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.....