Ragtag Shabbat

For some Jews, I'm guessing there is no "normal" Shabbat. I'm counting those like me who live on the fringes of Jewish community. You may not be the right age, the right sex, the right orientation, the right class, reasonably or unreasonably single, without family, shy of friends, live too far away, live unmonied, live in a single room, or the shul or rabbi or "ideology" are not sympatico. What do you do? Having tried everything, I hit rock bottom, and finally I stopped feeling guilt about how I didn't fit the traditional Jewish norm. Instead I discovered the joys of my unbidden solitariness.

Since I don't have family obligations, Shabbat is the one day, currently, when I feel that G-d's love rests on me (and I almost never feel G-d's love). Ensnared in a vicious time loop the rest of the week, I feel a release when the sun descends. Shabbos is the one day that is without worry for me- care free. Truly without worry. Worry is the froth of small, razored jaws tearing away bits of my time, chasing each millisecond down right to the sub atomic level. Meanwhile, gratefully, time gnaws at the carcasses of my worry, which grow bloated and fat at every chomp and swallow. On Shabbat, both piranha and leviathan not only starve , they are annihilated. It is true, in G-d's world, in Shabbat, time as we know it, ceases to exist, and so can the bestial.

What makes my Shabbos ragtag is that it has taken trial and error over many years to get to a place where you can say to yourself, okay, this is my situation. I'm done crying over what I don't have, what isn't working out, what isn't working for me. What is it that I do possess, here and now?

My little palace in time is filled with anticipation. I don't have to labour at anything. If I feel so moved, I daven, but with that extra measure of soul on Shabbat, sometimes I don't feel the need. In a sense it is a vacation from the intense contemplative practice (a future post) of the rest of the week- that acute scrutiny of soul and G-d that comes with contemplation of the Big Mystery; it's a lot of work.

Reading the Torah portion lately has become an adventure. Often, I wonder what's happening in that world, am keen to read the next chapter because to read Torah is to live it for real, to live it wholly, whether I know it or not. It never stays the same. I once remarked on this blog that when we contemplate Torah, in those moments, our souls are the Rorschach ink blot to the Torah's clear-eyed interpretation: Torah tells us who we are. And I may have read the same words before, but Torah may reflect back to me something unexpected and novel; not always, but enough times to keep me wanting to finish the story.

Lately, I've come to find the commentary rather superficial. Go figure. I've read it for years but now as I study it, it doesn't seem to satisfy. Perhaps these things ebb and flow. I'd kill to get my hands on the Rosenzweig and Buber Torah. I find reading Torah brings up something magical. You can sometimes surf along the waves of words, skimming them, curious, skeptical, questioning- like a child listening to a fairy tale. And like all fairy tales, sometimes, things turn magically grim. I don't always read the Torah portion.

Often I prepare food the day before Shabbat, but sometimes I cook. I try to buy one special treat to eat on Shabbat. Sometimes I buy things, usually a few groceries on The Day. I go for a walk. I listen to music. I surf the net. I watch TV and DVDs. I read. Sometimes I sit in silence for hours and watch the wind through the trees. I take pleasure in not dealing with phone calls (unless it's my best friend). I like the idea that I can say to someone, "I'm sorry, I would love to go with you to "X", but it's my Shabbat and I'm lying low for that day". Maybe one day I will say "yes".

I always, always, always, light candles. And I do it, oddly enough at the prescribed time, according to halacha. But once in a while, I don't. I tried havdalah, the whole shmear, by myself, years ago, and hated knowing Shabbat was over; separating was almost traumatic. And I hated doing havdalah alone; I had experienced the ceremony in intimate communal settings, you see, so for me, havdalah would be more like sitting shiva than a beautiful, strengthening transition to the beginning of the new week. I'm thinking again, of just doing the candle, to start. I'm thinking about it.... I do love light.

In all of this I guess I sanctify the day, though some of it seems profane. I don't think about that much. When I wrestle with some electronic device on that day, I note the wisdom of not using it. When I jostle through crowds at the mall, I recognise the wisdom of staying home. On the other hand, I am alone. I'd rather be immersed in a felicitous Shabbaton, but I'm not. I am here and now.

