The Call of the Rooster

"Can you send up an order to the clouds for an abundance of water to cover you?  Can you dispatch the lightning on a mission and have it answer you, 'I am ready'?  Who put wisdom in the hidden parts?  Who gave understanding to the rooster?  Who is wise enough to give an account of the heavens?  Who can tilt the bottles of the sky, whereupon the earth melts into a mass, and its clods stick together?" - Job 38: 34-38  

In the previous post, I described the the unexpected blessings that have accompanied my now lengthened Shabbat walk to shul.  I'd like to continue the theme and share some of my recent Shabbat morning experience.

First, though, its worthwhile to add a few words about topic choice.  There are many "sexy" issues that ignite impassioned discussion and draw heightened readership and blog views (if Google Blogger's stats are even remotely accurate).  The reason I'm focusing on other issues now isn't out of any sense that such issues aren't important, or out of a fear to be honest on controversial issues (I've done that before, and will continue to do so).  Rather, my professional duties as a congregational Rabbi have led me to the conclusion that, since certain issues excite us so, and since there's rarely a dry news day, we spend a disproportionate amount of time focusing on the latest headlines and neglect or ignore altogether important issues of religious practice.  Discussing them more often and being more mindful of the practices we actually do is vital to the survival and growth of a meaningful Judaism with a relevant mesorah (tradition).  Personally, the issue which consumes most of my attention currently is intention and meaning before, during, and after the recitation of brachot, blessings.

Normally, there's not a whole lot of time to contemplate the various blessings that form the very beginning of the daily morning service.  By contrast, the long walk on Saturday mornings has provided me with an opportunity to recite the birkot hashachar (preliminary morning blessings) during my walk, spending my time inhabiting the worlds created by the words.

The Talmud (Berachot 60b) states that we should recite a blessing each morning upon waking up and hearing the rooster crow:  "Blessed are You, O Lord our God, King of the universe, who gave understanding to the rooster to distinguish between day and night."  In modern times, since many of us wake up to the alarm clock rather than the rooster, the practice has evolved so that the blessing is recited in Synagogue just before the morning prayers.

Now,  it's a fact that roosters are rather awkward looking creatures, and don't immediately evoke associations with wisdom.  As I recite this blessing on my walk to shul, my mind turns from the rooster and moves naturally to the broader theme:

God's response to Job (from which the words of the blessing are derived) is a description of the awesomeness and unfathomable vastness of God's own creation and the relatively and inherently limited perspective of man to appreciate such.  Still, with the progression of time, humanity has collectively built up an incredible understanding of the natural universe and our place in it.  We are privileged, more than Job and the sages of his generation, to appreciate God as Creator and Sustainer of the universe.  From the smallest particles to the outer reaches of the universe and beyond (the multiverse?), from the nature of time (spacetime actually) to the biological workings of that funny looking rooster, the blessing encourages us to loose ourselves in a sense of awe and appreciation for all that is.  The more our minds drift and imagine what is, the more we understand, the greater our praise and appreciation.

Of course, we shouldn't forget the rooster's role as ancient alarm clock.  The blessing isn't merely a call to contemplate the wonders of creation, but man's relation to it.  Despite the vastness of the universe, the blessing is also a praise of God for our important role as intelligent beings (too) created in the image of God.  Our response to the clarion call of the rooster is to wake up; our response to the vastness and wonder of God's creation is to fill the void and embody the elegance.

Next week, Naomi and I will be spending an unusual Shabbat on an alpaca farm in Connecticut.  Personally, I'm eagerly looking forward to the experience.  One of the most exciting parts . . . getting woken at dawn the old fashioned way!                

  

   

 

Living on the edge . . .

(Humpty Dumpty, on the Edge)

Last month, Naomi and I moved to a wonderful home about one and a half miles away from shul.  Reactions have been mainly positive, if only for the reason it signified we were not likely to move in the immediate future. Rabbinic searches are stressful, and the community isn't particularly in the mood to hire a new Rabbi (at least I certainly hope not!).

