment of the big bang, when time as we know it began.It is difficult for us, as humans with a long history to draw on, to imagine God creating something from nothing, with no reference points at all. I find it interesting that the Rabbis mentioned above felt the need to figure out how God knew what things would look like if He had no reference to begin with as it seemingly ignores the idea of the ineffable God that Heschel writes so well about. It is not surprising that the Rabbis couldn’t grasp the idea that God does not need a reference point to create, because, well, He’s GOD and we are not. It is inconceivable to the human mind to be able to imagine a world with no reference to anything else; we simply cannot grasp the idea of תהו ובהו and so how could we understand how God created the world from nothing? But, I would argue that it isn’t something we should try to understand or explain away. We cannot know the nature of God; we can search, and we can hope to find some sliver of understanding in our prayers and our deeds, but the bulk of God will always be out of reach. Personally, I’m okay with that. I don’t know that I would be able to handle the awesome ability to understand God, nor do I think I would want to.
-- The Journey Home: Discovering the Deep Spiritual Wisdom of the Jewish Tradition, by Rabbi Lawrence A. Hoffman; p. 32
To me the simple explanation is that God is God and if how He created the world without a reference is because He is God and it will remain a mystery to me.
However, returning to the quote above in context, the Rabbi Hoffman is trying to illustrate how “Torah defines the ideal shape of human life.” He goes on to detail how the Torah is much like Human life, with Genesis illustrating birth and childhood, Exodus is our lives as young adults, Leviticus dealing with our day to day lives where we find purpose, Numbers is our mid-life crisis, and Deuteronomy our end of life. I’m not far enough into the book to really write about what he is getting at, but it’s interesting and thought provoking so far, so I’m sure I’ll have more to say at a later date.
I’ll leave off with one last quote from Rabbi Hoffman as he addresses Leviticus:
The first two Hebrew words in the book are crucial: vayikra elohim. “God called.” The centerpiece of spiritual life is the sense that we are not here by accident. We are called. That is to say, every moment of life, from beginning to end, is a chance to rehear God’s love-laden call to purpose.
--p. 37
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.
---------------------
"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.
12.26.2007
Biennial, Day 2 (content observations)
I began my 2nd day in San Diego at Shiru L'Adonai, a service in song. It was lead by Rabbi Ethan Franzel from Main Line Reform Temple Beth Elohim in Wynnewood, PA, and Cantor Kay Greenwald from Congregation Beth Am in Los Altos, CA. It was a spectacular way to begin my day and is one of the most moving services I have ever participated in. There is something about singing that makes me feel so much more connected to God, to my spirituality, and to the people around me. It was truly excellent and invigorating. I felt so much better about going into the day and into the workshops than I had on Wednesday. It helped that I got some sleep (and oh, the beds in the hotel were great) and just felt much more human than I had the day before.
Some general observations:
• I can apparently catch onto melodies fairly fast when hearing them for the first time.
• The ratio of tallit- and kippot-wearers is much higher to non-wearers than I have ever seen outside a Conservative or Traditional shul.
• I really enjoyed using Mishkan T'Filah (more on this later), despite some previous troubles with the draft copies in other congregations I've visited.
• I was sitting with a rabbinic student I know and during Hakafa I did not move towards the aisles to kiss the Torah and declined the offer of her tzitzit saying that "I'm a student of SRK's," though it does go deeper than that (also more on this later). She thought that was amusing.
• I seem to be in the minority of people at the Biennial who does not bow during Barechu or the Amidah; I bow only during Aleinu when it literally says "we bow."
• I'm getting used to hearing Torah chanted, though I still like the read-and-translate tradition of my own congregation.
I cannot overstate the positive nature of the service and how much I loved beginning my day that way. As I was putting away my tallit, I turned to the rabbinic student next to me and said "this is why it would be great to have a daily Reform minyan in my city." I really would love to get one going, somehow.
After services I was meeting the 3 women from my congregation who were attending the WRJ part of the Biennial. We sat and listened to Rabbi Daniel Freelander and MK Menachem Ben-Sasson speak about Israel and its importance, which was very interesting. Then after a quick call to SRK to plan lunch, it was off to my first workshop of the day.