Creative acts? What are they? I know a woman who spends Shabbat embroidering; it's her form of relaxation (and probably meditation). My greatest difficulty is to keep from writing. Even writing nonsense on a piece of paper would be considered a creative act I am sure. I took on the mitzvah because that's the one that challenges me. Most of the time I have refrained. Ironically, on Shabbat, I am most inspired, have the greatest ideas and thoughts and revelations, and later, poof! All gone. I usually don't remember. Last Shabbat I jotted down a few ideas; I don't want to lose them anymore. But to create anything larger and whole? No. That, indeed, is work.

This present kind of Shabbat is a very different world from the one I left and have mourned lo these several years, over many pages in this blog. At one time, I had it all. My rabbi z"l, my shul, my congregation, my minyan, days of Shabbat splendour and daily minyan grace, bringing Shabbat services to shut-ins, chanting my first ever Torah portion on the bimah, dreaming about becoming shaliach tzibbur within the next decade, singing for Neil Young (heh, just seeing if you're paying attention), etc.

But this is here and now.

It is said, "more than Israel has kept Shabbat, Shabbat has kept Israel". I would take it one step further: More than I do sanctify the day, Shabbat sanctifies me and makes me whole. Sometimes, when Shabbos ends, I am refreshed. Sometimes I am out of sorts. I don't think much about the effects of remembering or keeping Shabbat. I am just glad it comes every week without fail. Shabbat waits for me- such is G-d's faithfulness, I figure.

And it is true, that it is, indeed, hard to be a Jew without a community, as I have shown above. Still, even without community you just become a different kind of Jew- ragtag maybe, and solitary, but remain a devoted Jew nonetheless.

I would love to hear from other Jews on the fringes. I would love to hear how you keep and remember Shabbat (if you do)- what the day is like for you. And if you strive to remember Shabbat, what is the day like for you?

Cross Currents

I have a job in retail now. Not a lot of money but enough to keep me off welfare. I am grateful. It's also something I love to do, in retail, educating, selling. I don't have to lie (I couldn't) and I don't have to dissemble (I wouldn't). The product is worthy of praise. And so I praise and sell and perhaps, bring a little bit of pleasure and connection into people's lives.

The hours are long. I have no life other than work (not my choice) and the day-to-day chores of living. Still, it's work I enjoy, though I pray for a more balanced life. A retail life means insane hours, no social whirl, and for me, no Shabbat, and rarely, anything Jewishly communal. I can't begin to say how much I envy every blogger who has the luxury to argue the minutiae of Jewish Law or mourn the state of their shul (synagogue). I'm still dreaming of obtaining my own sovereign space, where I can live a more disciplined and more expansive Jewish life.

It's funny. I had great dreams, when I became a Jew. I had amazingly vivid, real dreams as well, of the woven colours of the sanctuary, of its beauty in the desert, and the shelter of that beauty, when I walked into that tent. I had dreams of Israel, of one day living there, rather like the ending of the film, "Damaged", in some exotic place, but with a happy ending.

I had dreams of community.

Funny. Those dreams did not come true.

When I started this blog, I was so involved in "Wading Through a Sea of Torah and Jews". I did wade, and it was a hard slog, reading so much vitriol from another stream of Judaism, being shocked and appalled, and feeling like I was fighting the tide and yet still trying to surf it, to understand. And I have come to the understanding that there are different worlds within Judaism, and clearly, never the twain shall meet. Well, bummer. There goes part of the weft.

But in the long run, I find it just doesn't make that much difference to the life I lead. If Judaism is about community, then I have found very little, here. That is not to say that anyone or anything is at fault, as much it seems that yes, my shul is rather lacking in kindness for the single and alone, and yes, in order to live, I must work on Shabbat and against the Jewish calendar.

So, where does that fit into the Jewish way of life?

Because this is my Jewish life: hastening for the bus and saying the Shema on the way. Sitting on the bus at other times and reading morning prayers. Being too tired after Shabbat to read Torah, yet thinking of reading Torah, sometimes longing to read it. Recognising with every Shabbat that I am not observing Shabbat except for lighting candles and sometimes, not writing (for myself). Once in a while, coming home after sundown on Shabbat, I sing "Shalom Aleichem", and imagine angels accompanying me on my way. I have not bowed to the Sabbath Queen for over a year.

Rest? So, not spiritual, these days. Last month I missed cooking, with my shul companions, for the homeless, because I was working, and I think about it. All of these things, among so many others, I find selfish. I miss them. I long for them. I want them back. I want my very Jewish life back.

Instead, every day is a struggle to practise Jewishly. Not to stay Jewish, which is a foregone conclusion, but to do what Jews do- not only ethically, but ritually, and in my most desperate dreams, communally.