Still, it's fairly obvious that some are a bit mystified by the seemingly infinite distance between our home and the shul.  It's not uncommon to be asked questions like, "[d]oes the eruv really extend all the way up here?" (yes, and even a little bit further!) and to here murmurs of "[m]aybe they just wanted some space."  First, despite popular notions to the contrary, Einstein's theory of relativity was discovered generally in Rhode Island long before he was born.  You see, since our state is so surprisingly small, the relativity of space and time takes on a special meaning here.  On a good day, it takes only 45 minutes to enter Rhode Island at the southern border and leave Rhode Island for the Commonwealth to our north; this small size frequently causes foreigners to forget our status as a state altogether, or to confuse Greater R.I. with Long Island, a small exotic location off the southern coast of Connecticut.  Locally, commuting more than ten or fifteen minutes is considered "long", and I've even caught myself saying things like "I'm going all the way to Warwick (15 minutes away) today."  All this to say that one mile in Rhode Island is actually longer (in relative terms, but that's all we ever have, anyway) than in many other locales.  Admittedly, it's also a bit of a walk.         

Now, to dispense with the uncertainty and spill the proverbial beans (what does that even mean anyway?), the main reasons we purchased the home are because we like it (an open layout mid-century modern ranch in a New England city filled with colonials) and because it was in great condition.  Also, it happens to be over the city line in Pawtucket, which means that taxes are demonstrably lower and that you can get far more for your money (assuming you're willing to give up a posh East Side address).  So far, we love it, and guests have been gracious in taking the hike with us for Shabbat meals.  

The point?  When I first started attending Shabbat services regularly as a young teenager, the walk was also long (actually longer) and less scenic to boot.  On Friday nights, the long walk home served as an extended time to bask in the beauty of twilight while being accompanied by the majestic malachei hashareit (ministering angels) that traditionally accompany Jews home from the Synagogue and into their homes on Friday night.  Practically, it was a way to internalize the tranquility of Shabbat and served as a serious break between the hustle and bustle of the work week.  On Shabbat morning, the peacefulness of the walk served as the perfect introduction to prayer.  With time to think and the solitude of being alone, my thoughts would inevitably turn to the upcoming prayers and to the presence of the Sabbath in my life.  By the time I would arrive, I had unintentionally prepared myself in a way that calmed and sensitized my soul.  I was in the mood, even anxious, to pray and express through the words of the Siddur and the thoughts of my mind the stirring I often felt on my Shabbat morning walk.

Enter college, and Hillel was a stone's throw away from my dorm room.  This pattern followed me for the rest of my life, and I continued to choose, actively and intentionally, to live in close proximity to a Synagogue.  Always, it was more convenient, closer to the heart of the community, and seemed like the wise decision, religiously and socially.

Fast forward a decade, and the economy has taught me a valuable (if accidental) lesson.  It didn't take more than the first Sabbath in our new home until I felt Shabbos in a way I haven't in more than a decade.  Once again, Friday nights are more spiritual and peaceful; morning prayers feel soulful and buzzing with life.  The extra love I felt for Shabbat in my youth has returned, and the funny thing is that I didn't even know it had ever gone.

I share my personal experience in the hope that it will spur thoughts and discussion about how to create meaningful ruach (spirit) and a spiritually complete Sabbath.  I've devoted much energy to this personally, yet ultimately a short walk did more for me than anything else.             

Two-Way Street

Lately, it seems that the observant community has a penchant for dealing with big-picture political types of issues without taking a needed vacation. We've engaged in collective conversations (sometimes not quite conversations) on Israeli politics, the chief rabbinate, the modern kollel system financially and religiously, mandatory army service for all, feminism, women clergy, mesirah, child-abuse, racism in Jewish culture, civil and religious same-sex marriage, and now biblical criticism.  No doubt, all of these issues are important, some of them extremely so, as Orthodox Judaism confronts modernity head on.  Still, most of these issues concern themselves with the structure of Judaism or the hierarchy of organized Jewish life; for a while, I'd like to return to basic substantive Jewish issues.

Likely, blessings are the most common and frequent expression of Jewish religion at the current time. Regardless of theological philosophy, denomination, political preference, blessings as a means of expression are nearly universally accepted and practiced.  We make blessings over objects and actions ranging from the mundane to the holy.  There are blessings before and after consumption of food, after using the bathroom, upon arising, upon going to bed, upon hearing bad news or being informed of a death, upon birth and joyous occasions, on weddings, britot, holidays, candles, wine, lightning, thunder, fragrances . . . . (this could go on for a long time).  Blessings are important component of Judaism, whether or not one believes them to be legally required or merely spiritually efficacious.  It was just this sort of near-universal embrace that recently caused Rabbi Avi Shafran to publish an essay on the Cross Currents suggesting an all-out embrace of brachot as a response to elevate levels of discord.

Ever since I was first introduced to the Talmud, I've taken an extra interest in the tractate on blessings.  I'm not sure what it is, but I find the subject compelling.  Perhaps it's the fact that it's the first masechet that I learned, or simply the relevance of its subject matter to everyday life.  Either way, I'd like to share some personal reflections and thoughts about the way we bless.

