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Judging Religion

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Fri, 31 May 2013 18:40:00 +0000

There's something in my blog post from earlier today that I want to get back to, for moment. In it, I'm talking about various comments from atheists, including one from Prof.Daniel Dennet:

You don't get to advertise all the good that your religion does without first scrupulously subtracting all the harm it does and considering seriously the question of whether some other religion, or no religion at all, does better.

This kind of comment is fairly routine in these debates between atheists and the faithful. One side argues that religion does so much good in the world — they point to all the charity which religious people give (which is, on average, greater than nonreligious people, according to at least some studies). They point to the fact that (again, on average) religious people show up in greater numbers, and stay longer, to help with natural disasters and such.

And then the atheists, or the antireligious people, start pointing out all the terrible things that have been done in the name of religion. The Crusades. Terrorism. The Inquisition. And so on.

And now, we've essentially turned the debate into a math argument — let's add up all the good done, and all the bad, and compare them. Of course, it's not that simple — there is no way to quantify these things, and so it turns into an endless debate, with each side pulling out as many examples as possible, as if that will change anything. It won't — there really do seem to be an infinite number of good things for which religion is responsible, as well as bad. And, I have absolutely no idea which side of the ledger would win out, if we could find a way to measure this.

I'll admit that, without giving it much thought, religion seems responsible for many more big bad things than good (see that list above). But, how you compare the countless acts of small or medium goodness (and badness, of course) with these larger acts — well, I think we can all see that it would be a pretty silly exercise.

More importantly, I think it's an exercise which misses the point. Ultimately, I don't have much, if any, control over whether religion continues in the wider world. Or, what form it will take. All I have control over is whether I will be religious, and if so, how. What kind of religion will I have in my life? And, that would seem to imply that the relevant question is not whether religion, in the largest possible sense, has done more good or bad in the world. The relevant question is whether religion has done more good or bad for me.

I firmly, deeply (one might even say, religiously) believe that I am a happier person because of Judaism. And, I believe just as strongly that I am a better — more moral — person because of Judaism. Not that I am more moral than you are; I am more moral than I would be without Judaism. Judaism has made me, both morally and spiritually, better.

If I were to stop being Jewish — if I were to give up on religion, possibly motivated by all of the truly terrible things which have been done in the name of religion, then it would have almost 0 effect on the wider world. Even if the theoretical absolution of religion would be better for the world, the removal of religion from my own life would be ever so slightly worse for the world, because I would be a worse person without it.

Is it really just that simple? Of course not. Like I mentioned in that earlier post, there is a reasonable argument that religious people like me make it easier for the fanatics to continue with their version of religion. And so, you could argue that I have a responsibility to stop being part of the problem. I don't reject that argument out of hand — I think that deciding to no longer be part of a larger problem, even if the immediate effect is infinitesimally small, is a very important thing to do.

But, I have to weigh that theoretical, minuscule effect against the very real, very significant impact which religion has on me, personally. I can understand, in my head, that I might be, in some indirect way, contributing to a larger problem. But I feel in my guts the positives — I live them, and I see them day by day. And so, while I do acknowledge the validity of the other arguments, there really isn't a debate for me. It's pretty clear to me that the world is, ever so slightly, better because I have religion in my life.

Atheism, Fanaticism and, perhaps, Something In Between

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Fri, 31 May 2013 14:47:00 +0000

I recently came across a couple of articles which I put in my (ever-growing; rarely shrinking) list of "articles about which I must blog." I kept thinking about them, maybe because I started to realize that these were two very different articles that were, in some way, about the same thing. And, it's one of my favorite (if often most frustrating) topics — non-extremist religion.

First, we had a piece by CNN on famous atheists. It wasn't actually an article — just a slideshow*. But, it featured a long list of famous people who don't believe in God, each with a quote or two about what they do, or don't, believe. Some were silly, such as Javier Bardem:

* This is, after all, CNN.com. You don't come here for serious news anymore. I keep forgetting why I come here at all…

I've always said I don't believe in God; I believe in Al Pacino.

Some were very thoughtful, such as Professor Daniel Dennet:

You don't get to advertise all the good that your religion does without first scrupulously subtracting all the harm it does and considering seriously the question of whether some other religion, or no religion at all, does better.

But, it was clear that nearly all of them were thinking of religion in a particular sense - as a literal religion. A religion which takes it claims literally. Ricky Gervais saying that religion is like Santa Claus - a lie you keep telling yourself so you can keep getting gifts. Penn Jillette pointing out, in an honestly interesting comment, that, if religion were to be wiped out and recreated, it would never be recreated in the same way, as opposed to science, which would be rediscovered in, more or less, exactly the same way. Because, science, unlike religion, is objectively true - we discover science, while we create religion (my words, not his).

There were some exceptions – Sam Harris argues that liberal religions make it possible for fanatics to continue -- without freedom of religion, the fanatics couldn't survive, so we're better of without any of it. But, not surprisingly, when people talk about religion in public they nearly always, and nearly always implicitly, rather than explicitly, talk about literalist religion. They talk about religion as something which tells us to believe something which isn't true — something about which we have no proof, but for which there is pretty good counter-proof (e.g. "the world was created, as is, in 6 days").

I talk, probably quite a bit, about a different way to engage in religion. About understanding that religion is not (or doesn't have to be) a set of unverifiable fact claims. I've said, probably quite a bit, that I don't think that the Torah has a single accurate historical fact in it (and, it's got some really questionable science in it, to say the least). That doesn't make it useless — it just makes it useless as a science or history textbook. But, there are plenty of other ways to view, and to use, religion.

It's frustrating sometimes. It's frustrating to hear people, some very smart, attacking "religion," all the while thinking to myself, "That isn't religion - that's one type of religion. But, it's not my religion" It's like hearing someone attack music as being terrible - all music - and then finding out that they only listen to Top-40 radio. Well, maybe that music stinks, but have you heard about good Rock, or Jazz, or Hip-Hop? You might like those!

But, no — they haven't heard about those. Because all of the stations that they listen to only play Top-40. They only play the vapid stuff.

And, the same is true of religion, which brings me to article #2 - "The Creeping Fundamentalism In Our Midst."

We’ve read stories recently of Haredim in Israel comparing Israeli politicians to Hitler and throwing stones at women praying at the Kotel; of Haredim in New York fighting to restrict the prosecution of sex abuse claims; of Haredim in Germany threatening the fragile truce on circumcision by defending the practice of adult men sucking blood directly from the penises of infants.

So much religion is deserving of the hatred which is often sent its way. Religion is, far, far too often, self-serving and venal. It is misogynistic and homophobic. It is irrational. It is petty. And more.

So much of it is. But not all of it. And, it doesn't have to be that way. But, those of us who believe, but believe very, very differently haven't been effective in getting noticed. We haven't claimed a place in this conversation. Why is that? I'm not sure - it might be that there just aren't enough of us. That, in reality, we are a blip on the radar, and the real discussion is between extremists. It might be that the media always loves extremes - it makes for great copy, while thoughtful, esoteric, complicated, nuanced theology really, really doesn't.

All I know is that when I read the arguments of atheists, I agree with many of them. But, I'm not one of them. I'm not an atheist. The religion which they reject, I reject, as well. Maybe not as stridently, and maybe not as universally. But, still. The religion which I practice just doesn't look like the religion which they reject. I wish more people knew that.

By the way, starting on Tuesday, June 18th at 1:00 I'm going to be teaching a course (a reading group, really) on Rabbi Art Green's Radical Judaism. It's the best book I've ever read explaining a theology which is quite non-traditional, but 100% rational. And, to me, overwhelmingly powerful. If you're interested, pick up a copy and read the Introduction, and then join us on the 18th. It should be a really interesting class.

Hell, it could even start a movement.

Don't ever change. But, what, exactly?

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Fri, 24 May 2013 19:18:00 +0000

In this week's Torah portion, the priests are given instructions as to how to light the menorah (the lamp) in the Tent of Meeting. Then, we are told that, "Aaron did it thusly." (Numbers 8:3). Rashi, the great medieval commentator, teaches that the Torah includes these words as a praise of Aaron — praise, because he didn't make any changes to the instructions.

The Hasidic teacher Sha'arit Menachem teaches that this is great praise, indeed, for a priest. Or, for that matter, for a teacher or a leader. Their job, he teaches, is to not change what their teachers taught them. That way, their students will know that they can trust what they're learning — after all, this teaching goes back a long way, so it must be good!

I'll admit, it's not a teaching I love. I mean, I have plenty of respect for my teachers, but I don't particularly hold to a slavish devotion to their exact words. And, in a larger sense, I certainly don't believe in a lack of change — Reform Jews proudly accept the right to change teachings, and laws, from the past. The past has a power, of course. The past must be respected, and we must learn from it. But, "never change?" I can't buy into that.

Neither, it seems, could another great Hasidic teacher — Menachem Mendel of Kotzk, also known as the Kotzker Rebbe. His reaction to that line from Numbers, and to Rashi's teaching, is quite different. The Kotzker teaches that Aaron's great merit had nothing to do with externals — nothing to do with the procedure by which he lit the lamp. Instead, it was about not changing the fundamentals — what was happening within, in his heart. Everything great and worthy, he teaches, is hidden deep within the heart. It can't be seen on the outside.

I needed that teaching right now, so I'm glad I happened upon it. Because, just before I read it, I was reading an article in The Forward. You see, a rabbi recently wrote another article expressing the belief that the Reform rabbinical school should admit intermarried people into the rabbinical program, and should ordain intermarried rabbis. There's been a lot of these arguments and articles going around, and it's a complicated issue, so I'll stay away from it, at least for the moment.

But, the article I was reading was a reaction to that article, arguing that it was a slippery slope leading, unavoidably, to the ordination of non-Jewish rabbis. Or, at the very least, that was the logical conclusion of this kind of policy change, even if it would never happen in pratice. Non Jewish Rabbis or hypocracy, more or less. Whatever you, or I, think about the idea of intermarried rabbis, I'd argue that this slippery slope argument is pretty weak.

But, what really got to me were the comments*. Buried among the few rational arguments, the rambling, the ad hominem attacks and such were the predictable anti-Reform screeds. Reform Judaism isn't real. Reform Jews don't care. And so on.

* Really. You think I'd know better. Nothing good happens in the comment section.

It's probably good that I don't have much time right now, so I have to finish up this posting as soon as possible. I can ramble on this topic for quite a while at the moment, given the opportunity. But, let me just say this -- it never ceases to amaze me how much people think they can infer about someone's religiosity based on their external's. Or, on their willingness to change those externals.

