YHWH: A Terrible Beauty

I've always found it fascinating that G-d is sometimes referred to as HaMakom, The Place. When I first learned this, I fired off an email to the Aish rabbi, asking for clarification. I thought the concept of G-d as The Place was so brilliant, so unlike any other way of referring to G-d. And it made so much sense! By that time it was clear to me that the G-d of my childhood, was not "out there". Perhaps he had even been real. But I had never experienced him as real.

And then one day, G-d came through. And stayed. To me G-d is very real. There are no doubts. So, it made sense that something like "The Place" carried a sense of that concreteness, gave gravity to the presence. Words like "The Place" provide the ground for apprehension, and probably came from, an apprehension of G-d as the space for everything to rest, inhabit and live. Like an embrace.

In more prosaic terms, HaMakom means that "everything is contained within G-d (conceptually), while He is not contained in anything. As our Sages say: "He [G-d] doesn't have a place, rather He is The Place of the Universe"." What particularly struck me about this name for G-d was its neutrality. G-d provides the matrix for being and that state is described purely, without embellishment, without emotion. All assumption of character drops away; it seems value neutral.

A similar neutrality could be said to inform another of G-d's names, HaShem, The Name, a reference to G-d from the Rabbinical period, circumlocuting the Divine Name, the Name Revealed by G-d. The increasingly popular HaShem carries the least amount of information, and if it is at all possible, is less emotion laden than HaMakom. The use of HaShem is like pointing the finger in the direction of the Divine Name as it passes strangely before us in the distance. One cannot apprehend a Name. Both HaMakom and HaShem , I think, suggest a bit of a Zen Buddhist/Taoist sensibility.

Look, it cannot be seen - it is beyond form.
Listen, it cannot be heard - it is beyond sound.
Grasp, it cannot be held - it is intangible.
These three are indefinable, they are one.

From above it is not bright;
From below it is not dark:
Unbroken thread beyond description.
It returns to nothingness.
Form of the formless,
Image of the imageless,
It is called indefinable and beyond imagination.

Stand before it - there is no beginning.
Follow it and there is no end.
Stay with the Tao, Move with the present.

Knowing the ancient beginning is the essence of Tao.

~ Lao Tzu

But the name that gives G-d a pre-eminently Jewish sensibility is the G-d of Jewish history- YHWH. G-d is The Place, G-d is The Name, and most importantly for us, G-d is a verb. Whereas the former two describe an experience of G-d, the latter is a revelation of G-d. G-d reveals his name on Horeb, at the Burning Bush, to Moses: "ehyeh-asher-ehyeh" (Ex. iii. 14), in translation, a form of the verb, "to be", officially interpreted as "I am that I am". G-d is alive. And G-d makes himself known to us, deliberately.

The G-d of the Bible swashbuckles and plots his way through history, engaged, full of character and emotion, learning as he goes along, engrossed in his creations, in relationship to them. Always in relation to them, even creating a covenant with them. G-d is alive!

And yet, G-d, for all his charming ways, seems very cognizant of the fact that we cannot get too close to him and live. We also learn in the Bible that if indeed, one does accept the covenant, for all of those rosy promises, there's one hell of a price to pay. There is a price to pay for getting closer to him, for enlightenment. Moses saw the "face" of G-d and lived, but Nadab and Abihu, the sons of Aaron, got zapped when they tried to cozy up to him by offering him "strange fire".(Lev 10:1-2) Some hapless shmo got too close to the Ark when David was moving it and G-d stopped the poor guy dead in his tracks. I wonder if Moses lived and the others did not, because G-d chose Moses, but did not favour the others.

G-d also chose the Israelites, and did not allow them to venture any farther than the foot of Horeb, and shrouded himself in clouds, spit out fire and thunder so that they should not die by getting too close to him.( Deut 4:31-36 ). Still, they quaked in their sandals, so overwhelmed and terrified, that they asked Moses to act as intermediary and relay the rest of the commandments to them.(Deut 5: 22) I imagine by that time that they were all prostrate seized up jellyfish on the ground.

Then there is the famous cautionary tale of the four sages who entered Pardes (the orchard). One gazed upon the divine and went mad. One became an apostate. One died. And only Rabbi Akiva left in peace, for he had entered in peace. Another perilous G-djourney ends in tragedy.

Isaac lay bound upon some cold, rough stone altar, supposedly a willing sacrifice to G-d. A sacrifice also offered by his father, who was willing to slash the throat of his beloved son and heir and watch the life force gush out of him in crimson red streams and watch his traumatised body flop like a fish in reaction as he died. It was G-d's will.(Gen 22: 1-19). I imagine that father and son were beside themselves with fright and anguish and grief. A midrash (exposition) tells us that the angels in heaven wept at the sight of Isaac tied down and trembling, wide-eyed with fear, and their tears washed his eyes, and blinded him, yet he could see beyond human sight. After the Akedah, Abraham and Isaac leave separately and there is no further record of them ever speaking to each other again.