In large part, our blessings are substantially a way to transcend the physical and focus on God, the ultimate spiritual ontology.  Who gives us our food?  Who put us here in the first place, that we should be able to partake of food?  We've survived till this exciting season, but Who has sustained us, and for what purpose?  We open by declaring "Baruch Atah Hashem . . . ."  We open by declaring that God is blessed, and by speaking directly to God, as if to ascend the heavens and approach Him directly.  Both the diction and the grammar cause us to focus on God directly.  Nevermind for the moment the various opinions and disputes about what it means for God to be blessed.  Ultimately, the opening of the beracha brings us to focus on God as a way to appreciate what we have and place it in perspective.

There is, however, another part to each and every blessing, the second part.  During this part, we focus not on God or some theosophical notion of who or what God is, but rather on what it is God does in our world.  From our ascent to the height of the heavens, we descend rapidly and completely to the physical realities of earthly existence, and contemplate them well.  We focus on the commandments (usually actions) that God has commanded us to do, the lightning he has created, the wine we have fermented, and so on.  Ultimately, the conclusion of the beracha is designed to cause an almost meditative mindfulness and awareness of physical phenomena as a way to more deeply and substantively appreciate God's input.

Sometimes, it feels like we focus almost exclusively on the first part of the equation, as if we could just approach a conception of God without assistance.  For these past few weeks, I've started to try and give equal weight to the end of the beracha, in an effort to appreciate the handiwork, the substance of our lives, and therein the Creator who made them. 

In Response to the "Matzav"

Today, I was attacked in an ad-hominem way on the popular "Charedi" news website matzav.com.  You can read the article here.  I have submitted the following letter in response to the editor, and assume they will publish it.  After all, it's a general rule in journalism that one who is attacked is given a right of response.  I publish my letter publicly because I was attacked in a public forum.

Dear Concerned Yid,

A few points in response to your letter published today on Matzav.com:

1)  First, I'd like to address the substance of your claims.  Throughout your article, you made many false assumptions.  If you're truly as concerned as you claim to be (I have no way of knowing, but you do), you might take the time to verify assumptions before publishing them on the internet.  You could have contacted me, if you're truly concerned, and seen whether your assumptions were correct.  After all, the seal of Hashem is emes, and Jews should strive to be honest and accurate in what they say.  This is prudent and religious all in one.

You posit that my support for civil same-sex marriage is a remnant of my "liberal beliefs" and "background" left over from the days before I was observant.

Truth is, while I used to be far more liberal politically than I am today, I've opposed same-sex marriage publicly and privately for as long as I've been old enough to have an opinion on the subject.  In recent months, however, I've changed my mind, specifically because of my religious observance and affiliation.  As an observant Jew, I appreciate more than ever the protections of the First Amendment.  In the United States, our small minority religion is afforded tremendous protection.  Thousands of our Jewish brothers now refuse to work on Shabbat and holidays, knowing full well that their government will support their religious convictions and penalize anyone who tries to discriminate against them by firing them or refusing to hire them.    Our rituals (brit milah, kosher slaughter, etc.) are protected by the government, and our institutions receive support, honor, recognition, and even funds from states and the federal government.  Jews in public schools are no longer coerced into Christian prayer, and a general spirit of tolerance and understanding has allowed our people a golden age like none other in the diaspora.  This is true on both a governmental and social level, and has become an important part of the fabric of our country.

Therefore, it is our obligation to argue for the protection of minorities, be they religious, ideological, etc., and to advocate to prevent the use of religious doctrine in legislation at all levels.  If the state has the power to legislate marriage based on Judeo-Christian religious principles, then there's nothing to stop the state from regulating other areas of life based on religious principles, Judeo-Christian, Christian, or otherwise.  That's only a stone's throw away from the days of "the lord's prayer" and all the rest.  It's bad jurisprudence, bad for the Jews, and coerces people against their will, which is not helpful religiously either.

One more thing.  From a purely political perspective, it's not necessarily a "liberal" argument to argue for same-sex marriage.  I'll note that there was unanimous support for same-sex marriage among conservative republicans in RI's State Senate, based on a mixture of conservative and libertarian principles.  Conservative - If gay men and women are involved in relationships (which is a given), isn't it better for them to form committed monogamous relationships with stable family structures?  Libertarian - the state ought to stay out of defining, encouraging, or manipulating people's sexual or social preferences, especially if they're doing so based on religious convictions in possible violation of the First Amendment (the Court will tell us about that shortly).  I argued as I did largely because of my libertarian political leanings, not that it should matter, not liberal ones.          