Today, a day off from work, I travelled to a bookstore, just to find a lot of silliness about Kaballah, and very little relevant about Judaism. Actually, I discovered a book on Buddhist wisdom that spoke to me, while I was looking for a pocket Torah.

I find that secular life, in this particular place, especially, demands my time for coin. My creative life has become a pish-tush. I am indoctrinated by people at the top to believe that the company is worthy of devotion and yet I don't buy it and I don't think so. They flatter and they invite me to believe. I realise that the words of those devoted to the company and its glorious leader are empty words, meaningless, and it just makes me feel sad. Neither can I subscribe.

In the midst of all these currents that cross, which is the one for me?

I have come to this conclusion: that where I am is where I am. For some reason, this is it. I used to have this fantasy that having been "chosen", that that meant special things for me- like a copacetic Jewish community and an opportunity for me to practise Judaism in a big way. I was so wrong.

I don't recall now, what it is exactly that G-d promised me. And now I think, perhaps, not even a place where I would not be alone as a Jew. I feel kind of like a Christian, where it's just me and G-d. Maybe it's my fault. Maybe it's due to my choices. Maybe it's something else.

I used to think that it was so weird that G-d would lead me to Him, that He would point the way to Judaism, that that way would be wickedly difficult, and then, afterwards, the way would continue to be fraught with challenges so simplistic compared to the erudite yet totally irrelevant (to me) debates I read on blog pages.
Now, I can't help but mourn the life I hoped for. And yet, here I am with the little I have, with something. Perhaps that is all I have. Perhaps, for me, that is all that there is. I don't know anymore.

Yet, it seems surprisingly great. And, as if, there is a road less travelled, and never talked about, or perhaps, rarely known, in Judaism.

Sometimes, when clearly, according to Jewish standards, I have little, I feel like I have it all. I just don't get it.

Beggared Lunacy and Shabbat

I am a wallower. Indeed, I am. I freely admit it.

I am not sure what a recent response to my poverty post, "don't marry trouble", means. That's right up there with "Think good, and it will be good". I am sure this helped the millions who waited with hope in the Shoah. Why do I bring up the Shoah with seeming irreverence, with seeming bitterness? Because I think of it every time I think of my situation. Poverty and its attendant marginalisation challenges all the Jewish truisms, clichés, sayings, and lore we've absorbed- thoughts and attitudes by which we lifted ourselves up in life through difficult non-material times.

I thought of the Shoah when I asked myself "why me?". I found the answer in the Shoah, "why not me?". I no longer ask that question. Perhaps the Shoah is G-d's answer to Job, writ large and real- final and unambiguous; maybe we had to be hit over the head with a sledgehammer to finally understand. There is no explanation that we can fathom.

'Specialness' to G-d somehow loses its meaning. 'Chosen'. I don't think so, when 'special' and 'chosen' signify good things. Still, if not special, at least, 'chosen'. Yes. Absolutely. The covenant stands. It's indissoluble. Through poverty, through degradation, through loss and death. I don't think I have 'married trouble'; I 'married' G-d. The covenant stands.

Will this, too, pass? I don't know. Will my fortunes rise? I don't know. This is not an existential crisis. This is reality- of statistics, facts, life predictors. Do miracles happen? Yes. But often, they don't. I am not that special, even though I pray for release every single day. G-d did not release the Hebrew slaves from Egypt for 400 years; how long is 400 years in my time?

In the 9 weeks that I lived and worked like a beast, from Tuesday through Saturday, I observed that I became more mean-spirited. I became more impatient with everyone and everything. It was a kind of delirium, where I wondered whether the world was demented, or was it just me? I was caught up in a whirlwind, but did not know it was a whirlwind.

I did not have Shabbat.

I had turned down a well-paying part-time job a couple of years ago, when I was still solvent, because it necessitated working through Shabbat- I would miss Shabbat. And the thought of that? It was as if someone had ripped my insides out. The thought staggered me, left me terrified.

Circumstances changed, and if I did not take this job, which sounded like Paradise, I would be applying for welfare, a fate worse than death (largely because of how they treat you). I would have to sacrifice Shabbat and I knew I would be the loser. I just didn't know how much.

My Shabbats usually involve davenning (praying), contemplation, reading Torah and commentaries and just generally kicking back and absorbing the day. I rarely go to shul because it is too far and takes too much time for very little return, community-wise. But I anticipate my Shabbat like a lover anticipating the return of their beloved. It is everything to me. I like to wallow in its glow.