It seems that all journeys involving YHWH are perilous. And it seems that if G-d does the choosing, and you accept, you have a fighting chance of getting through the peril. Maybe. This much I do know, as I have written once before, "I feel bound to a life that is not my own; it belongs to G-d....I honestly don't feel it is within my purview, that which happens to me. I am carried along, transported by a life that somehow, for the time being, in some way needs me even if I don't know how. It may not even be a life of my choosing...." Even after writing this, I had no clear idea of what it meant to be compelled by G-d. How terrifying that feeling was, not remotely like "love". There is an element beyond awe that creeps in once in a while when I look at how perilous my journey has been and continues to be, a journey I feel I have not chosen. I would have chosen a Mediterranean cruise, instead, thank you very much.

A few weeks before conversion I was having vivid dreams, some of them felt like out of body experiences. Incredibly rich and colourful dreams. There was the gorgeous tabernacle in the desert, a tent of rich, textured, multi-coloured fabric straight out of the Bible; it seems my dreams know how to sew to specification. There was the queen of violet roses, and her twin sister in her white frock holding a golden sheaf of grain. Several times, I rose up to the heavens and finally knew everything, I knew the answers, only to come back into my body and upon awakening, instantly forget. And then there was the power of YHWH, as I and other pilgrims were compelled to our knees in the desert in terrifying, overwhelming, awe before G-d's holy mountain. I was shocked by how bone-meltingly scary it was, like feeling the force of a full scale nuclear blast.

Now there is always an element of fright, because I don't know what G-d will do next or will ask of me. The comforts of home and hearth seem light years away. G-d may be love but that is not all G-d is. G-d is compelling in his presence, and in his desire. Meanwhile, I've learned that nothing in life could ever be as terrifying as being without G-d. Fear of G-d, yirah, is just as real as G-d is real. So is fear of losing G-d.

I used to wonder if I was crazy.

And then I happened to crack open a commentary* on Psalm 42; the psalm begins,

As a stag yearns for streams of cool water,
so does my soul yearn for you, O G-d.
Indeed, my soul thirsts for G-d, for the living G-d....

Here is part of that commentary:

... the poet cannot stop remembering the happier days of his younger years, and, in so doing, is forced to confornt the awful, disturbing truth that the quest for a life in G-d has not brought him prosperity, fame, and unbridled happiness...but just the opposite: a life of ridicule and insult.

On top of all that, the poet's road to G-d also passes through Fear. Indeed, he suggests that he has already experienced the presence of G-d in the palpable, sensory way cultivated by the psalmists' guild, and he knows that the knowledge of G-d can be as terrifying an experience as it is a satisfying one. He remembers the feeling of being totally vulnerable, the sensation of drowning in G-d, of being lost at sea like Jonah (who also had the horrifying experience of just barely escaping death by drowning on his journey to fulfilling his own destiny in G-d , as did the Israelites on their way to Sinai).

Worse still, the poet's tortured road to spiritual fulfillment also passes through Worry in that, for all its intensity, his yearning for G-d cannot make him forget that G-d, at least most of the time, appears to be totally unconcerned with his problems. And, since the search for communion with an unseen G-d will always be an unsettling, confusing experience for practical people, the poet's uncertainty about the ultimate nature of his spiritual path is part of that worry as well.

Moderns who bring their own ambivalence about religion to their spiritual lives will find a kindred sprit in the author of the forty-second psalm, especially if they allow his words to prompt the asking of deep, challenging questions: can we moderns harness the creative energy generated by conflicting certainties about the nature of the Divine to propel us further along our spiritual paths towards communion with the elusive G-d of Israel? Or are we doomed, as so often seems the case, to be paralysed by uncertainty, almost as though respect for spiritual honesty and intellectual candor were somehow to be incompatible with living a life totally given over to yearning for redemption in G-d?

Alas, my G-d is not often a cool buddha. At least now I know that if I am crazy, I am not alone. But consider this. A psychopath who pretended to be a Jew, turned me on to Judaism. So, if I'd had a choice, sailing in the Galil would have been far more appealing. Or being shot out of a cannon. G-d does, indeed, possess a strange and terrible beauty. Remember that. And be kind to holy fools.


* Martin Samuel Cohen, Our Haven and Our Strength

Shul and the Single Woman

I thought I would return from Shabbat services at Om Hadash, pop in a video and celebrate my brand new little tv (my only luxury item), and chow down on some potato chips (my favourite junk food) and soda. Regardless of circumstance, I make Shabbat something special. I light candles, make kiddush. I have always said, "When the sun descends, Shabbat descends". There is no question in my mind of the gift that G-d has given us.