2)  A few pieces of advice.  If you want to engage in an ad-hominem attack against someone, sign your name to it and face the consequences, positive and negative.  Doing so anonymously is cowardly and characteristic of the culture of fear that pervades our community lately.  Let's be mature enough to have important conversations with each other using our real names please.  This is true both locally in the current argument and generally in broader Jewish scene.

Also, if you want to critique and argument or position, fine.  In that case, you should state what you think I advocated, explain why you think it's wrong, and support your position with reasons and sources.  For a more complete argument, you might even offer self-critique, explaining the weaknesses of your own position.  All of the personal attacks, prejudicial comments, guilt-by-association character assasination mumbo jumbo (IRF Liberal Left Wing Loving Call His Rabbis Revoke His Degree Public Consequences Chillul Hashem etc.) distract from the content of the actual debate, and are not befitting of reasoned and enlightened discussion.  Orthodox Jews should be interested in serious discussion on the merits of the issues rather than vague and uninformed generalizations.  Erev Shabbat Shalom.

Sincerely,

Barry Dolinger, another concerned Jew  

Has God Moved?

                

http://www.jidaily.com/9fdb1?utm_source=Jewish+Ideas+Daily+Insider&utm_campaign=55f31d74b6-Insider&utm_medium=email

In the article linked above, Rabbi Dr. Nathan Lopes Cardozo poetically shares his conclusion that God has "hired movers" and left the Synagogue and other places of established religion.  His points are basically threefold: 1)  God desires true seekers, and they are now largely found elsewhere, be it cafes, non-traditional minyanim (prayer quoroms) and batei midrash (study halls), and elsewhere.  2)  Traditional Jews continue to flock to God's old address, so to speak, but our prayer and service of God is (on the whole) absolutely and totally devoid of anything meaningful or experiential. 3)  Observant Jews are basically in a state of denial, focusing far too much energy on contrived questions and legal quandaries while willfully ignoring big-picture items that ought to form the loci of our observance.

As a Synagogue Rabbi, I've written about  many of these themes in the past, and think that this article is a must-read for all people of faith.  Practically every sermon I give includes a different impassioned plea for meaningful prayer and substantive religious encounter with the trans-formative awe of the divine; our observance is meant to serve that encounter, the encounter in return designed to radically alter our actions in this world for the good.  Whether it's had any affect good bad or otherwise I cannot say, though I know it has had an impact on my life in profound ways.  Personally, creating a meaningful observance and prayer space has been the primary function of my rabbinate and even this blog; it also happens to be one of the central points of our mesorah (tradition).

The next several blog posts will dwell on different aspects of this theme, but there's one I'd like to share today. It is widely known that Lag Baomer (the 33rd day of the omer count) is the yahrtzeit of Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai, the great mystic and possible author of the Zohar.  Often ignored is that it's also the yahrtzeit of Rabbi Moshe Isserles, known affectionately as the Rema, the great mystic (yes, he also spent most of his time delving into kaballah) and authority of Ashkenazic Jewish law and custom.  In light of this article, I thought that the beginning of the legal code he authored are instructive.  We'll comment how he chose to open his great legal encyclopedia.

"שויתי ה' לנגדי תמיד - I am ever mindful of the Lord's Presence" (Psalms 16:8).  He goes on to write that this is the most important rule of the Torah, because a person who lives with God-consciousness does not act the same way as one who lives without such consciousness.  Such a person will be humble, kind, and eager to serve God.

Why did the Rema begin a legal work with ostensibly non legal advice?  The answer is obvious.  Judaism and Jewish law represent a religious legal system, and the aim of that system is to foster a constant awareness of God and the resulting behavioral affects.  It's an easy question whether we're doing any of these well - we're not.  We certainly fixate on the law, even obsess, and in the modern day, seek new strictures and creative legal arguments all in a well-meaning effort to safeguard God's commands.  In all of this, the point is missed, masses leave or are uninspired, and the religious experience becomes dry and loses its efficacy.

It's easy to say "woah unto us."  The harder question, though, is what bold solutions and adjustments are needed to preserve and advance our tradition, one that teaches that the center of it all is an awareness of God's presence in our lives so deep that it affects all of our interactions profoundly.  