When I keep Shabbat, I know what to do, what decisions to make- I remember my past and look to the future. And often, words of the Torah leap out at me, or the commentary speaks to me and sheds light on my troubles. The Torah reaches out to me and embraces me, seeps into my very bones and marrow, and the world rights itself once again and I am restored to sanity.

I kept this past Shabbat. I davenned, I contemplated, I read the Torah and commentaries. Order emerged from chaos- the hours and minutes and seconds fell into pleasant lines. Shalem, wholeness. I wallowed in it. While the demented world out there, somewhere, circled upon its axes. The shredded mantle of poverty fell away- I was rich.

How bitter poverty makes one! How harsh. And yet, we often expect the religious poor to live a life of transcendence, to count their "blessings' in an attempt at uplift, to be generous in the midst of gnawing deprivation. We would rather see their piety than their poverty. As if religion could cure all that ails us. As if blood can be squeezed from a stone. We forget that there is a time and a place for beauty and truth and preaching, and a time to listen to need and want; that bitterness is also very much a part of the human condition and not readily transcended when your poverty runs deep. Just ask Job, or G-d, and then, ask them about Job's friends.

In studying JTS commentary on last week's parsha, Korach, I happened upon the following:

By the third century of the Common Era, with rabbinic leadership in ascendancy in Roman Palestine, Rabbi Yohanan, who led the academies in Sepphoris and Tiberias for decades, sharpened the qualifications necessary for religious leadership. He claimed to derive from the fragmented profile of Moses in the Torah that God would single out individuals for prophecy only if they possessed strength, wisdom, wealth, and humility (BT Nedarim 38a).

For the prerequisite of personal wealth, which I find most interesting, Rabbi Yohanan cites the verse in our parashah that states Moses never had the need to avail himself of anything that belonged to an Israelite, even for reimbursement. That is, Moses was rich and self-sufficient. In other words: To guard against greed and venality in public office, religious or otherwise, requires that the candidate be without want. Poverty is a condition that can subvert piety. Schorsch Commentary

Poverty is a condition that can subvert piety. I suppose there are all sorts of poverty, that are not material in nature. Still, one must feed the body in order to feed the soul. You would think that is self-evident, but clearly we forget. Sometimes, I think that Christian charities understand this more viscerally, places like the Salvation Army, for example. Perhaps it feels more 'religious' because Christian charity is not as ethnocentric as Jewish charity can be. Even though tzedakah means 'justice' to the Jew, how is it anything but religious in nature, and yet we don't really think about how poverty interferes with piety, with a Jew's soul. But I digress.

That same day I happened upon an unfinished draft upon the subject of my Rav z"l, LARabbi™, whom I miss terribly:

Do the Right Thing

At LARabbi's ™ funeral, Wednesday, Rabbi Ed Feinstein mentioned 2 characteristics of my rav, that aimed so true. One was this: yes, the world was corrupt, but even so, it is important for a Jew to play by the (Jewish) rules. No matter what. I remember many a time, when I, as a needy congregant, poured out my disappointment, and in return, he kept me on the straight and narrow. He turned me towards what mattered, without ever literally invoking Torah of any sort. He showed me where I could find strength - besides minyan, it was always in doing the right (Jewish) thing.

I don't really ever remember my rabbi preaching in a personal session. Yet in the moment, he would steer me where I could find refuge- in doing mitzvot, in being a mensch in the midst of those who were not, in davenning at minyan, and he never, ever indicted or fashioned apologetics for the others, or the otherness- he always suggested to me what I might do and there was never a focus on the other. Truly. This is what I remember.

The second characteristic: ....

Well, I left myself hanging because I don't remember the second thing. Perhaps it is not that important. What is important is that in working to survive, I had lost time, and in losing time, I had lost Shabbat, and in losing Shabbat, I had lost myself, the real me in G-d's eyes. In losing my rav, I've been impoverished beyond words.

Lack of poverty, wealth, lets you wallow. Buys you time. Buys you space. Buys you sanity. Buys you dignity. Buys you Shabbat.

Please G-d, let me and every poor Jew wallow once again. Very soon. In our time. Amen.