----------------------------------
Workshop #1
Reform Reforms Shabbat w/ Rabbi Deborah Bronstein from Congregation Har Hashem in Boulder, CO; Art Grand from Temple Or Rishon in Orangevale, CA; and Iris Petroff from Temple Society of Concord in Syracuse, NY.
This was a great workshop. I am very interesting in moving towards a more observant Shabbat, even if it isn't in the traditional sense of observance. We heard a lot about what each of the panelists have done to increase both their personal Shabbat observances and those of their families and/or fellow congregants.
From my notes:
• Shabbat is like entering the color section of the Wizard of Oz, but we have to know how to enter.
• Add a new ritual each year.
• There are moments in our lives when a commandment (mitzvah) suddenly addresses us.
• Find some way to make the day different.
• Finding the discipline---not seeing Shabbat as part of the list you need to put off
• Congregations helping everyone who wants to attend a Shabbat dinner does
• Dinner & Davening: have pre-Shabbat dinners (at Temple or not) that are not religious-school based
• Shabbat is about re-juvenation, re-creating, and re-connecting
• Have conversion candidates commit to keeping Shabbat in some way during the year(s) that they are studying. Helps instill a sense of connection to the day and observance that they did not grow up with, were never commanded to do before.
• Put a table cloth on the table, a sheet over the TV or desk
• Have a specific food that becomes your "taste of Shabbat."
• Cineplex?
My thoughts wandered a little bit during the session to what we can do at my congregation to get more people to attend Torah study and services on Saturday morning.
• have Torah studies led by lay people and/or groups (such as Sisterhood) more frequently
• have a "Saturday Morning Live" program where we have good music that draws people in (not just a guitarist for Tot Shabbat)
• read Torah on Friday night once a month to give people a taste of what we have on Saturday morning, a connection to the Torah that they are not getting.
I was very interested in Rabbi Yoffie's Shabbat morning sermon as much of it had to do with ways to reinvigorate Shabbat in our congregations. I hope to have some conversations with my rabbi and other members of my congregation about Shabbat and how we can make it better at our temple.
In general I felt like I had some new ideas for how I can personally begin to observe Shabbat more. As it is I attend services on Friday night and Saturday morning, but beyond that I think it is difficult for those of us who are single adults with no Jewish family as so much of Shabbat observance seems to be centered around the home and the family. So, perhaps I will need to become more creative with what is a meaningful Shabbat observance for me. Plenty to chew on, to be sure.
------------------------
After lunch I attended a forum titled What's Spirituality Got to Do With It: Ritual, Worship and Mysticism. The panelists were Rabbi Zoe Klein, Rabbi Lawrence Kushner, and Rabbi Arnold J. Wolf. It was a very interesting panel that I wish I could have gotten a little more out of, but as I had a massive headache for a good portion of it, I wasn't as focused as I would have liked to be.
From my notes:
• Are we afraid of holy moments? Rabbi Klein says that rabbis are especially afraid of holy moments (making jokes, etc.).
• Is the seeking of holy moments a kabbalistic idea? Why not just a Jewish idea?
• Love=reverence for mystery
• to be in awe of what is hidden beneath the veil is to be mystified
• Why are we now so attracted to spirituality?
• spirituality is soaring above the politics and every day bits of religion
• God is found in the details (Rabbi Wolf)? Isn't God also found in significant moments? Why not both?**
• Rabbi Wolf claims that spiritual seekers don't understand the nitty gritty of everyday religion (which is what he would prefer); I don't agree with this. As someone who is a spiritual seeker and who sees the beauty of religion I feel you can be both.
**My response a few days later:
What defines a "big" or "significant" moment? If we find God in the small details, does that not elevate the moment to significance? How actively can we pursue significant encounters with God? Is it possible to try too hard? Is it possible to miss the significant moment happening even as we are looking for it? What happens when we miss too many encounters with God?
I truly believe that I find God in so many different moments that there is no way I can even be aware of each one, but I don't think that's a bad thing. I think that on some level I am aware and it helps me in those moments when I am truly in need of God's presence. I think that even when I am not aware, God is.
--------------
Workshop #2
Spiritual Pathways Through Nature with Rabbi Michael Comins of Torah Trek.
