Prayer and Poetry

Rabbis often like to debate--passionately--things that most Jews tend not to notice. Recently, in my rabbinic listserve/online discussion group, we visited such a subject: the wording of the gevurot prayer. This blessing, the second in the part of the service known as the Amidah, praises God's power. In its traditional wording, God is m'chayeh meitim--one who revives the dead. This is generally taken as a reference to a classical belief that when the messiah arrives, God will, literally, resurrect our bodies and re-unite them with our souls. Not surprisingly, the Reform movement early on rejected this theology as irrational and in their version of the gevurot, substituted the phrase m'chayeh ha-kol--God gives life to everything.

Yet in the new Reform siddur, Mishkan Tefillah, there is a kind of return to the tradition, for it offers both the Reform and the traditional wording as alternatives--m'chayeh meitim and m'chayeh ha-kol. Each rabbi and congregation chooses which version they wish to follow.

In our on-line debate, some of those who prefer the Reform wording asked: how can any progressive Jew espouse bodily resurrection? Well, I responded by noting that I do not believe in bodily resurrection. When it comes to the whole question of an after-life of any kind, I am an agnostic. Nonetheless, I prefer the traditional version. Why? Because for me, it offers a powerful metaphor. In this sense, God resurrects the dead all the time: when trees are reborn in spring, when animals emerge from winter's hibernation, and, more importantly, when we find renewed life and hope after crisis and despair. Talmud itself recognizes the metaphorical use of the phrase, adding that one should praise God as m'chayeh meitim--the one who resurrects the dead--upon encountering a friend or family member that one has not seen in many months.

This debate points to a larger point for me, which is that all of our prayer is metaphor. Truth be told, if I took the siddur literally, this passage about bodily resurrection would be the least of my problems. What about God as King? Or as Shepherd? Or any of the other myriad imagery we use to describe the Divine. On a literal level, as prose, I think the siddur is about 98% nonsense. But as poetry, it is beautiful, life-changing, and visionary. And I believe that this is how the brilliant Rabbis who wrote it intended for us to read it.

The problem is that we live in a world where poetry is a fringe activity. We dabble in it in high school--where we mostly learn to dislike it, and to not understand it. This is tragic, for it leaves us with a literalist view of life that is deadly for religion (and, for that matter, literature and art) Until we learn to read poetically--metaphorically--prayer is going to be difficult at best and, at worst, nonsensical. We have our work cut out for us.

Homeward bound

I start heading back to Boise after a great week at camp. The theme for hte week was learning about God--but we did more: we experienced God, in all sorts of daily activities and in the beauty of the singing and the celebrating and the natural environment.

Here's a link for some pics. Enjoy.

http://picasaweb.google.com/ravdbf/20090804Kalsman09?authkey=Gv1sRgCIHPzd-bk6riuQE#

A Fast Day at Camp

I'm back in the States, working on the staff at Union for Reform Judaism's Camp Kalsman. This is a good thing: if one can't be in Jerusalem, then, Jewishly-speaking, camp is the next best thing. We even have the Jerusalem heat with us here in northern Washington, which is an unusual thing.

But the heat is appropriate today, for it is Tisha B'Av, the saddest day on the Jewish calendar. On this date, the generation that left Egypt was condemned to wander forty years in the wilderness, the first and second Temples were destroyed by fire, the Bar Kochba rebellion failed, and the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising was defeated.

Tisha B'Av is problematic for liberal Jews, because the basic understanding of its theology is that all of these catastrophes were, in fact, divine punishment for our sins. Those of us who believe that history does not function in such a manner must find new ways to interpret and observe the day. Indeed, many contemporary sages have suggested that in light of the fact that Jerusalem is restored and thriving, and most of us do not wish to actually rebuild the Temple and begin offering sacrifices again, we should fast for only half the day. There is some traditional precedent for this, too, as some of our sources argue that the messiah will be born on Tisha B'Av, thereby providing a strand of joy amidst the sorrow.

Still, I'm fasting for the whole day here at camp, mostly in solidarity with the wider Jewish community.

