Have Tallit and Tefillin, Will Travel

The Days of Awe do seem to bring out the silence in me. This is my favourite time of year. From Rosh Hashana all the way through to Simchat Torah, it's a davenning marathon and I love it. Last year I made it to almost every morning minyan as well as other services. It was a privilege.

Sukkot is my absolute favourite festival. A few years ago, I bought my first lulav and etrog. I remember the moment so clearly: both were wrapped- the former sheathed in plastic and the latter nestled in a silver-coloured box. The sun was breathing on the temple's glass wall. The time arrived to shake our respective lulavim while clasping the etrog to it. As I uncovered these mystifying treasures, I had never encountered such fragrance. I was hit by a wall of it- it stirred my senses- it was almost primal. The scents encompassed everything making all about me seem richer, more alive. Sukkot is the most intensely earthy festival, redolent of bounty, swimming in sensuousness. After the wired inwardness and scouring self-scrutiny of the High Holy Days, Sukkot is that much more welcome, more exquisitely inhabited. Everything bears a sort of delicacy, a poignant fragility, an air of grace. Judaism is genius.

I will be in LA for Sukkot. And for Yom Kippur right through to Simchat Torah. I will be with those I love in the place that I love. I leave in less than 10 hours. I could not bear to spend all the holidays here, when there is so much that nourishes me there. It seems so simple, that thought, now. So why did it take me so long to get a clue?

My friends are thrilled. I am thrilled. Life is good. G-d is good. More later. I spent part of last week madly dashing around, applying for a new passport, and lately, making all sorts of arrangements. I am going home.

Prepare Yourself for the Measure of Silence*

With the Days of Awe just round the turnpike, I find myself falling strangely silent. This happens every year. I can't say I've done much more than my usual soul-searching. The only thing I know is that I have failed this past year, as in all other years, to measure up spiritually. It's shameful.

So this year, as in all other years, I will stand barefoot and empty-handed before G-d and say, "Hineni, Here I Am".



* Rav Kook

G-d Is a Chocolate Sundae

Last week's doubled Torah portion was Nitzavim-Vayelech. I remember that the rabbi at Temple Om Hadash talked about smittah, the Sabbatical year, the 7th year when the land is to rest, but heck if I remember what he said! The rabbi has this penchant for injecting his beliefs into a Torah reading, which effectively lifts me out of living Torah and back into the world of the rational. He has referred more than once to the stories in the Bible as myths. That is what I remember of his teaching. And I wish he would stop. I wish he would stop because I find it offensive and aggravating.

A couple of Pesachs ago, Rabbi David Wolpe engendered a major brouhaha in stating categorically, during Passover, that the events of the Exodus did not happen as described, if they ever did happen, because no one has found any evidence and because of the story's inherent contradictions ; the experts agree, it probably didn't happen the way the Bible tells it. The immediate rational response to that is to point out that archeological evidence for the Exodus has not been discovered, yet. After all, when does archeological exploration reach a dead end? When someone says so? Or is it when the entire earth has been dug up? I am not arguing that the Exodus happened exactly as written. Yet, something happened. And that's all we can probably hang our hats on, for the moment. And that's okay by me. A happening is always filled with limitless possibility and life. The Exodus is just as alive today as it was back then. It is eternal, as all our deepest truths are.

But a myth is not a truth. Nor is an "extended metaphor", as some have described the Bible. They are descriptors and the tools of reason. I would say that the kind of analysis that declares from the outset, that a Biblical story is a myth or a metaphor, does not raise the level of interpetation beyond p'shat (literal, or simple meaning of the text). Rational explanations really do not rise higher than the plain meaning; in fact, the rational and the simple, I would venture to say, are kissing cousins.

