Practice

בס''ד

5 Iyyar, 5772

April 27th, 2012

20th Day of the Omer

Parshat Tazria-Metzora

“Says the author: I did not compose this essay to teach people what they do not know, but rather to remind them of that which is already known to them and hugely wide-spread between them. For you will only find in most of my words things that most people know and about which they have no doubt; only, it is because they are so famous and that their truth is obvious to everyone that their absence is prevalent and the forgetting of them is great.”

These are the words that begin one of the most famous popular works of Jewish spirituality in history, the Mesillat Yesharim, The Path of the Upright. Written by the immensely brilliant and highly eccentric Moshe Haim Luzzato, this book is the precursor to the Mussar movement - the 19th century ethical/spiritual movement that focussed on perfecting the self and radical improvement of one’s virtues as the greatest way to serve God.

At the heart of these words is a prescient realization - human beings are likely to forget precisely that which is most obvious. We take quite a bit for granted, and unless we actively remind ourselves of that which is unambiguously important - family, courtesy, kindness, helping others, making a positive impact on the world, investing in spirituality, giving to charity, etc. - we simply will not devote the time to these values that we would wish.

So I want to draw your attention to the second of two words that always go together: spiritual practice. These two words cannot be separated, for the path to a more noble life begins with constantly reminding oneself of that which is important. Thus every spirituality is grounded in daily practice.

It is sometimes thought that one must realize the importance of a practice before beginning it. But those who are wise know that the opposite is true - important realizations only come through practice.

All of You Who Stand Here

בס''ד

Parshat Shemini

28 Nisan, 5772

April 20^th. 2012

13^th Day of the Omer, Yesod in Gevurah

            Among the regular responses I get to being a rabbi is one that is particularly adorable: if a family has a child in Jewish preschool, said child will be duly trotted out before me and prodded to recite whichever blessings he or she learned in school. The kid will be shy and sweet in the way only preschoolers can be, and the whole experience is quite enjoyable.

            But it can also make me sad. I know that I cannot ascribe identical motivation to everyone – sometimes parents are just being proud. But sometimes I hear, when the adult pushes the child forward, “see – I know we don’t make these blessing ourselves, but we’re educating our children.” As someone whose passion it is to spread vibrant, relevant Judaism, this message goes down with difficulty.

            So I had a hard time with Laurel Snyder’s Beliefnet piece, “My faith: Raising religious (but not too religious) children.”

            The piece is beautifully written (winning my immediate respect); however, its thrust is that Snyder has become involved in Jewish life – synagogue, havurah – for the sake of her children. As she puts it, “Because there’s something about having kids that makes me want to be a better version of my Jewish self. I want something special to pass on to them.”

            I am conscious that I am about to touch a real nerve. So many people whom I love and respect have voiced the exact same sentiment to me. But, beautiful as its articulation is, there’s a problem.

            You see, when I ask why people involve themselves in Jewish life I overwhelmingly get one of two answers: “because of my ancestors/tradition,” “for my children.”

            More importantly, when I ask children why Jewish life is important to them – and I ask every single bnai mitzvah student – I only receive these two answers. I have yet to hear a student say the 13 year old version of, “I practice Judaism because it fills my life with meaning, purpose, and Godliness.”

            Why is there a vacancy between the past and the future? What about the present? What about us?

            So, with a lot of love, I put forward questions I think are worth asking:

Is it worthwhile to engage in a tradition we value for our ancestors and our children, but rarely for ourselves? What do children learn by being educated in ways they know their parents do not practice? Is there something that prevents us from practicing Judaism for ourselves, and what should we, the synagogue, the rabbi, do about it?

            Near the end of the Torah, it is written, “You are standing here today, all of you, before HaShem your God…” (Deut. 29:9) Only the covenant we create for ourselves can be given to others.

Margin of Error

בס''ד

29 Adar, 5772

March 23rd, 2012

If it were up to me, we religious figures would have a mandatory disclaimer after we spoke, like in those car commercials.

It would go like this:

“There is neither wisdom, nor understanding, nor counsel in place of God.” Proverbs 21:30

What this means in context is something like, “Everything I’m saying has a healthy margin of error.”

This is the truth of the situation - to live a religious life is to reach for God’s will, not to know it. The very point of the exercise is that we do not know with certainty, and that we spend our lives searching for the way. Life is an exercise is learning, not knowing. No religious leader, no matter how fervent, knows the will of God.

But before you get too excited, remember that this disclaimer applies to everyone, not just religious leaders. Often I see people who substitute doubt of religion with their own certainty. Overhead from another Jew: “That’s just what the Rabbis say, it’s not God’s law.” Just because we do not believe in perfect knowledge does not mean we reject wisdom. Not to give teachers the presumption of value is to say that one person cannot pass holiness to another.

What I’m describing is not an end to belief, but a call for belief with humility.

And yes, you still can’t eat that bacon double-cheesburger.

Yelling

בס''ד

Yelling

22 Adar, 5772

March 16^th, 2012

It’s been a big few weeks for the pundits and talking heads. As the presidential election draws closer, as Israel’s concerns about Iran skyrocket, there’s been plenty to talk about.

What irks me, as the tensions rise, are the kinds of people to whom we’ve chosen to listen, as they pontificate on our nation’s and people’s woes.

The prophet’s primary definition has been misplaced somewhere in the crevasse of modern parlance. A prophet’s first job is to yell at his or her own people, to the group to which s/he belongs. Prophets are the expression of our internal voice of conscience. So why is it that all we hear are people yelling at the other guy?

