Shabbat Shirah: Sing a New Song (In Memory of David Bowie)

In my youth, I was not a David Bowie fan. I preferred grunge to glam.  My tastes during the ‘70s inclined toward California singer-songwriters (Jackson Browne, Warren Zevon, Bonnie Raitt), grizzled bluesmen (Howlin’ Wolf and Muddy Waters), straight-up rockers (Neil Young, Bruce Springsteen, The Who), and of course, always, Bob Dylan.   I looked askance at prog rock and avant garde and the disco scene, all of which influenced—and were influenced by—David Bowie.

Yet. . . my high school rock band, Thunderbolt, loved playing Bowie’s hard-rocking classic, “Rebel Rebel,” with its three easy chords, and as a Dylan fanatic, I recognized that like my idol, Bowie was a master of shifting personas. Although none of his famous characters—from Ziggy Stardust to Aladdin Sane to the Thin White Duke—  held much appeal for me, I respected Bowie’s ability to create and inhabit them gracefully.  In doing so, he reminded me of Dylan’s wisdom: “He not busy being born is busy dying.”  Or, as Bowie himself put it, imploringly: Turn and face the strange changes.  Much later I learned the Jewish version of this manifesto, in which, upon waking, one recites a blessing thanking the Creator for restoring our souls daily, and thus granting us the opportunity to remake ourselves anew each day. 

Current brain research—and my own anecdotal experience—indicates that most of our musical preferences are determined in our adolescence (http://www.nytimes.com/2011/05/24/opinion/24hajdu.html).  It is, therefore, much to my surprise that as I’ve grown older, I’ve found myself drawn to some of the glam and art rock bands that I scorned in my youth: the Talking Heads, Queen, Roxie Music.  

And. . . David Bowie, whose death last week grieved me more deeply than I would have expected.  I think I’ve learned to hear themes in their music that I missed the first time around: questioning and experimentation and, above all, courage.  Looking back, I deeply admire their daring.  Indeed, reflecting on my own past, I now suspect that much of the antipathy I bore toward this music as a teen was born out of my own not-so-subtle anti-gay prejudice.  As a straight suburban high school kid in the ‘70s, I inherited—and perpetuated—the prevailing bigotries of the time.  Only with the benefit of hindsight have I come to see these artists as the revolutionaries that they were.  David Bowie’s sexual orientation was complicated, and he spent most of his life in heterosexual marriages—but he was, nonetheless, the first major rock artist to publicly describe himself as gay.  That act—which I, sadly, undoubtedly mocked in my adolescence—now strikes me as truly heroic.

This week, in the aftermath of his death, I have read countless testimonies from LGBT adults for whom David Bowie was, literally, a life saver—a beacon of hope and pride in an otherwise brutally anti-gay time.  But his influence as a kind of exemplar for all sorts of "misfits" extended far beyond the LGBT community.  A few days ago, I came across a tribute to Bowie on a frum website, in which a born-secular, turned-Hasidic woman wrote about how Bowie’s “weirdness” inspired her to come out—as an ultra-Orthodox Jew!  Our sacred tradition teaches us to love the Other as ourselves, since we have, ourselves, been Other in the land of Egypt—and beyond.   David Bowie taught that, too, with his array of personas.  With his life. 

This week is Shabbat Shirah, the Sabbath of Song, in which our Torah portion, Beshallach, includes the Song at the Red Sea.  It is, therefore, a fitting season to remind ourselves of the psalmist’s words offered for daily recitation in our morning liturgy: Shiru l’Adonai shir chadash—Sing a new song unto the Holy One!  God asks us to constantly renew ourselves and our communities.  David Bowie did just that.  May his memory be for a blessing.

Short Breath and Hard Labor (Portion Va'era)

Moses spoke (of liberation) to the children of Israel, but they did not hear/hearken to Moses because of their shortness of breath and because of their hard labor.

                                                                        -Exodus 6:9

What does it mean that the Israelites failed to respond to Moses’ message of deliverance on account of “shortness of breath and hard labor”?

The great medieval commentator, Rashi, suggests that not being able to “hear” means despairing of ever being redeemed.  The people have been so oppressed for so long, they have abandoned all hope for the future.  Moses tries to rouse and inspire them by speaking of freedom, but his words cannot break through their desolation. 

As Rabbi Yael Shy notes, this is an apt description of depression and despair.  She writes: “Despair is different from sadness, fear, or even suffering.  One can experience any of those difficult emotions or states of being and still have space in the mind and heart for the possibility of the unknown future—of things changing.  In despair, one believes that there is only one answer you need, and it is no.  Nothing will change.  There is no hope and no possibility.