I now understand the rabbi's personal conception of G-d: to him G-d is love. He said so. This also became apparent in studying the final passages of the portion:

And I will hide My face on that day, because of all the evil they have committed, when they turned to other deities. (Vayelech 31:17)

The rabbi countered it with a passage from Deuteronomy:

And these words which I command you this day shall be on your heart. (Deuteronomy 6:6)

He asks, "Why is it not stated, in your heart rather than on"? His answer is that Torah is always there, as is G-d, encompassing everything, waiting for your heart to open. Or, as R' Mendel of Kotzk so eloquently put it:

Why are we instructed to put the words on our hearts and not in our hearts? Of course they should be in your heart, but that is not always possible. At the very least you can put them on your heart and they may just sit there for a very long time. Some day your heart will open and be ready to receive those words, and if they are already on top of your heart, they can slip right in." (Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Kotzk, Torah Gems p203)(Secondary Source)

So far, so good. Because it was the anniversary of 9/11, those thoughts were not far from our hearts either. Referring to the idea of G-d hiding His face when bad things happen to good people, a congregant wondered if G-d, like a parent, sometimes gets confused about what His children, are doing and is not certain of how to respond. Perhaps that is why phenomena like hurricanes and natural disasters strike- as a result of G-d's confusion. I, personally, loved her take on it, even though I might not agree with it. G-d was so immediate to her, in her understanding. In fact, when I read the Torah, G-d evolves as much as human beings do, in terms of His relationship with them. And how does he identify Himself to us, by what name? As a verb: eyeheh asher eyeheh, "I shall be as I shall be".

Here is the rabbi's take on it:
G-d does not abandon. G-d does not Hide His face. G-d does not punish. The Biblical G-d is the projection of the culture that set down the written Torah. A punishing G-d is a primitive G-d. In the olden days, people found answers to tragedy by believing that their failings stirred G-d's wrath. They projected their feelings, thoughts, concepts onto G-d. Hence, we attribute tragedies like the destruction of the Second Temple to baseless hatred, which in turn stirred G-d's wrath, and subsequent events. So now, to join mythology, we have psychoanalysis to explain G-d's being in the world.

This is what projection is: Imagine that G-d is a blank movie screen and you are the projector. The film is whatever is going on in your inner world. No matter what the Torah says or how the world behaves towards you, you are projecting your own inner world on G-d and events. Attempts to explain G-d's behaviour, or lack thereof, is a defence mechanism on your part. It is neurosis. I don't think so. But that is what "projection" really means. And it places an artificial mechitzah between G-d and the individual. Projection, by the way, is a theory, not a scientifically proven fact, and not half as engaging as a midrash.

What G-d really is, according to the rabbi, is love. Nothing but love. He compared G-d's love to warm chocolate sauce, or heavenly caramel, a thick and velvety and flowing syrup, filling the spaces, carressing you and your heart, waiting to be let in. Hmm.

Here's my take on myths and extended metaphors and film:
I have no doubt that all of us sometimes project our inner worlds on G-d. Especially as long as there is Him, and me, or as Buber liked to put it, I and Thou. The sweetness of G-d? There are moments where an encounter with G-d seems sweet. But what about the fear of G-d? Real genuine, yirah, not just awe? How to explain that? Is that too, a projection? Is G-d as a chocolate sundae, too, a projection? Or just an entity with "unconditional positive regard"? Is that the same as the Ein Sof, or one of its sefirot?

If G-d is love and only love then where does the covenant fit in? Is this the way we Jewishly relate to G-d? Does this mean that the Torah, at best, is an approximation of truth? How does this differ from the Reconstructionist view of Judaism as a religious civilisation? All peoples have myths. Where does truth lie, then?

I find it interesting that the book containing the Exodus is titled "Shmot" which means "names". I suspect that when we truly grasp Torah, or more accurately, when Torah grasps/possesses us, that at heart the Exodus, like G-d's name, is a verb as well- the Exodus "shall be as it shall be"- an eternal promise and its fulfillment, made by G-d, in G-d.

One day, immersed in an ocean of Torah, far, far away beyond the land of myth, I realised that the relationship between Torah and us was like a Rorschach test with one amazing difference: Torah projects upon us; we, each, are the ambiguous inkblot, waiting to be interpreted; we are the blank screen waiting to receive and to be made into a film, into a story, into living Torah.