My Rav Z"L: All Honour To LARabbi™ and To Us

So, I've been reading a lot about suicide, and I have been reading about
the "shame" and "stigma" of suicide. I now have, as so many others have, experienced the muzzled, dirty consequences of that taboo. In addition, I remember, very clearly, when Ofra Haza, a popular Israeli singer, died, someone I did not know, and all the mystery surrounding her premature death at the time; no one wanted to admit that she died from AIDS. I also remember countless newspaper obituaries, where the word "suddenly", accompanied without cause of death, could readily be deciphered as "suicide". So great and pervasive is the shame.

I suspect that shame is also what led the family of my Rav, to ask the Executive Committee not to release details of his death until after the funeral. Rumours burbled throughout, and loshon hara grew exponentially- all because suicide is so complicated an experience, and so heart achingly raw that it fills you so full of guilt and grief and confusion, that understandably, anything remotely publicised would feel like standing naked in front of the world.

I have fretted about this for weeks, about what to say, if anything, and have been caught up in the shame and the sense of mortification that everyone attached in some small way to my Rav, feels. I have heard more than one person say, this all belongs to us, and we should not air our dirty laundry. This belongs to us. And I bought into it for a while (though not faulting them).

Yes, it does belong to us. And because it does, we can share. And there is no laundry dirtier, in my opinion, than the minds of those who determine that it is best to keep it amongst ourselves, out of shame. We point to dirt when we see dirt. And I was swayed by it, wandering in a world of really cheesy crap, till I got a clue, today. Because in my little world, there is nothing dirty or shameful about suicide, especially my Rav's suicide. There is shock, devastation, anger, guilt, grief, anguish, even blame, but not shame. Because, ultimately, there is a wanting to understand, and there is love, and a desire to make the future better.

I am not willing to define my Rav by the way that he died, but by the way that he lived. And "so", Kurt Vonnegut would say, "it goes".

My Rav Z"L*: Now Cracks a Noble Heart

Sometimes, grief stops all the music.

In fact, for many years now, I had stopped listening to Rachmaninoff's sonorous Vespers (Russian choral version), and then there is today, a good day for weeping. The music and voices, combined, are luminous and grave and transcendent and uplifting and spiritual- which just about describes my Rav. Funny, how it takes his death for me to actually say it out loud- "my Rav". And he was. I would call him my rebbe but he wasn't, because that seems to designate him my leader, as I understand the term, in current times. He was never designated anything. But my most beloved and cherished LARabbi™, it turns out, indeed, was my Rav.

In one of our last conversations, he was hanging out with me and L for a bit after kiddush, a rare occasion. Actually, he wanted to talk to me. After nailing the invitation for lunch in the sukkah (and Sukkot is my fave time of year), he then expressed his pleasure about my inclusion of him in my blog- he especially loved his title and my trademarking of it.....oh, it meant a lot to him; he was touched, and that fact was there on his face and in his body, beyond his words. He might as well have done the "Happy Dance". I was pleased as well as taken aback. Subsequently, he related his abortive attempt to scoop up LARabbi as his license plate moniker when he moved back to California, as well as LARav; I do recall that his previous plate read, NJRabbi. I guess there are a lesser number of vanity plates back in New Jersey.

I told him that his words are far reaching, that he was immortalised.

Funny, this last time around, he made an effort to remember my Hebrew name when I was honoured with aliyot at minyan and main services, as well as my trademark phrase- whenever asked if I would be attending a service or whatever, I would proclaim that I would be there with "bells and pomegranates on". He finally made a point of remembering.

My Rav, a rabbi whom I totally know G-d meant for me, who would never write G-d with a dash, who welcomed me and guided me through my conversion, was my spiritual guide and mentor, radiant soul, a wise and experienced voice and judge, brilliant, very learned, funny, warm, witty, nurturing and compassionate, passionate about Judaism, a fabulous father and son, the healer of an entire congregation, a community leader, an anchor for the times I felt lost, losing, grieving and adrift, and my ultimate fan, who seemed to have it all, that is, half of which I would kill to have- a loving family, friends, peers, and congregation, respect, and material things- died by suicide.

I've wrestled over this, whether to speak of it or not for quite some time. For me, it is not about shame but about protecting a family and a congregation traumatised by the manner of his death. It could also become a case of dirty laundry, a thin line. And yet, I keep thinking- it gets dirtier the more it is kept under wraps, and murkier**. The suicide of someone from the clergy, Jewish or otherwise, opens up a massive can of worms that most people do not want to deal with. Because, after all, if we cannot find purity and truth and consistency in our clergy at all times, where, indeed, can we find it?


* "zichrono liveracha", May his memory be for a blessing
** This is NOT about details!