You can see if, and how, I choose to keep kosher. You can see whether I wear a kippah and a tallit. You can see a lot of things about how I practice my religion.

You can't see a single thing that really matters.

Stephen Hawking and Boycotting Israel

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Thu, 09 May 2013 17:46:00 +0000

As you may have heard, the world's most famous scientist, Stephen Hawking, has recently backed out of a visit to Israel, thereby taking part in an academic boycott against the state.

As one of many who deeply admires Hawking, it's distressing to hear of him participating in this. I've been reading many responses to his decision, but in some ways the most powerful is one by Carlo Strenger. I'll include the full text below, but I find it so compelling because Strenger is highly critical of Israel:

Let it first be said that I have been opposed to Israel’s occupation of Palestinian territories for many years, and that I have voiced this opposition with all means at my disposal. I think that Israel’s settlement policy in the West Bank is indefensible morally, stupid politically and unwise strategically, and I will continue opposing it as long as I can.

This is no Israel apologist (he even accuses Israel of human rights violations in the West Bank). But, even with that, he finds this boycott, and Hawking's participation in it, indefensible:

Yes, I think that Israel is guilty of human right violations in the West Bank. But these violations are negligible compared to those perpetrated by any number of states ranging from Iran through Russia to China, to mention only a small number of examples. Iran hangs hundreds of homosexuals every year; China has been occupying Tibet for decades, and you know of the terrible destruction Russia has inflicted in Chechnya. I have not heard from you or your colleagues who support an academic boycott against Israel that they boycott any of these countries.

This gets to the heart of what angers so many defenders of Israel, myself included. It's not that I think that Israel is perfect, or that it's wrong to criticize Israel. But, Israel is often singled out in a way in which no other country would ever be.

How can a person claim that, for political reasons, they will not visit Israel, but then visit China, or any of the Islamicist regimes? Or, even America:

I’m still waiting for the British academic who says he won’t cooperate with American institutions as long as Guantanamo is open, or as long as the U.S. continues targeted assassinations.

What possible justification is there for that hypocrisy?

I hate blaming things on Anti-Semitism, as that's often a cheap, ad hominem attack meant to derail actual debate. But, I honestly can't think of a better explanation for why Israel is routinely criticized for doing what others do as a matter of course.

Israel is in a tragically untenable situation, where all of the choices are bad. It's possible (indeed, I would argue) that many of its choices have been the wrong ones. But to single Israel out in this way reeks of Anti-Semitism and hypocrisy. I would love to expect better, especially from a free-thinking genius.

Living up to the standards of human rights and the ideals of democracy in an imperfect world is difficult. Major thinkers like Philip Bobbitt and Michael Ignatieff have invested deep and comprehensive thought into the difficult topic of how to maintain the human rights standard in a world threatened by terrorism.

Professor Hawking, I would expect from a man of your intellectual stature to get involved in the difficult task of grappling with these questions. Taking the simple way out of singling out Israel by boycotting it academically does not behoove you intellectually or morally.

Full Text:

Hypocrisy and double standard: An open letter to Stephen Hawking

By deciding not to attend the Israeli Presidential Conference, one of the world's leading scientists is singling out Israel and denying it has been under existential threat for most of its existence.

By Carlo Strenger | May.08, 2013 | 3:56 PM

Dear Professor Hawking,

There are many reasons why you are considered one of the world’s leading scientists. As you know very well, one reason for your achievement is the ability to keep a mind of your own and to refuse caving in to pressure by the mainstream. Innovation is only possible if you are immune to such pressure.

Given my respect for your achievement I am surprised and saddened by your decision, reported today by The Guardian that you have cancelled your participation at this year’s President’s Conference in Jerusalem, and that you have joined those who call for an academic boycott of Israel. I would have expected a man of your standing and achievement not to be influenced by the pressure that was reportedly exerted on you to cancel your visit in Israel.

Let it first be said that I have been opposed to Israel’s occupation of Palestinian territories for many years, and that I have voiced this opposition with all means at my disposal. I think that Israel’s settlement policy in the West Bank is indefensible morally, stupid politically and unwise strategically, and I will continue opposing it as long as I can.

This being said, I have always found it morally reprehensible and intellectually indefensible that many British academics have been calling for an academic boycott of Israel. This call is based on a moral double standard that I would not expect from a community whose mission it is to maintain intellectual integrity.

Yes, I think that Israel is guilty of human right violations in the West Bank. But these violations are negligible compared to those perpetrated by any number of states ranging from Iran through Russia to China, to mention only a small number of examples. Iran hangs hundreds of homosexuals every year; China has been occupying Tibet for decades, and you know of the terrible destruction Russia has inflicted in Chechnya. I have not heard from you or your colleagues who support an academic boycott against Israel that they boycott any of these countries.

But let me go one step further: Israel is accused of detaining Palestinians without trial for years. So is the USA, which, as you very well know, to this day has not closed Guantanamo Bay. Israel is accused of targeted killings of Palestinians suspected or known to be involved in terrorist acts. As is reported worldwide, the United States has been practicing targeted assassinations of terror suspects in many countries for years.

The question whether these detentions and targeted assassinations can be justified is weighty, and there are no simple answers. Personally I think that even in a war against terror democracies must make every conceivable effort to maintain the rule of law and avoid human rights violations.

Yet let us not forget that both Israel and the United States are in difficult situations. Israel was on the verge of a peace agreement with the Palestinian people when the second Intifada broke out. Daily Israelis were shredded into pieces by suicide bombings, and it is very difficult for Israeli politicians to convince Israelis to take risks for peace. The U.S. is still reeling from the trauma of 9/11. It has occupied two countries, Afghanistan and Iraq for a decade since. I happen to think that it was wrong to attack Iraq, in the same way that I think that Israel’s settlement policy in the West Bank is wrong.

Professor Hawking: how can you and your colleagues who argue for an academic boycott of Israel justify your double standard by singling out Israel? You are simply denying that Israel has been under existential threat for most of its existence. To this day Hamas, one of the two major parties in Palestine, calls for Israel’s destruction, and its charter employs the vilest anti-Semitic language. To this day hardly a week goes by in which Iran and its proxy Hezbollah do not threaten to obliterate Israel, even though they have no direct conflict with Israel about anything.

Singling Israel out for academic boycott is, I believe, a case of profound hypocrisy. It is a way to ventilate outrage about the world’s injustices where the cost is low. I’m still waiting for the British academic who says he won’t cooperate with American institutions as long as Guantanamo is open, or as long as the U.S. continues targeted assassinations.

In addition to the hypocrisy, singling out Israel’s academia is pragmatically unwise, to put it mildly. Israel’s academia is largely liberal in its outlook, and many academics here have opposed Israel’s settlement policies for decades. But once again, British academics choose the easiest target to vent their rage in a way that does not contribute anything constructive to the Palestinian cause they support.

Israel, like any other country, can be criticized. But such criticism should not be based on shrill moralism and simplistic binary thinking – something I do not expect from academics. The real world is, unfortunately a messy, difficult place. Novelist Ian McEwan is quoted in the Guardian as saying that "If I only went to countries that I approve of, I probably would never get out of bed … It's not great if everyone stops talking” when he was criticized for coming to Israel to receive the Jerusalem Prize for Literature in 2011.

He certainly has a point. Living up to the standards of human rights and the ideals of democracy in an imperfect world is difficult. Major thinkers like Philip Bobbitt and Michael Ignatieff have invested deep and comprehensive thought into the difficult topic of how to maintain the human rights standard in a world threatened by terrorism.

Professor Hawking, I would expect from a man of your intellectual stature to get involved in the difficult task of grappling with these questions. Taking the simple way out of singling out Israel by boycotting it academically does not behoove you intellectually or morally.

If your cancelation was indeed a function of pressures and not from health reasons, as stated by your university following The Guardian's report, I would respect it if you were to reconsider your decision and come to the President’s Conference.

Sincerely,

Carlo Strenger

The Kotel

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Thu, 25 Apr 2013 19:45:00 +0000

Another item on my "blog idea" list is to talk about The Wall, and what it means to me. This is a perfect day to write about this, because as you may have heard, it's a big day for gender/religious equality at the Kotel (which is Hebrew for "the Wall"). In short, Israel's Supreme Court ruled today that it is not against the law for women to wear a tallit (prayer shawl) at the Kotel.

You see, the Kotel has long been officially designated as an Orthodox synagogue, which means that it falls under the auspices of the official Israeli Rabbinate, which is ultra-Orthodox. To put it mildly, they don't support gender equality within Judaism (or, for that matter, within anything). And so not only do they think that it's inappropriate for a woman to wear a tallit, which is traditionally something only men do, but they think that they have the right to tell others that they have to think, and behave, the same way.

A relatively small, but ever-growing, segment of Israeli Jewry has been pushing back against this ultra-Orthodox hegemony, and over the past couple of years they finally seem to be gaining some momentum. There was a recent decision to make a mixed/egalitarian prayer area at the Kotel, to go along with the all-male and all-female sections. And now this ruling, which if it's obeyed, means the police can no longer arrest women for having the audacity to dress and pray as they wish.

As you can probably tell/guess, I not only disagree, strongly, with what the ultra-Orthodox have been trying to do for years, but I also get quite angry about it. I'm certainly not alone. Many of my liberal (non-Orthodox) coreligionists have been disgusted by the attitudes and behavior of the ultra-Orthodox for a long time now. And, partially because of that, many have started to turn away from the Wall — to no longer see it as an important, or maybe even holy, site.

There are other reasons for this attitude towards the Wall, as well. Many find the treatment of the Kotel to be somewhat idolatrous. People pray at the Kotel as if God is more willing (more able?) to hear prayers there. People write prayers on pieces of paper and put them in the cracks of the wall, believing/assuming that somehow their prayers are more likely to be answered from being placed alongside those ancient stones. I know there are good, non-superstitious reasons to pray at the Wall, but my experience makes it pretty clear that most people are using the Wall in a superstitious way — as if it had inherent power. I suppose that there's another explanation for the fact that there is a website where can input your prayer, and they'll print it out and put in the Wall for you, but magic and superstition seem the most obvious explanation. You can probably guess how I feel about that attitude.

Anyway, you add up the ultra-Orthodox control, the nasty, vicious non-egalitarian, and anti-feminist, anti-woman attitude of the powers that be, along with the (semi?) idolatrous treatment of the Kotel, and I can completely understand why some people are, quite frankly, sick of the whole thing.

But, not me.

Don't get me wrong. I am, of course, sick of everything I just described. I find it all to be, in so many different ways, the worst of our religion. But, despite that, I still find myself drawn to the Kotel, and I still love it.