The notes I took were sketchy, so I don't have a lot to write below, but I enjoyed the workshop. I'm not personally very into meditation, but I do love to experience God in nature and in the beauty of natural things. I find my breath taken away sometimes when I look at a summer sky full of luscious clouds and can't help feeling that God connection.
He taught us a couple of ways that he helps people connect to their Judaism on the trails, much of it having to do with breathing and mindfulness, being aware of what is going on around you, and at that moment bringing a prayer into the mix, be it a traditional Jewish prayer, or one that is from your heart.
Rabbi Comins spoke about finding God in nature, finding a sanctuary that does not have walls, and how we are able to us Jewish prayer to feel more connected to the natural.
He spoke a lot about I-Thou receptiveness=mindfulness. In I-Thou you take in the whole and you respect and there is a moral dimension---whatever the "thou" requires is what you require of yourself.
Mystical connection:
• you feel the light of God, the energy of God in nature
• make yourself like an empty vessel so that God may fill it up
• being mindful means you are making room for God and a spiritual moment
• we are less likely to have a God-experience when we go right into the book (siddur); using music takes us back to the right side of the brain, the emotional side; better for mindfulness--we can use this by way of chanting in nature
• but can we also bring mindfulness and these techniques into the synagogue?
------------------
So, that was the main content of Day 2. I'll post more personal observations in different post, including what I did in the evening. The 2nd day was definitely a good day.
Some general observations:
• I can apparently catch onto melodies fairly fast when hearing them for the first time.
• The ratio of tallit- and kippot-wearers is much higher to non-wearers than I have ever seen outside a Conservative or Traditional shul.
• I really enjoyed using Mishkan T'Filah (more on this later), despite some previous troubles with the draft copies in other congregations I've visited.
• I was sitting with a rabbinic student I know and during Hakafa I did not move towards the aisles to kiss the Torah and declined the offer of her tzitzit saying that "I'm a student of SRK's," though it does go deeper than that (also more on this later). She thought that was amusing.
• I seem to be in the minority of people at the Biennial who does not bow during Barechu or the Amidah; I bow only during Aleinu when it literally says "we bow."
• I'm getting used to hearing Torah chanted, though I still like the read-and-translate tradition of my own congregation.
I cannot overstate the positive nature of the service and how much I loved beginning my day that way. As I was putting away my tallit, I turned to the rabbinic student next to me and said "this is why it would be great to have a daily Reform minyan in my city." I really would love to get one going, somehow.
After services I was meeting the 3 women from my congregation who were attending the WRJ part of the Biennial. We sat and listened to Rabbi Daniel Freelander and MK Menachem Ben-Sasson speak about Israel and its importance, which was very interesting. Then after a quick call to SRK to plan lunch, it was off to my first workshop of the day.
----------------------------------
Workshop #1
Reform Reforms Shabbat w/ Rabbi Deborah Bronstein from Congregation Har Hashem in Boulder, CO; Art Grand from Temple Or Rishon in Orangevale, CA; and Iris Petroff from Temple Society of Concord in Syracuse, NY.
This was a great workshop. I am very interesting in moving towards a more observant Shabbat, even if it isn't in the traditional sense of observance. We heard a lot about what each of the panelists have done to increase both their personal Shabbat observances and those of their families and/or fellow congregants.
From my notes:
• Shabbat is like entering the color section of the Wizard of Oz, but we have to know how to enter.
• Add a new ritual each year.
• There are moments in our lives when a commandment (mitzvah) suddenly addresses us.
• Find some way to make the day different.
• Finding the discipline---not seeing Shabbat as part of the list you need to put off
• Congregations helping everyone who wants to attend a Shabbat dinner does
• Dinner & Davening: have pre-Shabbat dinners (at Temple or not) that are not religious-school based
• Shabbat is about re-juvenation, re-creating, and re-connecting
• Have conversion candidates commit to keeping Shabbat in some way during the year(s) that they are studying. Helps instill a sense of connection to the day and observance that they did not grow up with, were never commanded to do before.
• Put a table cloth on the table, a sheet over the TV or desk
• Have a specific food that becomes your "taste of Shabbat."
• Cineplex?