Most of us have been in this dark place at some point in our lives.  We get so exhausted, so worn down, so battered by painful circumstances that we lose the point of even trying to strive for something better.   As Rabbi Harold Kushner reminds us, burnout is related less to how much work have to do, and more with the sense that our work can make a real difference in the world.  When we believe our actions matter, we can bear enormous burdens.  But when our actions feel meaningless, even small tasks become unbearable.

How, then, can we emerge out of this place of suffocating narrowness?  Nachmanides argues that the answer lies in learning, very gradually, to practice patience and trust.  We might begin by finding one small thing for which we are grateful, even in the most difficult of circumstances, or by imagining a single, ordinary action that we have taken that made the world a little better, despite the disproportionate weight of suffering and injustice.

As we begin a new calendar year, there is much around us that can—and should—break our hearts: violence, hatred, inequality, catastrophic environmental damage.  Our challenge is to refuse to let our anger and grief drive us to the kind of shortness of breath—and spirit—that paralyzed our Israelite ancestors and rendered them incapable of hearkening to God’s (and Moses’) call for liberation.  Let us trust that the world can be made better—and strive to do just that, despite the sometimes overwhelming evidence to the contrary.    As Talmud reminds us: we are not obligated to complete the work—but neither are we free to desist from it.

Religion and Politics (Idaho Statesman article January 3, 2015)

Once when Napoleon conquered a city, he decided to reward his three bravest soldiers. He called them into his tent and asked each of them what they desired.

The first asked for a mountain of gold. The second requested that the Emperor free his city. The third asked for a piece of salted herring.

After Napoleon left, the first two soldiers turned and stared at the third in shock.

“At least,” he said, “I may get a herring.”

Sometimes, the story goes, it best to approach life with limited expectations. Part of me wants to keep that maxim in mind as we approach the opening of the 2016 session of the Idaho Legislature — for rumors of impending legislation do not bode well for those concerned with religious freedom and social justice.

In the past, our Legislature has tended to make a mockery — or worse — of religion, wielding it as a club against our state’s most vulnerable citizens. Despite the Hebrew Bible’s repeated injunctions to care for the hungry and seek justice for the oppressed, here in Idaho, lawmakers more frequently use religion as a shield for bigotry, greed, homophobia and misogyny.

Why, then, should we expect anything new this year? I anticipate that once again, many in the House and Senate will equivocate on adding the words “sexual orientation” and “gender identity” to Idaho’s Human Rights Act — and some of them will defend their anti-gay fear and prejudice under the guise of “religious freedom.”

Any legislation that compromises full equality on such false pretense should be roundly rejected.

Sadly, those who purport to speak for religion are also likely to be leading attacks on Planned Parenthood, clamoring against welcoming refugees, and doing nothing about the epidemic of gun violence that is sickening the soul of our nation. Every legitimate faith teaches us to love our neighbors — yet the keepers of the faith so frequently seek to control women’s bodies and fail to recognize the Divine Image in the presence of those who do not look or talk like themselves. And despite the horrific spree of shooting after shooting, their response to guns is: pray for the victims and pass the ammunition.

A Jewish teaching implores us: Pray as if everything depended on God, act as if everything depended on you. To which a friend and member of my community reminded me: “People need to be clear about what prayer does and doesn’t do. Prayer changes us, establishes a relationship, grounds us, so that we can more thoughtfully and more courageously act. It doesn’t absolve us somehow from acting. Imagine if you were in a relationship with someone who only said nice things, but acted as if they didn’t really care about what you wanted? Lip service is not love, and is not my religion. If you believe in love, and hunger for peace, then act.”

Like Napoleon’s soldier, I might grieve less if I lowered my expectations and made my peace with religion bolstering oppression and inaction. But in the end, I refuse to let go of my hope for a better, more inclusive and peaceful future — even (or especially) during the Idaho legislative season. The God of the Torah and of living Jewish tradition will not allow me to settle for the injustice of the status quo. Low expectations may yield little rewards, but working towards miracles changes the world.

Read more here: http://www.idahostatesman.com/living/religion/article52364410.html#storylink=cpy

Light One Candle (Portion Miketz)

Our Torah portion, Miketz is almost always read during the week of Chanukah. Is this a coincidence of the calendar or is there something to learn from this juxtaposition? Rabbi Laura Geller notes that as Miketz begins, Joseph has spent two years in an Egyptian prison, which is much like the pit he was thrown into by his brothers years ago before they sold him into slavery.

But shortly into the portion, things take a turn for the better.  When Pharaoh needs an interpreter for his dreams, Joseph is remembered suddenly and summoned from the darkness. Not only does Joseph interpret the dream as a prediction, but also he tells Pharaoh what to do in response. Pharaoh immediately recognizes the wisdom  of this former Hebrew slave and appoints Joseph as the second most powerful ruler in Egypt.