The Limbaughs and the Olbermanns, the Frankens and the Pragers – all these pundits direct their energies solely towards the other. Towards those like them, and especially regarding their own sacred persons, they have nothing but pristine confidence.

Our Torah does not admire intelligence in place of wisdom, nor glibness in the stead of humility. One of the great questions of the Talmud is, “Who in this generation is worthy of giving criticism?” The manner and method of those to whom we give a platform is of vital importance.

If we could change the world in small, but substantive ways, let one change be this: that we enshrine in our culture those whose criticism we need to hear, not only those who criticize on our behalf.

“A wise person accepts discipline. One who hates criticism is a fool.” Proverbs 12:1

Ich bin a Yid

בס''ד

Parshat Terumah

1 Adar 5772

February 24^th, 2012

Yesterday might have contained my greatest moment of 5772. A 78 year-old African-American preacher grabbed my arm, looked me in the eye, and said with considerable charm, “Ich bin a Yid in my heart.”*

I must admit, it was awesome.

The irony of my pleasure in this moment is that I get quite touchy when non-Jews claim Jewish identity or affinity. I have seen some very strange appropriations of Judaism over the years: non-Jews at Krakow’s klezmer music festival, wearing hassidische clothing, quoting stories of the rebbes, with interest only in Jews long dead; Christian biblical fundamentalists who mistakenly believe that they share our essence because they are Old Testament focused (they’ve never heard of the Talmud); Messianics claiming ownership over Torah, including the disgraceful “coronation” of Bishop Eddie Long with a Torahscroll. 

At issue is the nature of identity, and the question of how people relate to identities that they partially share, but do not wholly inhabit.

In our time, each of us is an amalgamation of identities. It’s true: our global culture exposes us, quite felicitously, to external identities in such a way that they take residence in our soul. There is a part of me that is an American at the founding of this country, a part in a yeshiva in Lithuania. There is a part of me that is black, a part that is gay, a part Latino, Asian, Eastern European, Southern, East Coast, and so on. The nature of our era is that we exist as hybrids.

But I am nonetheless conscious of my central identity: a Jew in America. And though I may inhabit others in a partial way, it is only as an American Jew that I am an arbiter and influencer – only in that realm where I can speak to the destiny of my identity.

With the contemporary sharing of identities has come arrogance: the fallacy that because I am influenced by another culture, I have a right to define that culture. This is why Jews get uncomfortable with outpourings of Evangelical love – it comes with a definition about us and our future (eventually coming to love Christ) that we reject. We do not want to be known as future converts. It is invasive.

Therefore, the response to the identities shared with us must be humility. When others share their identities with us they give us a gift, not a commodity to be consumed and controlled.  Ultimately this is why I loved my preacher friend, for in his eyes was kindness, not ownership.

“Words of Torah can only exist in one of humble mind.”

-Talmud, Masekeht Ta’anit

* Yiddish for “I am a Jew.” It loses something in the translation.

Sick

בס’‘ד

Parshat Mishpatim

24 Shvat, 5772

February 17th, 2012

I’ve been sick for the last four days.

It’s nothing serious, thank God. Enough of a cold to make me wish I could detach my own head for a while, but nothing more than discomfort.

But it did get me thinking. 

Being sick reminded me of a uncomfortable truth, which is that to live is to be at war. On the microscopic level, our bodies are more or less constantly in battle. Scientists estimate that the parasites on planet Earth outnumber us free-standing organism by a factor of 3 to 1. We are always under attack.

So you have to wonder, then, what health really is. Is it the illusory state that existed only before the onslaught of life? Is health sterility - the eradication of all harmful influences?

My guess is that the answer is no. It’s negotiating those challenges that makes us healthy, not avoiding them. Health is not pristine.

This is the magnificent truth of our bodies: “Do not fear the terror of the night, nor the arrow that flies by die; Not the disease that comes in darkness, nor the destruction that lays waste at noon. A thousand will fall at your side, and ten thousand at your right hand - but they shall not come close to you.” (Psalm 91)

Every moment of health is a wonderful overcoming, a show of grace against great odds. As the sick know, every second of health’s preeminence is worthy of gratitude.

Choice vs. Journey

בס''ד

Parshat Yitro

17 Shvat, 5772

February 10^th, 2012

I suppose I do not have the bona fides to the critique the plethora of choice in our world, as I am certainly a child of choice. I live a half-extremely religious, half-secularly engaged lifestyle unthinkable in centuries previous. I am defined by the ability to choose, minutely and freely, the exact kind of life I want to live. So who am I to talk?

But at the same time, I am sad that we are so glutted with choice. The amount of it is overwhelming. There’s so much of it that our brains have dropped other faculties (memorization, calculation) and function as eternal selectors:  not just private or public, but which private? And should we go charter? Not just Apple or PC, but which of these 13 billion little apps do I need to download to my i-pad to make sure I survive the weekend?

What makes me sad is that I believe our ease of selection preempts the possibility of real internal search. It’s as if all of us are art critics, none of us artists. We choose constantly, but do we have the chance to journey towards meaningful choice? Are we allowed to reap the rewards that come from internal struggle and the necessary rigors of finding our place within systems that seem foreign to us?

The Talmud in Ta’anit has a piece of advice for teachers: “if a student is ready, ‘bring water to the thirsty;’ if a student is not ready ‘let the thirsty come get water.’” This means that there is a journey each student must take before s/he is ready for Torah. But our world treats us as if we are eternally ready, dropping all the knowledge and wisdom and opportunity that can be found in a heap at our feet, whether we are prepared for such or not.

So I say: make space for yourself not to be ready; make space not to know or understand; make space for everything not to be revealed right now. Give yourself the chance to journey.