My thoughts wandered a little bit during the session to what we can do at my congregation to get more people to attend Torah study and services on Saturday morning.
• have Torah studies led by lay people and/or groups (such as Sisterhood) more frequently
• have a "Saturday Morning Live" program where we have good music that draws people in (not just a guitarist for Tot Shabbat)
• read Torah on Friday night once a month to give people a taste of what we have on Saturday morning, a connection to the Torah that they are not getting.
I was very interested in Rabbi Yoffie's Shabbat morning sermon as much of it had to do with ways to reinvigorate Shabbat in our congregations. I hope to have some conversations with my rabbi and other members of my congregation about Shabbat and how we can make it better at our temple.
In general I felt like I had some new ideas for how I can personally begin to observe Shabbat more. As it is I attend services on Friday night and Saturday morning, but beyond that I think it is difficult for those of us who are single adults with no Jewish family as so much of Shabbat observance seems to be centered around the home and the family. So, perhaps I will need to become more creative with what is a meaningful Shabbat observance for me. Plenty to chew on, to be sure.
------------------------
After lunch I attended a forum titled What's Spirituality Got to Do With It: Ritual, Worship and Mysticism. The panelists were Rabbi Zoe Klein, Rabbi Lawrence Kushner, and Rabbi Arnold J. Wolf. It was a very interesting panel that I wish I could have gotten a little more out of, but as I had a massive headache for a good portion of it, I wasn't as focused as I would have liked to be.
From my notes:
• Are we afraid of holy moments? Rabbi Klein says that rabbis are especially afraid of holy moments (making jokes, etc.).
• Is the seeking of holy moments a kabbalistic idea? Why not just a Jewish idea?
• Love=reverence for mystery
• to be in awe of what is hidden beneath the veil is to be mystified
• Why are we now so attracted to spirituality?
• spirituality is soaring above the politics and every day bits of religion
• God is found in the details (Rabbi Wolf)? Isn't God also found in significant moments? Why not both?**
• Rabbi Wolf claims that spiritual seekers don't understand the nitty gritty of everyday religion (which is what he would prefer); I don't agree with this. As someone who is a spiritual seeker and who sees the beauty of religion I feel you can be both.
**My response a few days later:
What defines a "big" or "significant" moment? If we find God in the small details, does that not elevate the moment to significance? How actively can we pursue significant encounters with God? Is it possible to try too hard? Is it possible to miss the significant moment happening even as we are looking for it? What happens when we miss too many encounters with God?
I truly believe that I find God in so many different moments that there is no way I can even be aware of each one, but I don't think that's a bad thing. I think that on some level I am aware and it helps me in those moments when I am truly in need of God's presence. I think that even when I am not aware, God is.
--------------
Workshop #2
Spiritual Pathways Through Nature with Rabbi Michael Comins of Torah Trek.
The notes I took were sketchy, so I don't have a lot to write below, but I enjoyed the workshop. I'm not personally very into meditation, but I do love to experience God in nature and in the beauty of natural things. I find my breath taken away sometimes when I look at a summer sky full of luscious clouds and can't help feeling that God connection.
He taught us a couple of ways that he helps people connect to their Judaism on the trails, much of it having to do with breathing and mindfulness, being aware of what is going on around you, and at that moment bringing a prayer into the mix, be it a traditional Jewish prayer, or one that is from your heart.
Rabbi Comins spoke about finding God in nature, finding a sanctuary that does not have walls, and how we are able to us Jewish prayer to feel more connected to the natural.
He spoke a lot about I-Thou receptiveness=mindfulness. In I-Thou you take in the whole and you respect and there is a moral dimension---whatever the "thou" requires is what you require of yourself.
Mystical connection:
• you feel the light of God, the energy of God in nature
• make yourself like an empty vessel so that God may fill it up
• being mindful means you are making room for God and a spiritual moment
• we are less likely to have a God-experience when we go right into the book (siddur); using music takes us back to the right side of the brain, the emotional side; better for mindfulness--we can use this by way of chanting in nature
• but can we also bring mindfulness and these techniques into the synagogue?
------------------
So, that was the main content of Day 2. I'll post more personal observations in different post, including what I did in the evening. The 2nd day was definitely a good day.
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