What does the Joseph narrative teach us about Chanukah? Like our portion, Chanukah moves from sadness to joy, from darkness to light, from bondage to deliverance.  Later in the story, when Joseph reveals himself to his brothers, he says: “It was not you who sent me here; it was God.” All along, despite the darkness of exile, Joseph understood he was serving God. Chanukah comes at the darkest season of the year, and we make the light, one candle at a time.

Rabbi David Hartman asked why Chanukah is celebrated for eight days rather than seven. Since there was enough oil for one day, the first day is no miracle. The miracle is that it burned for the seven remaining days. Therefore Chanukah should be a seven-day holiday. But it is eight days. So what is the miracle? The miracle is that our ancestors were willing to light the oil in the first place, even when they couldn’t be sure that they had enough oil, enough strength, to complete the rededication of the Temple. The miracle was that they lit that first candle. They, like Joseph, made light in the face of darkness, confident that the darkness would eventually end.

In many ways, the past few weeks have been a dark time.  We have witnessed brutal violence, met with too little political resolve to make things better.  Yet our calling, as Jews, is to maintain hope, and to work to bring light into the world precisely when it is darkest.  As the poet Theodore Roethke wrote, “In a dark time, the eye begins to see.”  May Chanukah’s lights inspire us to bring illumination, peace, and justice to our community and our nation.

Light in the Darkness (Chanukah)

It is better to light a candle than to curse the darkness.

Talmud teaches that when the sun set at the end of the world’s first day, Adam and Eve wept with terror, fearing that it might never rise again.  All that night, they prayed fervently for the light to return, and when morning came, they sang songs of thanksgiving and praise.

We know, on a literal level, that every night will be followed by a new dawn.   But when we find ourselves in dark places emotionally and spiritually, we, too, may very well feel as if we will never again experience light and joy.  How do we find illumination when our life journeys take us into the dark night of the soul?

We can learn from the festival of Chanukah, which always falls around the new moon closest to the winter solstice—which is to say, the darkest days of the darkest month of the year.  Throughout the holiday, we kindle candles—not huge bonfires but small sparks of light, adding a little more illumination each passing night.  Thus we begin to dispel the darkness, bit by bit.

Commenting on this practice, the Hasidic teacher Sfas Emes notes that our challenge is ultimately not just to light candles but to be candles, sharing our inner light with those around us.  One of the great miracles in this world is the ability of a little light to dispel deep darkness.  One small candle can illuminate an entire room.  Every day, legions of ordinary men and women perform countless unnoticed acts of valor.  Violence and destruction make the headlines, but quiet goodness sustains the world.

Over the festival’s eight nights, we burn thirty six Chanukah lights (1+2+3+4+5+6+7+8=36).  Yes, I know those little blue boxes actually contain forty-four candles, but eight of them serve as the nightly shamash, the candle used to kindle the others, which is really just a glorified match rather than a symbol of the holiday itself.  Rabbi Nosson Slifkin, author of Seasons of Life, teaches that each Chanukah light represents one of the lamed-vovniks, the legendary thirty six hidden righteous ones of every generation who preserve the world with their light.  Again: light is found in unexpected places, and a little goes a very long way.

This week, as Chanukah approaches, try asking yourself: Where do I find light when my world feels dark?  And what can I do to kindle light—and blessing and hope—for others?

Immigrants (Portion Vayishlach)

Jacob arrived safely in the city of Shechem. . .

In a dangerous world, we all long for shelter and safety—just as Jacob does in this week’s portion, Vayishlach.  And in truth, most of us in CABI are blessed with secure homes and more than enough food and resources to live well.  During this week of Thanksgiving, we should not forget that we are incredibly lucky, as Jews, to live where and when we do—in the United States of America in the twenty-first century.  We enjoy privileges and prosperity that our ancestors could hardly have even imagined.

In my favorite English reading from our Reform siddur, Mishkan Tefillah, we ask God: “Teach us to give thanks for what we have by sharing with those in need.”  In this season, we think especially of the hungry and homeless, and of the refugees who come to this land in search of freedom and safety, just like our own forefathers and mothers.

In that spirit, I’d like to share a poem written by Alvin Greenberg—may his memory be for a blessing—a member of our Jewish community who died just a couple of months ago.  It reminds us that in the end, we are all sojourners here, with much reason to be grateful:

immigrants

birds first.  and certain animals.  desert nomads.

sailors, peddlers, concert pianists, mailmen.

itinerant preachers, doctors, gamblers, lawyers,

even the sun, whose constant comings and goings

govern our lives, down to the finest detail,

telling us when to wake, what to wear and eat.

yes, just as your frightened congressman fears,

the nation’s in the hands of the immigrants,

and not just the nation, the world: everything

moves: and aboard this cosmic steamer, earth,

most of us huddle in steerage, a bundle or two

of possessions at our feet, stomachs queasy.

children crying: only knowing where we’ve been.