Part of it has to do with my love for ancient places like that. Without assigning any extra meaning to it, I love walking on the Roman Road in the Old City of Jerusalem. Every time I'm there, I get unspeakably excited by the fact that I'm walking on the same stones upon which the first rabbis in history walked. I get chills walking into the amphitheater in Casaeria. And so on.

But, that's not it. My real love of the Kotel comes from a much simpler story. It comes from my first visit to it, ever.

It was the summer after my senior year of High School, and I was on a synagogue trip - a whirlwind tour of Israel. I went thinking it would be fun, but found it was much more than that. It was, as few things have been for me, transformative. I fell in love with the country and I can't, to this day, tell you exactly why. I just knew that Israel felt like home in a way in which few places ever have.

Towards the end of the trip we were finally in Jerusalem. We were finally going to see the Kotel, about which I had heard my whole life - it's a pretty big moment for most Jews, to say the least. But, I was angered by the gender separation. My 17-year old self was indignant about not being able to stand with my friends (well, one friend, in particular. You know how High School is). And so, we agreed to both go stand right by the mechitza - the divider between the men's and women's sections. And so, I wedged myself into that corner, and I talked to God*.

* Back then, I had a much more traditional, simpler vision of God. It made it a LOT easier to talk to Him…

The Kotel is somewhat beat up*. As it happened, right in front of me, a bit higher than my waist, was a worn out depression in the wall. It was the perfect spot to rest my hand while I talked. No big deal - just an arm-rest.

* a couple of millennia will do that to a wall.

But, while I sat there and talked (in my head, as I recall), I made a promise. I had been so taken by Israel, so completely overwhelmed by it, that I vowed, then and there, to come back. Not just to Israel, mind you, but with that kind of dramatic fervor that only teenagers seem to have easy access to, I vowed to come back to that. very. spot.

I remember even pounding my fist, gently, as I said each word. That. Very. Spot.

And so, I did. The next time I went back to Israel, for a semester of college, I found my way to the Kotel. And, I put my hand in that spot.

Every time I visited the Kotel during that year, I put my hand in that spot.

Every time I've visited the Kotel, in my entire life, I've gone to that spot. And, I've put my hand there.

I smile a little as I think about a girl I haven't seen or talked to in 20 years or so, and I wonder what life has brought her. I hope it's as much as life's brought me.

But, more than that, I put my hand in that spot, and I try to remember what it felt like to be a teenager, capable of melodramatic declarations and of falling head over heels in love with rocky hills and a stone wall.

That spot is mine. And no one, whatever power the Israeli government gives them or (please God) takes away, can take it away from me.

Believing in God

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Thu, 25 Apr 2013 19:01:00 +0000

[Well, this isn't exactly the post I thought I was sitting down to write. And, I'm not sure how much sense it actually makes. But, in the spirit of blogging I'll just put it out there. Hopefully, it's interesting.]

For a while now, I've kept a list of topics and articles about which I want to blog, always planning to find some time to write. But, you know how that goes — life gets busy, and the urgent gets in the way of the important. And, before you know it, you've got a long list of blog ideas, and you still haven't made any progress towards them…

And, relatedly, I've been promising (threatening?) myself, and on this blog a couple of times, to start doing some writing about my theology. As any of you who know me, or read this blog at all regularly, know by now, my personal belief is nothing like what most people consider "traditional belief." I do not believe in a God who is "out there" and I certainly don't believe in a God who controls the world, in any literal way. I read and think about that so much, and talk about it in certain contexts so often, that I forget that not everyone really knows what I do believe (although, I guess I did actually give a sermon all about this on Yom Kippur). It's probably important that they do — I am, after all, a Rabbi.

And so, I finally found myself with a free hour, and some motivation (and hopefully, some focus) to write. And as I scanned through my list of blog topics, looking for one which inspires me, I came across this article from a little over a year ago*. In it, Jeffrey Small is discussing his conception of God. And, although it certainly isn't exactly what/how I believe, there's a whole lot of overlap.

* Note to self: write more often, or stop bothering collecting blog ideas...

Start with "classical" God imagery:

God as the potter, the watchmaker or the chess master has lost its relevance for many in our post-modern world. The response to this critique by some is to close their eyes to science and the realities of existence.

I don't really want to get into a refutation of this image of God (if you want to get semi technical, this is usually referred to as an "Active God," or a "God of History." Basically, it's the God who is an independent, factual reality, and who can, if He so chooses, act in our world directly). Maybe I'll do that some other time, but I still think that Sam Harris' Letter to a Christian Nation does a powerful, if slightly obnoxious, job of that. Suffice it to say, for now, that I find this idea of God completely untenable and, frankly, undesirable. As I've often said, if there is a God who is capable of curing a child of cancer, but chooses not to for whatever reason, then I need a new job, because I'm not working for that God anymore.

But, if I don't believe in that God, then what, exactly, do I believe in? Well, let's start with what Small believes:

I have come to understand God, not as a transcendent Zeus-like figure, but instead as the infinite creative source of existence.

By "creative source" here, I do not mean to say that I think of God as creating existence by waving a magic wand from afar, but rather that all of existence -- matter, energy, the physical laws which govern the universe, even our consciousness -- comes out of God. This understanding of God is rooted not in Creationism, Intelligent Design or a desire for a father figure, but rather comes from this simple question posed first by the ancient Greek philosopher Parminedes (b. 510 BCE): Why is there existence in the first place, instead of nothing?

You know what? As I'm rereading that, I realize that it doesn't describe so well what I believe. It's not that I disagree with it so much, it's more that it doesn't resonate. That's the problem with this less literal understanding of God — it's not so much about describing, in specific detail, the God in which I believe. Rather, it's about describing an image of God which resonates. Theology becomes a matter of perspective and awareness — not a statement about understanding how the universe works, but rather about what the universe means.

Some people will hear this and, whether or not they like this imagery/approach, will think to themselves "that isn't God." It might be nice, and it might be true. But it isn't God. Right?

This probably just turns into an argument about semantics, which is rarely interesting (although, strangely, often quite strident). If you define "God" as an all-powerful being with independent existence then, no, this isn't God. But if you define God as something else, something more general — as, perhaps, "the ultimate" — and this can, indeed, be God. This is a description of the fundamental, transcendent, holy basis of creation. Some people will find it inadequate — will say that, if this is really God, then God is useless, because God can't do anything. To them, I guess I have two responses.

First of all, whether or not we like something has no bearing on whether or not it is true. The God described in the Bible is quite powerful, indeed. But, that God doesn't actually exist. And, my wishing (or yours) that He did doesn't change that.

But, more importantly, this God can do something. Just in a different way than we're used to thinking:

What I may have lost from the illusory "comfort" of believing in a supernatural father figure who may or may not intervene on my behalf, I have more than made up for with a new realization: I can touch and experience a God that is the ground of my being (though I'll never fully understand or see God) at a much more intimate level, because God is the spark of light within me.

I've managed, really without intending to, to write an entire (somewhat rambling) blog post about my theology without actually saying a whole lot (barely anything, really) about what I actually believe. That's okay — I'll be doing that soon enough (I promise). For now, maybe it's enough to keep talking about the fact that even if you don't believe in the God in which you thought you were supposed to believe, that's okay. I don't believe in that God, either.

The Waiting Room

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Tue, 16 Apr 2013 12:58:00 +0000

Yesterday, something I read gave me an image which is been stuck in my head.

Some writer described cable news as a ersatz hospital waiting room — when something terrible happens, we all go there. We mill about, restlessly and aimlessly, waiting for some news. Wishing that there was something we could do. Of course, there is no news coming anytime soon, and there's nothing we can actually do, right now. All we can do is wait. And so we wait, and we keep looking for news, and we keep telling ourselves we should do something else, and we keep waiting.

I know I'm not alone in feeling that way in the wake of the bombing in Boston, yesterday. I keep checking news sites, looking for any updates. But, the only updates I really might see this morning are the ones I really don't want to see — changes in the death toll, mostly. But, the senseless tragedy keeps drawing my attention back in. It feels voyeuristic and otherwise pointless to keep reading the news, but it seems somehow disrespectful to ignore it — to go on with my life as if the little things which were to occupy my day really matter. And so, I stay in that waiting room, sad, and angry, and restless, and useless. I don't know what else to do.

Recently, in the weekly Torah portion, we read the story of the deaths of Nadav and Abihu, two sons of Aaron who were killed for some ritual violation. Moses, Aaron's brother, explains to Aaron that this is how God asserts His holiness. And, the Torah tells us, Aaron was silent.

A lot of ink has been spilled, over the centuries, trying to explain Aaron's silence. For me, the most compelling explanation is numbing grief. What could he possibly say, what could any of us possibly say, in the face of such a loss? What is the proper reaction to the death of innocents? Anything that we say sounds wrong to our ears. And so maybe the best thing to do is to remain silent. It is, at the very least, more honest than any words we might try to use at times like these.

In Israel, on Yom HaZikaron (Fallen Soldier Remembrance Day), as on Yom HaShoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day) a week earlier, a siren is sounded, and for that minute, the country stands still. Whatever people are doing, they stop, stand, and are silent. Cars stop. Businesses stop. Pedestrians stop. Everything stops. And everyone is silent.

In the face of tragedy greater than we can comprehend, and in the face of each and every tragedy, great and small, since, words fail us. And so, we simply stand in silence.

My heart is with the people in Boston. May they find healing, and strength. May they find peace.

My Shortest Lesson Ever

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Sat, 30 Mar 2013 16:40:00 +0000

The shortest lesson I've ever taught about Shabbat:

I have an idea for a post, and I was about to sit down and write it.

But, it's warm and sunny outside. So, I'm going to go for a bike ride with my son, instead.

Shabbat Shalom!

How To Read Your Bible

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Thu, 28 Mar 2013 00:36:00 +0000

It happens a lot, but it happens especially at times when we're debating some serious, divisive issue - an issue about which religion has something to say. So, to take the obvious example, it happens when we're discussing Same-Sex Marriage, as we are lately, with Prop 8 and DOMA going before the Supreme Court.

It happens, unfortunately, very often in the comments section of some website*. Someone brings up how the Bible says something, usually in opposition to some liberal standpoint. You know the kind of thing I'm talking about - I say that I support Same-Sex Marriage, and then someone points out that, in case you haven't read it, Leviticus seems to oppose my position**.

* I say "unfortunately" because, in my opinion, there are few places better than the comments section of many websites to get really frustrated, and to wonder if we're making any progress as a society, or as a species. That isn't a statement so much about the content of many of these comments, but the tone and intelligence. But, that's another rant, I guess.