I used to not watch tv, and not use the computer, when I was with people. My absolute ideal is to keep more kosher (and that's not saying much but it is much for me!) than I do, to lay the table with beautiful things- flowers and cutlery and Irish linen and colour, and cook the Shabbat meal, or several, for friends and strangers. To centre our lives around Torah- to make it all so beautiful and warm, perhaps spiritual, and very welcoming. And that includes including the strange and annoying and alienating and, well...strange, though I would prefer to not make them a constant.

Today the rabbi (not my rabbi), in speaking about the parsha K'doshim, mentioned, as is always mentioned, exhorted, presented, referenced, endlessly, in many texts, many sermons, many classes, every mussar moment- about loving one's neighbour as oneself. Hey, at this synagogue, you could say it is an article of faith! At least from the top, if not down.

The services included a bar mitzvah. The father has done great fundraising financial things for the place, which the rabbi mentioned during services. It is clear that here is a man with power (I'm not talking about the rabbi). The kid will make a great politician/saviour, with Torah as his guide. The kiddush luncheon was held outside, in tents with heating, for the congregation and the kids. We had small balloons and packets of M&Ms arcing across the table. When I was leaving, I pressed my face against the glass doors of the social hall- wow! What had I been missing? The lights were dimmed, someone was speaking at a microphone, there were exotic flower arrangements on each table. I was glad to see that the food seemed to be the same. Heck, we were missing the party! How did that happen?

I remember with great fondness a bar mitzvah I attended which was part of the service in maybe the smallest synagogue in all of LA. The interior walls were concrete. The ark was a box. The joy was palpable. I didn't much care for the service, but the pride and joy and celebration- simcha- were clear. How could you not melt?

I remember most fondly the kiddush luncheon afterwards. My friend and I hesitated at the threshold of their teeny tiny social hall. Yet, there was the father, moved and heartfelt, who stretched out his arms to us in welcome, and bade us to enter, to share in the food and the joy. I will never forget his all encompassing embrace. To me, this is Judaism at its finest. Or perhaps, a great Jewish excuse for emotion.

It was a Reform temple.

So, back at the tented ranch, I wander in figuring I can get a seat amongst people I know. Can't say anything bad about them at all- at least not those who gave me a ride and at one time, salved my wounds. I want to be fair to them. Truly.

I saunter over and hover at the table. I am informed that all the seats are taken- there is no room. These are people I know. Who are telling me there is no room.

I go over to a nearby table and sit there, amongst 9 other empty chairs, for a full10 minutes before someone joins me. He sits down beside me- the infamous tutor. Geez, what were the chances? We exchange totally pointless words and then others sit down and he is adored by all those seeking his favour with their kids for the forseeable future, and I have ceased to exist. Not that I care in this case because his words meant nothing and his indifference is palpable and matches my own. The food is damned fine. Even though I had asked for a ride from someone at said Table of Rejection earlier (and they are very nice people), I find myself leaving early. Pardon me while I cry.

Craning my neck, I noted that the seats I was not allowed to inhabit were taken by the lay cantor and the Pres of the synagogue. Reservations. I never knew!

I actually exited crying. Cried on the buses (it takes me an hour and a half) all the way home. I cannot fault these people for acting obliviously. Yet I do fault them for not seeing past their own comfort. I live in a state of perpetual ambivalence.

Living Torah, in my eyes, is not easy or comfortable. It means forever placing your needs second to the task at hand. And what is that task? To show and bring people closer to the Torah- to be a light to our own nation and the rest of the nations. One would think that in the midst of so much personal abundance (not necessarily material), people would share honourably and with good heart. My bad, for thinking it.

I am in such a raw place where it just does not take much to trigger me. I have decided that finally, though I admire the rabbi's efforts, etc., and the superficial friendliness of some members, man, I hate being at this shul. I was thrown out of my seat once because "someone else" was going to be sitting there, in the midst of a whole lot of empty seats. This being my attempt to get to know the "regulars".

I think I just can't care to stay. If you are single, forget it. If you are single, you must make your own way in spite of the crap thrown at you. If you are a single woman, forget it. I think I've found my mantra.

Judaism and Jews, no matter what the f you say, you fail us, cause you can't get out of your own frickin navels. And that's putting it kindly. And everyone stop telling me "they are only human". Heck, then I may as well have subscribed to another religion. And if you don't understand that then you don't understand Torah and what makes it so especially beautiful and singular and compelling.

I have decided to leave this synagogue.

(Esther, over at My Urban Kvetch eloquently voiced her own concerns on the same subject a while ago.)

Rabbi and Congregant

Divine Comedy

I... awoke to find myself
alone in a dark wood ....

~ Dante Alighieri, The Inferno, canto I

Being here can sometimes be like suffering in sable- but suffering nevertheless. The wood is beautiful, the light does not seem too dim. It reminds me of Ps 23:

You spread a full table before me,
even in times of great pain.

You can't argue with beauty. Bummer.