Tonight I'll be going on a camp out with the fifth grade girls, which will be a great way to end this somber day. Indeed, Tisha B'Av is the end of three weeks of solemnity, which began with the 17th of Tammuz. I marked that date in Jerusalem, studying at Hartman. Now, back in America, I am getting ready to move from mourning to comfort, which is the theme of the next seven weeks, which take us from Tisha B'Av to the renewal of Rosh Hashanah.

So I am wishing an easy fast to all who are observing the day, and comfort and renewal in the days and weeks to come.

Homeward Bound

It's now almost 11pm and we are waiting for our flight to NYC, which will board in another hour or so. We have a long night ahead of us.

I have had an extraordinary sabbatical: snow-shoeing in Alaska, touring Andalusia, trekking in the Himalayas and learning in Jerusalem. And it has been a beautiful blessing to have so much time with my Salt Lake City family!

Shortly after arriving home, I'm off to Seattle to paddle with my colleague, Rabbi David Fine, and then for a week as camp rabbi at the Reform movement's regional Camp Kalsman. Back to work on August 14.

May it be a week of safe travels and blessings for us all.

We enjoyed our last Friday in Jerusalem, doing a great deal of walking to catch some things we'd missed over the past couple months. We began with the Ramparts Walk, a hike atop the walls of the Old City. The views were extraordinary, and it was an amazing feeling to be strolling atop these five hundred year old fortifications.

We descended at the Zion Gate, ate lunch in the Jewish Quarter, and then toured the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. It is a huge Byzantine structure, dark and solemn, with magnificent mosaics. The space is divided between the Roman Catholics, Copts, Russian and Greek Orthodox, who have lived in uneasy harmony here for centuries (nice to see the Christians are as divided as we are!) I have always loved spending time in churches. The smell of the incense, the towering architecture, the deep silences offer a kind of meditative experience that is quite different from our Jewish spirituality and, for me, complementary.

Last but not least, we walked down the Via Dolorosa, following the stations of the cross, then out the Lion's gate to East Jerusalem, where we caught at cab to the top of the Mount of Olives--the world's most prestigious Jewish cemetery. Our goal was to find a camel ride for Rachel and Jonah--and we succeeded, to the joy of everyone!

I'm attaching a link below for pictures--a great slice of Jerusalem life:.

http://picasaweb.google.com/ravdbf/20090717FriInJerusalem?feat=directlink

Shabbat shalom to all

Fond Farewells

We concluded two extraordinary weeks at Hartman today, and I will miss the learning a great deal. It has been such a pleasure to study with terrific teachers and colleagues.

The best part, for me, was the learning I did with my two hevruta study partners. Yitz Miller is a rabbi in Santa Cruz, CA and Pat Fisher is a retired professor from Chapel Hill, NC (where her husband was the Hillel rabbi.) From the start, the three of us developed a wonderful connection to one another; we shared our lives as much as the texts themselves. Indeed, this is what Torah study is all about, for me, when it is at its best: seeing our lives through the mirror of our traditional texts, and finding guidance in the meeting of the traditional narratives and our personal stories. You can see Pat and Yitz and me in the Hartman beit midrash (study hall) above.

We're getting ready to head out on Sunday night, but still have one last Shabbat to savour here. I know it will be a sweet experience.

Shabbat and the Politics of Hope

Last night, Donniel Hartman delivered a lecture on the politics of hope in Israel —or as he put it, in Jewish terms, the Israeli politics of teshuvah. He offered some specifics, some concrete actions, that we can take to restore hope to our difficult discussions around peace and democracy in the Jewish state. More importantly, though, he spoke to the big picture, reminding us, in his words, that “is” should not blind us to the power of “ought.” In other words, realism about the current state of affairs must not make us so cynical that we lose a vision for the future.

It is, I think, very easy for us to use the bad behavior of others to justify our own inaction, pessimism, and despair. It is true: at the moment, we have a dearth of negotiating partners on the Palestinian side. The Arabs never miss an opportunity to miss an opportunity. Moderates cower, terrorist zealots rule the day. As Yeats put it, the best lack all conviction while the worst are filled with passionate conviction. Given this reality, it is no wonder that many Israelis—and diaspora Jews—have essentially abandoned the possibility of peace. But when we give up, we essentially give our enemies the power to corrupt our own souls. Without hope, without vision, we lose our raison d’etre as a state. We should be preparing for peace—and working for it—even (or especially) when we do not see it on the near horizon. This is at the core of what it is to be a Jew—to define ourselves by hope rather than to let others define us.