** I say "seems" because, if you actually study the Hebrew, Leviticus isn't quite as unambiguously anti-gay as it seems. But, that's another rant, I guess.

Now, the back-and-forth begins. Maybe I point out other areas of the Bible which we don't all follow. Maybe I point out the human origins of the Bible. Maybe I describe some overarching principle which I use to find my way through the Bible - maybe I even quote some great figure who said that "Love Your Neighbor as yourself" is the greatest principle of all.

Then it happens.

Someone says, "You can't pick and choose. You can't treat the Bible like a Chinese menu, picking one law from column A, and two teachings from column B. It's all God's word, and it's sinful and idolatrous to think that you can use your own judgment over God's."

From there, it gets fairly predictable. Someone will (re-)state that overarching principle, claiming that that's God's will, or some higher truth (which, religiously speaking, are the same things). Someone will (again?) point out that we all pick and choose. And, we go 'round and 'round.

But, I feel like one part of this always gets missed. For lack of a better word, the philosophy which underlies the whole liberal approach to text and religion.

You say that it's wrong, sinfully wrong, to use my own judgment to decide between what's right and wrong in the Bible.

I ask you what better idea you've got?

I don't mean to imply that I'm better than God. That my judgment is perfect. That I am the ultimate, final arbiter of all that is Right or Wrong. That I trust myself to make these judgments, and to never make a mistake.

I just mean to state that I don't know a better alternative.

The Bible is not perfect. It isn't. Some people reading this will have a different opinion about that, and we probably can't have a meaningful, productive conversation, because our starting assumptions, our paradigms of belief, if you will, are fundamentally different. If you believe that the Torah, or your scripture, comes down, perfectly, directly from God, despite all of the countervailing evidence, then you're going to believe that, and my pointing out that the Torah claims that the rabbit chews its cud* probably won't convince you.

* it doesn't.

But, if like me, you come from a tradition which accepts, and even embraces, the human origins of our most sacred texts, then you are left with a pretty clear choice. You can either pretend that the Torah, and/or the rest of the Bible, is perfect, and try your best to follow it devotedly.

Or, you can openly admit that it's not perfect, and try to find a different way to follow it.

This different way - and there are many - is going to be flawed. It's going to be ambiguous and vague. It's often going to be inconsistent and (horror of horrors!) even hypocritical.

But, it's going to be honest.

Pretending that the Bible is perfect - is divine - even if we know it's not? That, my friends, is idolatrous.

Admitting that the Bible is often a source of great, holy inspiration, but is often also the source of misguided, and/or outdated views? That's troubling, and confusing, and fraught. But, it's true. It's honest. Personally speaking, I am (literally) religiously devoted to choosing honest complexity over simplistic consistency.

Of course being the arbiter of what I do and don't believe, of which parts of the Bible I do and don't follow is tricky. Of course I'm going to contradict myself - I'm going to claim to believe something which seems to, or actually does, go against something I claimed to believe yesterday. Of course I'm going to apply my principles inconsistently - how else am I going to figure out how to apply them at all? I'm learning as I go. I'm thinking, and reading, and talking, and listening. I'm making judgments, and checking them against my other judgments, and against other people's ideas, and against the reality which is being created as I watch. I'm finding my way through a complex, ambiguous, ever-changing world. It seems only logical, only honest, that my way will also be complex, ambiguous and ever-changing.

If someone tells you they have simple answers to complex questions, be very, very suspicious.

Absolute certainty may seem strong and faithful and appealing.

But, I'll take ambiguous complexity. It may not be perfect. But, it's the closest thing we've got.

Pesach and Freedom for All

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Tue, 26 Mar 2013 15:41:00 +0000

This is really just a longer version of the status which I just posted on Facebook. In theory, if I can say something in a short status, then there's no reason to say it in a full blog post. But, brevity has never been the main requirement of the rabbinate...

I'm incredibly moved by the number of people who, this morning, have changed their Facebook profile picture to the Marriage Equality logo*. Over the next two days, the Supreme Court is hearing arguments about Prop 8 and DOMA, and there seems to be a real (if not particularly overwhelming shot that, in the coming days (week? months?), Marriage Equality will be the Law of the Land, and people will be allowed to marry whomever the want, even if (gasp!) they happen to be the same sex.

* Of course, I acknowledge that my Facebook friends list isn't exactly a scientifically representative sample of the population. It may lean, on average, to the left. Slightly.

Many have noted that Pesach is the perfect time for this to be happening. Pesach (Passover) is the Festival of Freedom - our annual retelling (reliving, actually) of our Exodus from the slavery of Egypt. In Hebrew, Egypt is called Mitzrayim, which comes from the Hebrew for "narrow." Egypt is, literally, "The Narrow Place." Originally, that was probably geographic - Ancient Egypt existed almost entirely along the Nile, so the kingdom was very narrow, physically. But, our sages* read it metaphorically - Mitzrayim is whatever constricts you. Whatever hems you in. Whatever keeps you from being fully, fundamentally free. From being you were meant to be. From being fully yourself. In other words, Egypt and Freedom aren't only historical and physical, they are also personal and spiritual.

* Who, let the record show, never let a simple explanation get in the way of a longer one...

Pesach doesn't just celebrate that one slavery, and our freedom from it. Pesach uses that one story as a paradigm to talk about every slavery, and every freedom. And so, Pesach really is the perfect day to be talking about (among a billion other things) Marriage Equality. Because, someone (a government, a religious group, a mob) telling you that your love isn't equal, that your marriage doesn't count, that your family isn't real? That must feel an awful lot like Mitzrayim.

And, that brings me to one of my absolute favorite, core teachings of Passover, and of all of Judaism. Several times, the Torah tells us that we must be kind to the stranger, because we were strangers in Egypt. We must, we are taught, fight for all who are enslaved, because we were slaves, once.

That's why we retell the Passover story, every year. That's why we're supposed to find new and creative ways to retell it, to make it feel real. Because, when we do that, when we can actually convince ourselves that, in some way, we were slaves, we'll actually remember what that felt like. We won't just talk about slavery, but we'll remember slavery. We'll feel the pain.

And, we'll be sure - absolutely, passionately sure - that no one - no one - should ever feel that way again.

We retell our story of slavery not to engage in some multi-generational pity-party, or to lay claim to some historical recompense. We do so in order to motivate ourselves to fight for others who are not free.

Time and again, the world (or, the be fair, some narrow minded segment of the world) has told some of us that we aren't equal. Jews had to be slaves. Africans had to be slaves. Their descendants were told that they were less intelligent, less capable, not worthy of mixing their blood with ours. And so on. We hear those stories, and we shake our heads in disbelief. We look back on our ancestors (and ourselves) with shame.

Except with gays, lesbians, bisexuals and transgender people. We're perfectly happy to tell them that they aren't the same. That they aren't equal. That they have to stay in Mitzrayim.

Tonight, many of us will attend a 2nd seder. We will, once again, retell the story of our slavery, and our freedom. During the seder (or just at dinner, if you're not going to a seder) stop and imagine that someone looked at you, and your family, and call you all sinners. Called you all evil. Called you all illegitimate. Not real. Imagine that your government did that, every day.

Imagine how that would feel.

Remember how it felt.

Don't let it continue. Not one more damn day.

Freedom to marry. Now.

Now, we are slaves. Next year, may we all be free.

Enough, And More

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Fri, 08 Mar 2013 19:09:00 +0000

One of my absolute, hands-down, all-time favorite teachings comes out of this week's Torah portion*. In Parashat Vaykhel, we continue to receive instructions about the building of the Tabernacle — the portable sanctuary in the desert. And then, after hearing what was needed to build this holy structure, the people begin offering gifts — donating whatever they had towards the construction. It was Judaism's first Building Fund.

* I learned it, as I learned so much, from Rabbi Larry Kushner. He learned it from his student, Daniel Lehrman.

But, this one goes differently from most. Because, the people actually bring too much – it gets to the point were Moses has to make a proclamation, demanding that people stop bringing gifts*. That episode ends (Exodus 36:7) with the comment, "their efforts had been more than enough for all the tasks to be done."

* It's enough to bring tears to the eyes of synagogue presidents everywhere…

But, that's not exactly what it says. The Hebrew, if read literally (over-literally, really), actually reads, "their efforts have been enough, and more…" A teacher by the nickname Sihot Tsaddadkim notices a problem with this phrase, "enough, and more." Which was it? Did they bring enough, or did they bring more? The Torah (so rabbinic thinking goes) is always precise, saying exactly what it means, never wasting a word, or even a letter. So, this can't be mere idiom — but, how else can we understand it?

His answer? They only had enough because they had more than enough.

Imagine for a moment that they collected precisely enough for the building. Take away one gold coin, 1 yard of fabric, one dolphin skin,* and they wouldn't have enough. The project couldn't be completed. That would mean that each and every person who donated could look at the final tabernacle and say, "It couldn't have been done without me." It would have been a recipe for arrogance, self-importance and ego gratification.

* don't ask...

And then it wouldn't be a holy building.

True holiness demands (among other things) a minimization of ego, and a smallness of self. An understanding that, in the grand scheme of things, we ain't all that impressive. Or, to put it a bit differently, we're only going to be able to worship one thing in this Tabernacle. And, we want to make sure that we're worshiping God, not ourselves.

Each person who contributed to this sacred project knew that they were important, but also knew that they weren't essential. That the project could have been done without them. Therefore, when they entered the Tabernacle, they couldn't possibly think of themselves as essential. They were forced to be, in a word, humble. Then, and only then, would they have any hope, any prayer, of approaching God. Arrogance and holiness are mutually contradictory. We really do have to choose — are we going to worship ourselves, or we going to worship God?

Reading Torah

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Thu, 07 Mar 2013 18:23:00 +0000

Yesterday, I gushed about how fantastic it was to learn from Rabbi Bradley Shavit Artson, the Dean of the Ziegler School of Rabbinical Studies (one of the Rabbinical Schools of the Conservative Movement). It was the kind of talk which had us all changing our afternoon plans to attend his 2nd session (which was great, if not as unbelievably wonderful), talking about the session the rest of the day, and so on. It was really that good.

But, I can't figure out how to describe it to you.

Officially, the session was on new, spiritual ways to read the story of The Binding of Isaac (Abraham's near sacrifice, at God's command, of his dearest son, Isaac). And, Artson did offer some powerful interpretations of this powerful, fraught story (one of which is an early contender for a High Holy Day sermon). But, what it was really about is how we, as Rabbis, have to use Torah to help other people find and express meaning.