Myth or extended metaphor are not at all vehicles to the living truth. It cannot be reached by rationales; it is received through G-d's favour. I think that G-d has the last word, which is pretty well reflected in the Priestly Blessing- even an open heart does not guarantee G-d's favour, even when we work hard at it. Furthermore, G-d is equally as capable of hardening a heart, though perhaps you have to be pretty far gone, a là Pharoah. And Torah, if we grasp it, and hold onto it, reveals the deepest truth of who we are, in its proper season: our real, living names. Every moment, the dead are raised.

Speechless in Gauze

A move rattles one's brains. It is unsettling. S Landlady is ripping up the carpet as we speak. I owe Passionate Life a response in comments, but it takes more brain cells than I can muster at the moment (sorry, PL). It is far, far easier just to say what's weighing on my mind at this moment and talk about my favourite subject besides Judaism- me. And I have to admit the comment by Sophy, cut me to the quick because I am still ruminating on it way past its expiry date. It has also provoked some thought, especially in the face of recent events at synagogue and in consideration of the fact that this has probably been the worst year of my fairly lengthy life.

The Talmud teaches:

A person's tongue is more powerful than his sword. A sword can only kill someone who is nearby; a tongue can cause the death of someone who is far away" [(Babylonian Talmud Shabbat 15b) Secondary source].

I am a huge fan of the Chofetz Chaim. You don't have to be religious or even Jewish to appreciate the wisdom of the Rabbinical laws that he compiled into one handy book on loshon hara (forbidden speech) and rechilut (tale-bearing). Indeed, a love of words helps one to appreciate their immense potency. But more importantly, the effect that words have on our reality truly exemplifies their pervasive and all-encompassing power - and that power, according to our sages, either heals or kills. What a radical thing to say, one might think, until you try to guard your tongue. You don't have to be 'religious' to grasp all of this or to try it. Learning tact is a good beginning for anyone.

To describe loshon hara in terms equivalent to spilling a person's blood, or soul murder, seems a tad over the top. We don't normally think of our innocent selves as capable of any kind of murder. Yet, loshon hara is understood to kill the souls of three people- the tale-bearer/malice carrier, the recipient, and the target. And once evil words are scattered, they cannot be gathered up again and taken back. There's a lovely tale told by the Chofetz Chaim about malicious speech and a feather pillow which makes that point succinctly. When a patient asked how he could undo the damage of loshon hara, he was directed to take a pillow and release the feathers to the four winds. After he returned with the empty cover, he was instructed to go and collect all the feathers.

Once upon a time, I took great pleasure in going for the jugular. I could do it, without getting personal. I could just demolish someone's arguments ignoring the fact that I was treading on their beliefs and dreams. Gossip, as it is for everyone, was common coinage in socialising. After all, if you can't talk about somebody, what would fill in those loooooong, discomfiting silences around a table. Gossip is like glue- it artificially bonds and seals one to another for a brief moment in time. Even information about someone, another kind of bonding filler, is considered beyond the pale, as is tale-bearing of any sort. Yet, they often seem so harmless.

After I got religion, I made a studied effort to remove myself from all kinds of loshon hara. You don't have to be nasty to be indulging in forbidden speech. It is only when you make the attempt not to, that you realise how it permeates most encounters, deliciously alluring, multi-varied, in perpetuity. Speechlessness, on the other hand, is not a normal state for communication- it kinda makes things awkward. It is easy to pacify oneself with a bit of tale telling or speak your mind about what you really think of that person over there, especially if they have done you dirt. You are left to create devices for getting yourself out of ethically wonky situtations, for correction, for learning to live with a new kind of silence, which often seems to hover like an elephant, in a room squeaking with loshon hara. And if you are the target, a new understanding of the phrase in the Amidah, "Let me ignore those who slander me. Let me be humble before all" and its implications, leaps alive into existence and into permanent consciousness.