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This morning, we were privileged to hear from Professor Avishai Braverman, a Labor party member of the Knesset. Dr. Braverman has a PhD in economics from Stanford, and a long, distinguished career, including a term as president of Ben Gurion University in Be’er Sheva and chief economic for the World Bank. He is the rare Israeli politician who exemplifies courage, wisdom and vision.

He focused on what he sees as the four major strategic issues facing Israel today, beginning with the principle of “two states for two peoples.” He suggested that the call for a one state solution—which would be the end of the Jewish nation—grows louder every day we fail to divide the land between us and the Palestinians. It is, in other words, in our self-interest to act quickly and boldly, even though the opposition remains recalcitrant.

Turning to the status of Israel’s Arab citizens, who live in the state itself rather than in the territories, he reiterated the urgency of action. For sixty years, Israeli Arabs have not been treated as equal citizens. The reasons for this are complicated, and can even be justified—but the discrimination remains both immoral and, from a policy perspective, unwise. Braverman suggested that we put a major infusion of money into education and social welfare for Israeli Arabs, who could potentially become an important bridge to peace. As the current government’s Minister of Minority Affairs, Braverman has the ability to make a significant difference here. He noted: “When I was president of Ben Gurion University, we launched a massive effort to educate the Bedouin population, which is growing larger and poorer. If we have learned anything, it is that the key to integrating the community lies with educating girls and women, and raising family income. He is also pushing to bring Israeli Arabs and Bedouins into high-ranking government and corporate positions.”

On the economic front, Braverman spoke against corruption and bureaucracy, and issued a clarion call for justice. He earned a loud round of applause from his audience when he declared, “We must denounce the great lie of economic history—the notion that cutting taxes for the super-rich will lift the middle class and the poor. This has never happened and it never will.” He called for political reform, proclaiming that good people do not want to go into politics in this nation because the government is so frequently a morass of corrupt bureaucrats. And he is working to raise the wages of teachers, recognizing that Israel’s future rests on the success of its beleaguered educational system.

Last but not least, MK Braverman called for a more pluralistic vision of Judaism, which speaks to the spiritual longing of young Israelis—who all too often go to India and Nepal in search of enlightenment rather than finding it at home.

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Finally, the Hartman Institute’s founder, Rabbi David Hartman, spoke to our theme for the session in his shiur, “Shabbat as Response to Crisis.” In his trademark wise, heimish, and blunt manner, he reminded us that one way to deal with crisis is to create and enter an alternative reality. This is how Hartman defines Shabbat: a weekly leap into a different world, which we then try to bring back with us into our regular routine.

Rabbi Hartman pointed to the two understandings of Shabbat, both from Torah, and both mentioned in the Friday night Kiddush. Shabbat is zicharon l’ma’aseh b’reishit—a reminder of God’s creation—and zecher y’tziat mitzrayim—a remembrance of the Exodus from Egypt. When we lift ourselves into the alternative reality of Shabbat, we take both of these understandings into account.

When we proclaim “zicharon l’ma’aseh b’reishit” we celebrate God’s creation, the gift of life. For six days, we use transform the raw materials of nature; on Shabbat, we celebrate the world as it is. The actions which are traditionally forbidden on Shabbat--m’lachah—are not about work, but using our human will to alter nature. Once a week, we shift our reality and surrender control.

And when we focus on zecher y’tziat mitzrayim, we remind ourselves that we must not treat human beings as avadim, as slaves. The Shabbat reality insists that we refrain from seeing human beings as instruments, which is to dehumanize them.

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Rabbi Hartman finished with an important charge, which I have been thinking about a great deal as this two week seminar draws to an end. The question, of course, is: how do we take the heightened reality we enter on Shabbat—or during this sacred study time—and bring it with us into our daily lives? This is a real challenge. Moments of enlightenment are not so difficult to achieve; it is much harder and far less romantic to keep them alive day after day. Rabbi Hartman said: the alternative that lifts us out of crisis cannot be an escape. It must translate into the structure of the every day. We must bring kodesh—the holy—into chol, the ordinary. I hope that I am able to do this upon my imminent return to America.