I'm sitting here, trying to find words to summarize, or even approach, what he taught us. Maybe after listening to it again (I recorded it - I so desperately hope the recording is good!) I'll have a bit more clarity. But, my memory and my notes are just inadequate to capture what he was saying. But, let me give it a shot.

Start with one basic fact - obvious once said, but often unrealized: the Torah, our holiest book, does not tell us how it wants to be read. It's easy to forget that -- especially after thousands of years of Rabbis (and others) telling us what it means. And, many of those interpretations are very, very important. But, they aren't right. They aren't what the Torah really means. They are what the Torah meant to those people, at that moment, in that place.

The Torah is not some perfect instruction book, handed down in all of its holy perfection by an active, external God. The Torah is a book written by people (men, most likely) over a long period. But it was, in large part, written by people who were expert in capturing their inner spiritual lives in writing. And, for millenia, it's been used by those seeking to explore their own inner spiritual lives. And so, it becomes a fantastic tool for us to use in order to explore and project our own inner lives.

Don't get me wrong. It's not that we're supposed to just read the Torah and talk about how it makes us feel. What we're supposed to do is read the Torah, then study the Torah, then study what others have said about it. And then we read it (again) and talk about how it makes us feel. Or, what it makes us think about. Or, what we believe. Or, what angers us. Or, what confuses us. And, we share that. And then we do it again. And that's how we discover what the Torah truly means.

But, Artson contends (and I agree), we won't let ourselves do that, because we don't trust our own authenticity. We don't trust our own Jewish authenticity. We think that someone else's stories are more valid, more true, because they come from someone with a deeper Jewish background, with broader knowledge. From someone who is more Jewish - or, at least, more authentically so.

Our job is not to read the Torah as if it were some ancient book of perfection, and our role is to understand and do - nothing more. The Torah is a book which we use to explore the world around us, and the world within us. It is (my words; his idea - I think) a book that don't believe in, but we believe through.

I'm not capturing this. Believe me - I'm really not expressing this right. I'm getting close to something, but there's so much missing. Everything I've written here (more or less) I knew already, but there was something about what he said, and the way in which he said it, which was so much more than this. Like I said, I'm going to listen to this again, and try to write some more. But, I'm going to make damn sure that I also think about this, very carefully, before I teach any Torah again.

Artson started off both sessions by making a seemingly innocuous, but ultimately essential and radical suggestion: that we stop saying things that we don't believe. Judaism will only survive if we doggedly, zealously avoid lies. Avoid saying anything that we don't believe. Torah, we are taught, is truth. Truth is the ultimate seal of God. Our own truth, which we might find through the Torah, is truth. It's that truth - all truth - that we seek.

If any colleagues who were there want to jump in on this - please do!

And, by the way, check out Rabbi Artson's Bedside Torah. It will show you a bit about how he reads Torah. And, it's so, so good.

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Tweeting While Learning

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Wed, 06 Mar 2013 02:03:00 +0000

I'm one of the guest bloggers at the Rabbinic Convention going on right now in Long Beach, CA. Here's a posting which will go up there, just as soon as I can figure out how to get into the system!

I've been thinking a lot about technology and presence.

I'm a techie - I have a degree in Computer Science, and I love my various iGadgets. I'm a big Facebook user, a not-so-enthusiastic Tweeter, and so on. And, like many of my colleagues, I've taken to Tweeting and/or Facebooking during sessions - posting great quotes or insights from the speakers, or sometimes a thought or reaction that I have. It can be a lot of fun - others who aren't here can comment and participate - at least a little. And, sometimes it turns into a virtual side-conversation among several of us who are doing this.

But, it's happened - fairly often, actually - that I've missed something in the presentation, because I was typing about the last comment. Or, because I was readiing someone else's comment. Or - no surprise here - because I got sucked into Facebook/Twitter/Whatever and stopped paying attention for a minute or 5.

It's not news, but it really is impossible to multi-task. We do one thing, and then switch to another. We can, sometimes, do that very rapidly, but we can't actually do to things at once. So, when we're Social Media-ing, we aren't giving our full attention to the presenter, or the presentation. We aren't fully present in that moment, and we're very likely to miss something. Maybe something valuable.

At times, I love being part of this Virtual Convention. But, I'm starting to think it's not really worth it. I'm thinking about not doing any of this for the rest of the convention. Or, at least, a whole lot less. I don't think anyone will really mind...

By the way, there are, of course, major conversations going on about the value of using this kind of Social Networking as part of the tefillah experience. As someone who thinks that Mindfulness is an essential component of prayer, you can guess what my gut reaction is to that! But, that's for another post...

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The Purpose Behind Blessings

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Thu, 28 Feb 2013 20:42:00 +0000

The Talmud, for those who don’t know, is one of the core texts of Judaism. It is, more or less, the first book of the Rabbis, written over a 400 year period, a couple thousand years ago. It’s a very varied, even eccentric book, but it’s largely made up of a hyper-detailed discussion of Jewish law. There is a weekly Talmud class here at Congregation Beth Am, and we’ve been studying the first section of the Talmud, Berachot (blessings). Most recently, we’ve been working through a long section about the blessings we say before eating various foods (which, like much in Judaism, is highly regimented).

Towards the end of a sugya (unit of discussion), the rabbis included a story*. Apparently, there had been a debate about a seemingly minor point — before eating bread, does one thank “One who brings forth bread from the earth,” or, “The One who brings forth bread from the earth?” It seems like the most inconsequential of debates but a) there is no debate to inconsequential for rabbis and b) this probably actually hinted at an underlying theological question. (It’s too much to go into here, but it may have been about God’s ongoing involvement with the world).

* berachot 38a, for those following along at home...

In the story, there was a visit by an expert in the laws of blessings, named bar Rav Zevid. He was brought a piece of bread, and he said the blessing beginning “One” rather than “The One.” A local sage, Rabbi Zeira, chastised him for this — according to Zeira, he should have used “The One.” Zeira then implies that this so-called expert isn’t such an expert, after all. He doesn’t even know the right blessing for bread!

Bar Rav Zevid’s response? “Hey – I was only trying to stay out of the fight.”

It’s a strange thing to say — how could he be staying out of the fight by picking one side in the dispute? Isn’t that, inherently, participating in the argument? We could imagine some technical explanation to explain it, but I think that would miss the point.

Presumably, the students (being relatively “average” folk) thought that this man was an expert because he knew the specifics of the laws. He was technically proficient. But, Zeira wasn’t impressed by this. He knew that this technical dispute actually hid a theological dispute. And, he seems to be saying that someone who focuses on the specific details of a ritual instead of the underlying theology is missing the point. It’s not enough to be technically correct; Zeira wanted to be theologically correct. Most of us would probably agree with that stance.

And that’s what makes Zevid’s response so powerful. It’s as if he’s saying, “The students were interested in the details of the law. You were interested in the theology behind the law. Me? I’m interested in the personal. I’m interested in using blessings in a way that does a contribute to dispute or acrimony. Who cares if I’m technically or theologically correct, if my ritual makes someone angry? All I wanted was to thank God for this bread, and eat it.”

I’m a Rabbi. I’m pretty idiosyncratically fascinated by legal minutia and by theology. But, at the end of the day, if all that leads to people being angry with each other, then it’s possible that we’re missing the point. If we can fight — not just academically debate, but really fight — over something as silly as the word “the” in the blessing over bread, then it’s possible — just slightly possible — that we’re missing the point.

Thank God that we live in a world were no one ever actually fights over such a picayune religious detail. Right?

Thinking about very big yachts

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Wed, 20 Feb 2013 15:39:00 +0000

A Russian billionaire just unveiled his $1,500,000,000 yacht. 1.5 Billion dollars*. Let me get a couple of caveats out of the way:

* I'm fairly sure that many of you just read that with a "Dr. Evil" intonation.

He has every right to do this - it's his money. I'm not about to suggest that someone should have forced him to NOT buy this.
I am, arguably, about to throw stones from a glass house. Anyone who spends more than they absolutely need to in order to live is, at least theoretically, open to the criticism that they should be doing something more valuable, more meaningful, more helpful, with their money. I get that.

But, what if this billionaire bought a very nice half-billion dollar boat, and gave the rest to some very good charities? He'd still have a very nice boat, and his money would now being making some very, very sad people a little (or a lot!) less sad.

And, yes, I also, of course, understand that maybe he did - maybe he wanted a 2.5 billion dollar boat, but built this one and gave 1 billion to charity. And, I know that if he built a half-billion dollar boat, I (or someone like me) would be making the exact same argument, just with slightly smaller numbers.

I get all of that.

But, I also get, deep down, that we live in a world where millions (billions, maybe) go to bed every night cold and hungry. Or die of easily preventable diseases. Or (fill in the blank). And, even though there's no clear line (and lots of potential for hypocrisy), at some point spending money crosses over into unconscionable.

There was a time when seeing a 1.5 Billion Dollar Boat would have made be jealous. Now? It just makes me kind of sad. I'm going to make a donation somewhere today. It won't be huge, but at least it will be a positive reaction to this news story.

If you've got a little, give a little. If you've got a lot, give a lot.

Responsibility and Guns

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Tue, 05 Feb 2013 14:06:00 +0000

I haven't had a chance, yet, to read the original piece, but I just read a commentary on an essay by Stephen King, in which he explores the connection between guns in the media and actual, real world violence. I absolutely love the fact that he addresses the questions of rights and responsibility, head-on:

…I did see Rage as a possible accelerant, which is why I pulled it from sale. You don’t leave a can of gasoline where a boy with firebug tendencies can lay hands on it.

...

I didn’t pull Rage from publication because the law demanded it; I was protected under the First Amendment, and the law couldn’t demand it. I pulled it because in my judgment it might be hurting people, and that made it the responsible thing to do. Assault weapons will remain readily available to crazy people until the powerful pro-gun forces in this country decide to do a similar turnaround. They must accept responsibility, recognizing that responsibility is not the same as culpability. They need to say, “We support these measures not because the law demands we support them, but because it’s the sensible thing.”

I'm a pretty strident supporter of First Amendment rights, and I would defend, until I was hoarse and blue in the face, King's right to keep publishing a book, even though it may contribute to violent acts. But, I applaud with even greater enthusiasm his willingness to focus on his responsibility, not just his rights.

Whether a novel can actually, meaningfully contribute to violence is a very difficult question. And, it's probably a debate worth having, although I imagine it will be ambiguous, circular, inconclusive and deeply, deeply frustrating. But, if I'm an author who becomes convinced that there is, at the very least, a real possibility that my writing might be contributing to violence, don't I have a responsibility to at least think about stopping? If my novel (or essay, or sermon, or painting, or movie…) might take the life of one innocent person, then doesn't that override whatever rights I may have? I don't mean that it negates those rights in a legal sense. I mean that, in a moral sense, it makes them irrelevant.