Avoiding forbidden speech is what I call, "living Torah". And once you start on that path, there is no turning back. No matter what wounds one sustains. And in my experience, the wounds become that much starker, in sharper relief, against the backdrop of self-imposed silence- you cannot revenge yourself or salve your pain with a few choice whispers or volleys, or even a statement of fact. Instead of words, muteness becomes the new and real power, where the Shechina hovers. And in some way, it becomes the soft gauze of doing the right thing and an act of faith, where the Shechina descends. You are no longer connected to the words but to G-d, a place where words, though they can still touch you, cannot ultimately damage or destroy you. This cloud of silence fills with the Shechina, wrapping itself around wounds and muting pain. Put another way, you find yourself "dwelling in the House of the Lord" (Psalm 27) and G-d dwelling in you.

To take on this mitzvah is to enter a land of endless discovery. I had no idea, when I began, how things would evolve. The ultimate benefit has been that because I do not indulge in loshon hara most of the time, I don't give others a thought about what they are saying about me. It has made me unself-conscious; it is truly akin to inhabiting another land. And I found, over time, that it is largely just not that interesting to hear negative things about people on a constant basis (though venting is okay). It draws you into an unwelcome, unholy space.

But of course, the constant challenge is to continue to guard my tongue. I am presently suffering the effects of having everyone tell everyone else that I am a convert. The Torah, in its merciful foresight and wisdom makes it so clear that proselytes are to be treated with kid gloves (well, that ain't gonna happen). More importantly, it is forbidden to remind a convert of their past. Now that I have gotten a few years under my belt, I can see the ultimate wisdom in this: every time that someone else mentions that you are convert, without your permission, you are removed from the moment, and reminded of your past. It is jarring, every single time this happens. It is also embarrassing and dismaying. It's like a secret that no one wants to keep except yourself. For a moment, it divests you of your right to live as a Jew and nothing but a Jew.

A friend told me this story: a woman in her seventies had converted many, many years before. She had immersed herself in her synagogue and community. In fact, a party was given in her honour. Someone came up to her and mentioned how extraordinary it was, that as a convert, she fit in so well. In abject frustration and distress she cried, "When do I finally get to be a Jew?!"

At my previous synagogue, someone who should have known better, blathered out that I was a convert. From that day, a woman with a character disorder loved to remind me and lecture me about "her" people. This is someone I deliberately did not tell, feeling the need for caution. And she is a great gossip, and good at twisting things. I can live with slander, but I want to live my life as a Jew, not as someone reminded of my past. Not because I am ashamed (that's between G-d and me) but because of the reasons stated above. If I so choose to present myself as a convert, then I have a good reason for it. It is not something I think about on a day-to-day basis, unless someone reminds me. The ones I do tell invariably want to know my story; they always ask with sensitivity and delicacy and I am happy to oblige. But it should be my choice and no one else's. The large majority, I find, haven't a clue.

The congregants at my previous synagogue were learned, and I managed to pass through life there without much incident. At Temple Om Shalom, it seems that everything turns into an incident out of ignorance. To my great dismay, the woman I have posted about, who is converting, blithely announced to an entire table of people, "Oh, Barefoot, is a convert. How long has it been?" This, after I asked her not to tell. Not her fault, in a way, but the last straw for me. To the credit of the people I was hanging out with, they never said a word.

It is one thing, as Sophy says, "to live G-d". It helps, however, to know how to live G-d. That, I find, is the beauty and genius of Judaism. Then I wouldn't be hurt by Sophy's statement, or feel exposed and jarred into another reality. Then I wouldn't have to endure being taken out of myself, so many times over the last few weeks, by people who, not only don't learn, but don't seem to listen, either, when I ask them not to say anything. In so many ways, they are wonderful human beings, so I have no real ammo against them. All I can do is remind them, talk to my rabbi, and as for the slings and arrows, etc., to remain speechless. Grrrr.....