I have the right to write whatever I want. But, that doesn't make it right to do so.

✡

You may have guessed, I feel exactly the same way about much of the conversation around gun control. There are some serious conversations that we have to have, as a society, about what laws and regulations can meaningfully reduce gun violence. I've heard arguments, for example, that any restriction on large capacity magazines will be meaningless, and won't do a thing to reduce violence. As we decide what we're going to regulate, or ban, it seems important to have a serious discussion about what regulations, or bans, will be effective. And, I'm sure that that discussion will be ambiguous, circular, inconclusive and deeply, deeply frustrating. But, we have to have it. Because, we've got to figure out what, if anything, will stop the violence, or at least reduce it.

You may, or may not, have the right to a large capacity magazine. But, if allowing you access to that magazine will result in the death of one more innocent person, then don't you have a responsibility, don't we all, to forgo that right? To at least entertain the idea?

✡

One of the biggest differences between Judaism and "Western thought," has to do with questions of blame and responsibility. In the West, especially (it seems to me) under our legal system, the ultimate question is "Who's to blame?" And, it seems to always be implied (if not stated outright) that if one person is to blame, then the rest of us aren't. That if I didn't do something, directly, then I am not to blame for it.

Judaism, for the most part, takes a different view. The ultimate question is, "What could I have done to prevent this?" And, even if I'm not "to blame," doesn't the fact that I could have possibly stopped this make me somewhat responsible for it?

This isn't just about gun control — if I contribute, even through my inaction, to any societal problem, then I am partially to blame, or at least partially responsible for, that problem, and for its results. If I don't help the poor to get out of their poverty, and that poverty leads to crimes, then I have some responsibility for those crimes. If I fight to protect dangerous, unnecessary weapons, and those weapons are used to kill innocents, then I have some responsibility for those deaths. You might claim that that isn't "fair." You might claim that it goes against "personal responsibility."

I might claim that, fair or not, that sense of responsibility will move me to act. Will move me to try to alleviate the problem. Will move me to try to make the world a better place. I'm not sure that "fair" is the only operative category here.

I deeply, profoundly believe in rights. We should thank God for the rights we have, and we should protect them, vigorously.

But, lets not make an idol out of them.

The Exodus Is True

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Thu, 24 Jan 2013 21:40:00 +0000

Somewhat recently, I've begun subscribing to the weekly d'var torah from the Ziegler School - the West Coast Rabbinical School of the Conservative Movement. There is some really wonderful teaching that comes through that list, so if you're interested in a short, thoughtful bit of weekly Torah, send an e-mail to torahsubscription@ajula.edu with "SUBSCRIBE Torah" in the message body.

Anyway, I mention that because of this week's d'var torah. As you know, if you read this blog at all, I don't believe that much of anything in the Torah is literal fact. But, that doesn't mean that it isn't true in a different and, I'd argue, higher sense. This week, Rabbi Ed Feinstein reminds us all of why it's so important to know -- truly, deeply know -- that the Exodus was, and is, true:

We are Witnesses
Torah Reading: Exodus 13:17 - 17:16
Haftarah Reading: Judges 4:4 - 5:31

The Nazis took my uncle Henry at the very beginning of the war. He survived more than five years as a slave. Young and strong, he was a carpenter, and they needed carpenters. At first, they moved him from camp to camp, including a stay at Pleshow, where Schindler's list was born, and finally, Auschwitz. A slave laborer, he helped build the camp. When the Allies advanced, he was taken on the infamous Death March from Poland into Germany. He was liberated by the American army in 1945.

For as long as I can remember, my uncle never spoke about these experiences. We knew that he had been in the camps from the numbers on his arm and from his peculiar personal habits ... the way he slept so still, as if he were still hiding. But he would never reveal to any of us where he'd been, what he'd seen, what he knew.

When their children were grown, my aunt returned to school. She took a course in Jewish literature. Among the books assigned was Elie Wiesel's Night Wiesel's account of his time at Auschwitz. She left the book on the coffee table in the living room, and my uncle picked it up one afternoon and began to read. He knew all the characters and places in the book. He had witnessed every event Wiesel described. Later in the semester, Wiesel came to lecture at the university and my aunt and uncle went to hear him. Following the lecture, they approached Wiesel. They discussed people and places and moments my uncle hadn't recalled in more than 40 years. For nearly two hours, they stood together in the deserted lecture hall. Finally, Wiesel looked into my uncle's eyes and asked him, "Have you told your children?" My uncle sheepishly replied that he had not, he could not. Wiesel admonished him, "You must! If you do not, they will never really believe it happened! Be a witness!"

At a Passover meal, some months later, he sat us down, and for more than three hours, told us his story: The deportation, the brutal separation from his family, the camps, the cruelty, the brutal march through the Polish winter, and finally, the liberation. When at last he finished, we sat in silence for some time. When we gathered the courage, we asked him why he'd waited all these years to share this. He looked at us with an embarrassed expression, "How could you understand? You grew up here, in freedom and safety. You don't know hunger or fear or hate. And why would I want you to know that? I've spent my life protecting you from that nightmare." So why tell us now? "Because Wiesel is right. If you don't hear it from me, you'll never really believe that it happened, you will never believe it was real. It's time for me to be a witness."

Uncle Henry taught me to understand the Exodus. I can imagine a generation of ex slaves caught in his dilemma: How can I describe realities you can't possibly imagine? You know nothing of slavery, of degradation, of fear and hatred. And how much do I want you to know? But if I don't tell you, you'll never believe it was real. If you don't hear it from me, it will remain impersonal, theoretical, abstract history. You must know that these things happened, and that I was there. I tell you this story so that my memories may become your own. You too must become witnesses.

We are instructed: "B'chol dor va'dor In every generation, a person must see him/herself as if he or she were redeemed from Egypt." (Mishna Pesachim 10) This is a radical demand. It isn't enough just to remember or commemorate or celebrate the Exodus from Egypt. We have to be there personally and feel it. We must become witnesses to these events. Collective history must become personal memory, and memory must become testimony. Only as witnesses to the harsh brutality of slavery will we be consumed with the divine demand for justice. And only as witnesses to liberation, will we truly believe that redemption is possible. That moment of liberation will forever keep us from surrendering in the face of the world's severe brokenness.

Evil is real, we have felt its cruelty. And redemption is also real, we have sung its song. When the sea split, our history turned transparent. We perceived God's presence and God's purposes in human history. We are witnesses.

Shabbat Shalom.

Unselfishness

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Fri, 04 Jan 2013 19:49:00 +0000

In this week's Torah portion, God calls to Moses, and begins the process of freeing our people from Egyptian slavery*. When God first talks to Moses, God says, "I have seen the affliction of My people that are in Egypt, and have heard their cry..." (Exodus 3:7)

* It's a really good story. Someone should make a movie out of it, or something.

The great commentator Sforno thinks that the Hebrew word "oni," which is being translated as "affliction" is really a form of the world "aniyei* -- the poor." He then spins it out a bit and imagines that "the poor" refers to the righteous of the generation who have been praying on behalf of the people.

* The Hebrew of the Torah doesn't have vowels, which allows for a lot of word playing, where the commentators can substitute similar words for what seems to be the plain meaning.

It's a bit strange, if you're not used to the way in which Rabbis love to twist and play with the text. But, the point (for now) is that (according to Sforno) God is saying that this is the time to act, because some people have been praying for others.

It offers a tantalizing suggestion. Many have asked why God let us stay enslaved for 400 years? Why did God wait so long to save us? Maybe the reason was that, during that whole time, we were crying out because of our own suffering. That all of our prayers were about asking God to save us. Maybe God refused to act until someone, anyone, starting worrying more about his or her neighbor than him or herself?

Maybe the message is that redemption will come precisely when we stop worrying about our own troubles, as valid as they may be, and start worrying about other people's troubles, instead.

Shabbat Shalom!

The Flood Didn't Flood

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Wed, 02 Jan 2013 18:51:00 +0000

I hate to break it to you, but Noah’s Flood is not a real thing.

I love an article that starts that way. At the risk of being unkind, it really amazes me that we live in a world in which a large number of people believe that the story of The Flood is literally, historically true.

It's easy to believe, at least in theory, the miracles in the Bible. I don't believe them, mind you. At least, not literally. But, they aren't hard to believe, at all, if you believe in a literal, active, omnipotent God. For that kind of God, splitting the Red Sea, making a bush burn without being consumed, or even raising the dead shouldn't be hard at all. There is no inherent reason that those stories have to be false. But, Noah's ark? Noah's Ark seems different.

To believe the full story of Noah, you have to do more than believe that God got angry with all humanity. That God decided to wipe us all out with a flood. That God spoke to a man, and commanded him to build an ark. No, you've got to believe, as well, that a man (perhaps with the help of his family) was able to build an ark which was large enough to hold two (or, according to some parts of the text, 14) of every land animal and bird in the world. And, not just the animals, of course, but also their food (of course, I guess it's possible that God suspended the laws of hunger for the duration, as well). How big do you suppose the ark was, supposedly? Well, the Torah actually tells us that it was about 140 m long, 25 m wide, and 45 m high. I wonder — is it harder to believe that a person, back then, could build such a thing, or that even an ark that large is up to the task of housing a pair (or 7!) of every animal on earth?

I know I'm not going to convince anyone who is not already convinced, but logic screams out that the story of Noah's Ark cannot possibly be literally true. And, by the way, science also screams out that a worldwide, cataclysmic flood also has no basis in scientific history:

A third misconception is that a Black Sea flood could ever be “worldwide.” The idea that it could is inextricably linked to “flood geology,” the fake-science backbone of creationism...

Let me state for the record: many archaeologists and geologists have discovered evidence for many different floods, some of them large, or sudden, or both. But they all have end points, high water marks if you will. They certainly did not cover the entire earth. (Sorry, creationists.)

The end of the article, in almost offhanded way, reveals what the story might really mean:

Yes, the Bible’s flood myth can be successfully linked to documented Sumerian and Babylonian mythology in several respects...But the whole moral lesson of the Bible’s Noah’s Ark story—that God punished humanity for our wicked deeds—has no place these earlier tellings. The Babylonian weather god Enlil tried to flood out mankind because all our noise was keeping him awake.

Lots of ancient people came up with idea of a furious God destroying everything in sight. Our innovation, it seems, was in acknowledging that our own actions might have some relevance here. That we, through our refusal to behave like decent people, might be the sowers of the seeds of our own destruction.

You don't have to think that was literally true to understand that there is still a lesson there which we desperately need to learn. We can't control much, at all. But we sure seem to have the ability to make our world, large and small, uninhabitable.

I just wish that people would stop looking for the damn boat. We've got more important things to do, and to talk about.

Reacting to Tragedy

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Fri, 28 Dec 2012 15:15:00 +0000

It's become a commonplace, almost a cliché, that we have an incredibly short attention span for even the most important stories in our world. But, as hard as it may be to believe, we seem to have almost moved on, as a society, from the tragedy in Newtown, which took place just two weeks ago. The conversation about gun control, and to a lesser degree mental illnesses, rages on (thankfully), but it seems to me that the conversation about the tragedy itself has mostly waned. Maybe that's just because there isn't much left to say — how many times can we shake our heads and say, "there are no words"? Maybe it's because we have a need to protect ourselves, and dwelling on this tragedy is just too hard.

This morning, I read an article by Anthony Pinn, talking about the theological and humanist responses to Newtown. "Humanist" is a word that gets used very differently in different contexts, but here I think he's using it in the basic sense of "human centered." As in, let’s talk about this tragedy not in terms of God and "why God would let this happen," or, "what God can do for us now," but rather talk about the human side — what have we, as a society, done to enable this kind of tragedy? What should we, as human beings, be doing in response? How can we properly mourn, and how can we act to make a better world?

Why? Well, it's a pretty deep article, especially considering how short it is (so, you really should read it). But, in part it's because he believes that attempting to bring God into the conversation actually exposes weaknesses of theology:

At best we might suggest that God “dropped the ball”—failed to do what a loving God is supposed to do. Instead, it seems to me, as we read the stories of the victims we are also reading God’s obituary. By this I mean that such extreme human tragedy makes it impossible to talk about God in any useful way.
Don’t read this statement as a selfish demand for comfort, for an easy life. No, it’s recognition that nothing explains away the destruction of life’s integrity; but instead it highlights the fact that we labor in this world without cosmic aid that can protect us from us. Appeals to free will (as my comments are bound to generate) might not be a limitation God imposes on God’s self. It may simply be a weak way of saying we are in control, or what the late William R. Jones—philosopher of religion—called the “functional ultimacy” of human activity in the world.

I like that phrase, "functional ultimacy of human activity in the world." Whatever you want to believe about God — God could prevent such tragedies, but chooses not to; God can't prevent such tragedies — the fact remains that God doesn't prevent such tragedies. At least within this limited scope, the world behaves as if there isn't a God. We, human beings, are the ultimate actors.

[Those of you who know my own theology know that this doesn’t drive me away from God, but it does drive me away from classical,dualist images of God]

He also believes that theological justifications do nothing to ease the pain of those who are suffering:

I write this not to deny comfort for those who have been directly and indirectly touched by this unspeakable act of violence. Mine is an effort to acknowledge and respect grief without so quickly pushing to find some reason behind such tragedy. This loss of life is really beyond our limited human language. The loss experienced by those families, by those associated with the school, and by the collective American and human family is so intense, so absurd, so real that it calls for our full humanity beyond any talk of God.

That actually matches up, incredible closely, with my own experience. I'm sure that there are people who react differently, but when I've encountered people who have suffered a tragedy, the question of, "Why did God let this happen?" usually comes up. And, they almost invariably find comfort when I use the message of Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik who said (in my hopelessly inadequate summary) that that's the wrong question to ask. But not because, in the popular phrasing, "we can't understand God's plans." No, Soloveitchik says, don't say that God has plans, and that this tragedy was a part of those plans. Because, what that really says is that this tragedy wasn't a tragedy at all — it was good.

Saying, "it was all part of God's plans," pretends that we are children suffering through, say, the pain of surgery. For us, there is only pain. But, our benevolent, omnipotent Parent knows that this temporary pain serves a greater good. And so it is, itself, good. We may think that the surgery is bad; they know better.

No, Soloveitchik says, this pain, and this tragedy, were not good. And, there's no good reason to pretend otherwise. Denying that awful things are awful, and evil things are evil, is not sophisticated, intellectually or morally. It is vapid. It is lost. Our ability to know the difference between good and bad, between good and evil, is the one thing which makes us fundamentally different from other animals (that's the real lesson of the Garden of Eden story). Quashing that knowledge isn't high-minded. It's a flight from reality, and from our own essence.

Pinn and Soloveitchik, a humanist and a devout theist, agree on what the proper question actually is: What do we do now?

Those who struggled to protect, to safeguard, those young lives—and those who lost their lives to the insanity of murder are more important than any appeal to God. We humans alone must remember them, keep the beauty and value of their short lives ever present through our memorials, through our reflexive words, but also through our resolve to determine and then change the patterns of socio-political and economic life that contribute to collective misery. Think gun control as impulse control, and as a reasonable effort to preserve the integrity of life by making it a little more difficult to destroy it.
I’m not taking anything away from those grieving, but rather I am calling for greater attention to the framing of life, to the regulations, and dangers embedded in our social relationships that undergird our loss. How many guns are necessary to prove we live in a democracy? How many must die before we recognize collective life requires constraint, a humility and discipline that our pleas to a special relationship with God often damage.

I've gone in a bit of a circle, here. I started off by talking about how we stopped talking about the tragedy, itself, and only talk now about our longer-term reactions to it. And then, I shared overlapping humanistic and theological responses which, in essence, say that the proper thing to do is to focus on longer-term reactions. Maybe there's a deeper meaning to that, or maybe I'm just having trouble making sense of my thoughts this morning. Maybe, like I said, everyone's still thinking about Newtown, but has nothing left to say, so we are trying to do something productive with our pain. Maybe that’s what I’m trying to do, too.

Sometimes it is in silence that we are best able to eulogize our collective loss, and to mourn our lack of power over the circumstances that lead to such destruction.

Organs

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Wed, 19 Dec 2012 15:08:00 +0000

I hate organ music.

Well, I don't mind it so much at sporting events. But, generally speaking, I'm not really a fan of the sound of an organ. And, when it comes to praying in a synagogue, I'm really not a fan. I feel more or less the same way about it than I do about choirs — besides a simple aesthetic preference (we like what we like, and there's not too much to do about that), I'm a big fan of participatory prayer (in fact, I'd argue that "participatory prayer" is probably a redundancy), and the kind of "High Church" music that is usually being played on an organ (and sung by a choir) is among the least participatory types of prayer that we can find in Judaism. In other words, organs don't generally lend themselves to the type of prayer which I prefer.

A lot of people who don't appreciate organ music and synagogue complain that it reminds them of church. I grew up with an organ being used in synagogue, so it doesn't seem that foreign to me. But, I certainly understand the association, and why it makes some people uncomfortable*. But, that nearly universally accepted association might be ironically erroneous**.

* Not that there's anything wrong with church. It's just that most Jews want synagogue to "feel Jewish," rather than feeling like a church.

** Try saying that 10 times fast…

Benjamin Ivy suggests that, actually, organs are a well-established musical instrument in Judaism. In fact, for a long time churches forbade the use of organs, because it was so strongly associated with Judaism, and Jewish worship!

...musicologist Tina Frühauf, notes that “until the Middle Ages, the organ was not officially permitted in any Christian liturgy inasmuch as instrumental music was associated… with the Jewish services once held in the temple at Jerusalem.”

I'm not saying that this makes me want to start using an organ in synagogue. I still don't like it (personal preference), and I still don't think it invites participatory prayer (rabbinic preference). But, it's a good reminder that almost any time someone says, "that's not Jewish" or some such, what they really mean is, "that doesn't feel like the Judaism with which I'm familiar." There's nothing wrong with having our preferences, or with having those preferences grounded in what we find familiar. But, let's not make the mistake of elevating those preferences to objective fact.

You know, "let's not make the mistake of elevating those preferences to objective fact" might be a rabbinic motto of mine. I sure do wish a lot of other religious people felt similarly. But, I guess that's for another day…

The Miracle of Hope

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Tue, 11 Dec 2012 16:29:00 +0000

[This is a version of the sermon I gave on Friday night]

Last week, Rabbi Richard Birnholz had a column in the Jewish Press. In it, he juxtaposed and compared two ancient, Jewish stories: the Chanukah story and Masada. I had never seen these two stories linked before, but doing so was interesting, and revealing. First, a quick review of the stories. We’ll start with Hanukkah, since it came first.

The full story is actually quite complicated and interesting, but here’s an incredibly simplified version that will suffice for now: our people were being oppressed by the Syrian-Greek empire. Led by King Antiochus, they were imposing a foreign form of religion on our people (which is something that we’ve never appreciated, to say the least). A rebellion started, led by Judah the Maccabee (“the Hammer”). It was, to say the least, a ridiculously audacious act. There was almost no chance of success — what hope was there for a small band of under-armed, untrained Jews against the mighty Imperial Army? But, of course, they were successful — they drove the Greeks out, reclaimed and rededicated the Temple, and established Jewish sovereignty in the land. It was, quite literally in their eyes, a miraculous victory.

Masada is a very different story. This time, it was the Roman empire which was oppressing us. Towards the end of their brutal suppression of our rebellion, a group of fanatics took over the fortress at Masada. It was a impregnable palace built years before by King Herod. Up there, well supplied, they were able to survive three years of siege by the Roman legions. But, it eventually became clear that there was no hope — they were going to fall to the Romans, soon. Death would be the best that they could hope for, probably. More likely, torture, slavery and God knows what else were in store for them. So, they made a desperate decision, and committed mass suicide, rather than be taken by the Romans.

Rabbi Birnholz compared these two stories as a way to talk about how difficult it is to know when to fight, and when not to fight. How, looking in our past, we find examples of both. It’s impossible to say that “Jews always fight back” or “Jews never fight back.” It’s more nuanced, and more complicated, than that. He was talking about it particularly vis-à-vis Israel and its current dilemmas, but it applies more widely, of course.

But, the juxtaposition got me thinking about another valuable insight from this comparison: one is a story about hope, while the other is a story about giving up hope.

Masada is, at the simplest level, the story of a people who had no more hope. I want to make it clear — I’m not judging them for this. I’m not going to stand here, 2000 years later, in the comfort of my own synagogue, and say that they didn’t the wrong thing, or the right thing. That’s a discussion for another time. What I’m saying is that, clearly, this was the act of the people who felt that there was no possibility of any kind of victory, save for this one — the victory of denying the Romans the victory that they wanted.

For many years, Masada was an important symbol in Israel — members of the Army were sworn in there, and declared “Masada shall never fall again.” That sentiment is still alive in Israel, but they’ve become more reluctant to use Masada as a symbol. Again, without judging the actions of those people, there’s been a growing discomfort with using this terrible, desperate situation as a symbol. Is this what we want to evoke and remember at some of our most powerful, sacred moments?

Compare that to the story of Chanukah. This is a story of a people who had every reason not to hope. But, in spite of that, they never lost faith, and they never stopped hoping. The war itself was an act of audacious hope. There really was no way anyone could have expected them to win. By all rights, it should have been a minor rebellion, completely unnoticed by the larger empire, and lost to history. But, it wasn’t. It was one of the most improbable victories you’ll ever read about.

Chanukah is about a lot of things — the balance between religious fundamentalism and acculturation, for example. But, at its core, Chanukah is about hope in the face of hopelessness. That might be one of the great lessons in all Judaism: the fundamental, absolute necessity for hope, no matter what. The constant, ever-present possibility of miracles, so long as we believe that they might still happen.

We’ll never know what would have happened to those poor souls on top of Masada if they had decided to surrender, or fight back. We do, however, have a pretty good idea of what would have happened if the Hasmoneans hadn’t fought back. There would have been no victory, no Temple restored. It could have been the end of the Jewish people, and even if we had survived, we certainly would not have our annual celebration of their great victory and so, tragically, there would be no excuse to eat fried latkes and doughnuts all week! The Maccabean victory relied on quite a few factors, but it began with hope. Without hope, nothing is possible.

I may have finally come to realize the true meaning of a famous rabbinic aphorism. Rabbi Nahman of Bratzlov once said, “All the world is a very narrow bridge. The main thing is not to be afraid.” There are always good and valid reasons to be afraid. To lose hope. We live in a world which, sometimes seemingly constantly, gives us ample reason to fear and doubt. We can pick up the papers and read about war, famine, looming financial crises, potential environmental catastrophes, superbugs and drug-resistant diseases, and more. We can look around our own lives and see people who have lost loved ones, lost their livelihoods, lost everything. We can look anywhere we want to and, without a bit of melodrama or paranoia, find lots of reasons to be afraid, to be absolutely, unequivocally sure, that there is no hope.

But, there’s one thing I can tell you for sure. If you let that fear overtake you, then there is no hope. You’ve already lost. The only way to live is to acknowledge the chasm — acknowledge the very real pitfalls and the dangers — and then take a step forward, anyway. We don’t pretend that the dangers aren’t there; we just choose to move ahead, in spite of them. Miraculously, we rarely fall.

Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch, the godfather of what we now call Modern Orthodox Judaism, noticed that the first born Jew, Yitzhak, was named after laughter. His parents, Abraham and Sarah, had grown so old that when God tells Sarah she’s going to have a baby, she laughs. It’s an utterly ridiculous idea, at her age (and, frankly, she’s more concerned with Abraham’s age than hers!). So, when she eventually has a baby, she names him after that laughter. That’s because, Hirsch teaches, from our first moments, our people’s history has been so ridiculous as to be laughable. Our patriarch and matriarch didn’t have a child until they had reached a ridiculous high age. The idea that we could survive 400 years of slavery and 40 years of wandering the desert, conquer a hostile land, establish a kingdom — it’s laughable. Survive 2000 years of exile and dispersion — and not just survive, but thrive? Laughable. Revive a dead language? Drain the swamps, make the desert bloom and create a modern state out of almost nothing? Survive the death camps and outlive Hitler? Become one of the great military powers of the world at the same time that those who remain outside of Israel become a thriving, vibrant people? Ridiculous, and utterly hopeless.

That’s who we are — we are the people who regularly do that which is so impossible as to be laughable. We are the people who never lose hope, no matter what.

The Maharal of Prague has a beautiful teaching about Chanukah. Why, he asks, do we talk about an eight day miracle? When the Hasmoneans entered the temple, they found enough oil for one day, but it lasted eight. We all know the story. But, that’s only a seven-day miracle — that first day wasn’t a miracle, at all. It was just lighting a light. That’s true, the Maharal says. But, before we could get to that seven-day miracle, we needed another miracle, first. You see, there was no reason to think that lighting the light was a good idea. They knew there was only enough oil for one day. Lighting the menorah and letting it go out, would have been a major religious violation. Logic would have dictated that they simply wait another week, until there was sufficient oil.

But, they were unwilling to wait. They were unwilling to delay rekindling the menorah, and their sense of holiness, for one more moment. And, despite having no reason to think that it would work out well, they trusted that it would. They acted on hope, even when the world gave them little reason for it. On days two through seven of Chanukah, we celebrate the miracle of the burning. But, on the first day, we celebrate the miracle of the lighting.

On the first day, we celebrate the miracle of hope.

These Lights Are Holy — And Nothing Else

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Tue, 11 Dec 2012 13:56:00 +0000

Tonight is the 4th night of Chanukah. When we light our candles tonight, will say the two blessings, and then all recite a short paragraph, "HaNeirot Hallelu." it reads:

We light these lights for the miracles and the wonders, for the redemption and the battles that you made for our forefathers, in those days at this season, through your holy priests. During all eight days of Chanukah, these lights are holy, and we are not permitted to make ordinary use of them, but only to look at them; In order to express thanks and praise to Your great Name for your miracles, Your wonders, and your salvations.

It's kind of nice to have this little piece which describes the reasons for the ritual we just did — sometimes I wish that every ritual came with an explanation! But, there's one sentence in here which I love more than the rest*. "These lights are holy, and we are not permitted to make ordinary use of them."

* I can't remember for sure, but I'm fairly certain that this insight came from either Dr. Larry Hoffman or Dr. Joel Hoffman. Most of my good ideas are pilfered from one of them, anyway…

The lights of the Chanukah menorah have one purpose, and one purpose only. They are there to "proclaim the miracle." They are there to advertise God's greatness, and our gratitude for it. That's it – that's their complete and sole purpose in life.

By the way – that's the real reason for the shamash (the helper candle). It's not there, primarily, too light the other candles (not too long ago, all menorahs were oil lamps; it would be pretty hard to use one oil lamp to light the rest, the way we use a candle, now!). Is there to provide light for use. You see, it's forbidden to use the Chanukah lights for any practical purpose. But, it's always possible that we'll accidentally use it — that, for example, we'll read a book nearby, and inadvertently use the menorah as a source of light. So, we light one extra light so that we can claim (who doesn't love a legal fiction?) that we weren't using the holy lights, rather this extra, ordinary light, instead.

Or, another to frame that is that the shamash is there to guarantee (and I'd add, to remind us) that the Chanukah lights cannot serve any purpose, other than their primary one – holiness.

I love this simple idea that we have something in our homes, even temporarily, which serves no practical purpose. It is there only, and adamantly only, to remind us of holiness. To proclaim God's presence. To remind us to, in Heschel's words*, stand still and consider.

* both Hoffmans and Heschel in one blog post! I think I get bonus points for that! Let's see if I can squeeze Kushner and/or Green in here, just to round things out…

I think it's an incredibly important, and powerful, idea. All of us should have something in life which is there to remind us of that which is greater than ourselves. Of that which is holy. If you aren't a religious person, then it doesn't have to be a classically religious symbol, like a menorah. But, find something in the world which you can set aside as a touchstone of holiness. Something which serves no purpose other than to remind you that there is holiness in the world. That holiness is always present, even if we sometimes forget to look for it.

These lights are holy. They are nothing else. Thank God!

Can There Even Be A Perfect God?

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Tue, 27 Nov 2012 19:18:00 +0000

I've talked before (heck, I talk a lot) about how I don't believe in the "traditional," Biblical image of God. Yoram Hozony, has written an article taking on that image of God in a different way.

First of all, what most people think of as the "Biblical God" isn't:

The second problem is that while this “theist” view of God is supposed to be a description of the God of the Bible, it’s hard to find any evidence that the prophets and scholars who wrote the Hebrew Bible (or “Old Testament”) thought of God in this way at all. The God of Hebrew Scripture is not depicted as immutable, but repeatedly changes his mind about things (for example, he regrets having made man). He is not all-knowing, since he’s repeatedly surprised by things (like the Israelites abandoning him for a statue of a cow). He is not perfectly powerful either, in that he famously cannot control Israel and get its people to do what he wants. And so on.

And, philosophically speaking, the very idea of a perfect God might be borderline nonsensical:

What would we say if some philosopher told us that a perfect bottle would be one that can contain a perfectly great amount of liquid, while being perfectly easy to pour from at the same time? Or that a perfect horse would bear an infinitely heavy rider, while at the same time being able to run with perfectly great speed? I should think we’d say he’s made a fundamental mistake here: You can’t perfect something by maximizing all its constituent principles simultaneously. All this will get you is contradictions and absurdities. This is not less true of God than it is of anything else.

The whole idea of there being some "being" who is "up there" hasn't really made sense to me for a long time. I agree with Hozony who seems to be saying that it's well past time for us to be thinking about God differently. As he says, would it be so bad to talk about a God who actually make sense?

No Slippery Slope For Same Sex Marriage

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Tue, 20 Nov 2012 14:16:00 +0000

The Catholic Church has again weighed in against same-sex marriage using the old slippery slope argument:

If not, why not contemplate also freely chosen polygamy and, of course, not to discriminate, polyandry?

Rather than take the time to explain why this is such a ridiculous line of argument, I'll just defer to Jay Michelson:

Same-sex marriage is meaningfully different from the other examples always mentioned:

we do not as yet have any evidence of millions of people whose sole path to emotional and physical intimacy is polyamory. We do have that data for gays and lesbians. ...There may be some polyamorists who feel the same way, but we haven’t heard from them as we have from millions of gays and lesbians who have pleaded for equality in public squares, courts, and churches. To analogize the visible to the invisible, the real to the unreal, is absurd—and thus offensive.

Slippery slopes aren't, usually, all that slippery:

Societies often permit one thing while prohibiting another similar thing. Driving 55 is legal—75 or even 85 on one Texas highway—but driving 95 is not. There are differences in degree, not in kind; and yet, societies sit on the slippery slope all the time, and don’t slip.

And, let's also remember that this is simply not about religious freedom, because we're talking about civil marriage, not religious marriage:

No one is telling the Church what to do within its magisterium (misleading rhetoric about “religious freedom” notwithstanding). I would appreciate it if it would stop telling New York what to do with ours.

Programming note: I'm going to be a guest on the "Sunday Simcha" radio show this Sunday at 12:15 to talk about the Tampa Rabbinical Associations statement in support of LGBT rights. 88.5 FM in Tampa; I don't think they stream on the Internet, but it will be archived later at http://www.wmnf.org/programs/sunday-simcha.