Mitnadvei Chutz La'aretz - The Power of the Individual

As it is Yom Hazikaron, the day when we remember those who have defended Israel, it's important for all of us to take some time out of the day to remember and learn about those who defended and continue to defend our people.  I was moved by the above video about MaCHaL, a group of about 4,000 volunteers who went to Israel to fight during the War of Independence in 1948.  So important was MaCHaL to the founding of the air force, in particular, that English and not Hebrew was actually the language of operation for the then-nascent Israeli airforce.  

Watching the video, I was struck by two things in particular.  Most heavily, I was first struck by the  the power of just a few individuals.  How just a handful of individuals, foreign volunteers no less, were able to to use leftover German plane parts, engage in risky combat tactics, and successfully hold off an Egyptian army of 10,000 is a testament to the Jewish spirit and the importance of what these men did.  In a world where individuals are increasingly invisible and human contribution seems less and less valuable, this was a powerful and emotional reminder that the actions of each of us really do count; sometimes, small acts of heroism that go barely noticed in the fog of war change history dramatically for millions of people.  Would we even have a state without the heroic actions of the pilots in the video?  What if they hadn't gone to fight?

Second, there actions serve not only as a source of pride, but as a clarion call to each of us.  What are we doing, what are we sacrificing to aide the survival and growth of our people?  Though it's primarily a day to remember the sacrifices of others, especially those who made the ultimate sacrifice and gave their lives, it's also a day to consider our own contributions and how we carry on the legacy we've inherited.  Even if we're not fighting in the army, there are important things we can and should be doing for the Jewish people.  As someone who does not live in Israel, it's all too easy for the national and familial bonds that holds us together to remain unrealized beneath the surface.  These foreigners felt a sense of obligation to the Jewish people even from afar and acted on it.  Query: What actions can we take, locally or nationally, for the benefit of the Jewish people?

Go Down Moses . . .

This article I authored was published in the Jewish Voice and Herald on Friday, March 15, 2013.  I thought it worth reproducing here. 

Last year, President Barack Obama concluded his Passover Seder with an interesting addition.  After the singing of Had Gadya (traditionally the final song in the Seder service),  participants in the White House Seder took turns reciting sections of the Emancipation Proclamation, thus creating a bridge between the core message of Passover, a distant and remote cultic festival of an ancient people, the Israelites, and the powerful modern outgrowth of the same concept of racial equality. President Obama’s serving as the Seder leader further reinforced this message.

While many staffers joked that gefilte fish wasn’t usually on many White House menus, the conclusion of the White House Seder affords us the opportunity to reflect on the true meaning of Passover.

As United States citizens, western Jews tend to speak of Passover in western terms.  Clearly, the holiday is about the benefits of freedom and the evils of slavery.  It also celebrates the triumph of the oppressed, and refutes the notion that “might makes right.” Egypt was the most powerful nation in the ancient world, while the Israelites were just a petty tribal family, oppressed and enslaved because of their minority status, unique identity and strange customs.

All of these notions speak to the heart of core liberal democratic values, so it is easy to simply assume that this is what Passover is about. However, that offers only a partial – and misleading – picture of the meaning of the holiday, and it behooves us to consider the holiday’s full meaning and its implications for our lives.

God’s language when he first commands Moses is instructive:
“Then you shall say to Pharaoh, ‘Thus says the LORD: Israel is my first born-son.’  I have said to you, ‘Let My son go that he may worship Me,’ yet you refuse to let him go.  Now I will slay your first-born son.’” (Exodus 4:22-23)

In this statement, all of the emphasis is, surprisingly, on worshipping God, with no reference to the immorality of forced physical labor or the unconscionable notion that humans can own other humans as physical property.

Further, throughout the story, as the Egyptians are being afflicted with plagues, Moses’ request to Pharaoh is simply to allow the Israelites a holiday to worship their God: “The Lord said to Moses, ‘Go to Pharaoh and say to him, ‘Thus says the LORD, the God of the Hebrews: Let My people go to worship Me.’’” (Exodus 9:1)

In the well-known Civil War-era slave spiritual, though, Moses is alleged to have said merely, “Let my people go”; the song omits the conclusion of his request: “to worship [God].”

According to the biblical text, Moses’ complaints are not centered on the immorality of slavery but rather on the affirmative notion that God must be worshipped; slavery merely obstructs the path.

Generally speaking, the civic culture of the United States is one of personal autonomy rather than responsibility to others.  The U.S. Constitution carefully and deliberately grants each of us specific rights to which we are entitled.  It does not demand that we vote, serve in the military or do much service to our fellow citizens, other than leaving them alone.

The Passover story compels us to build on our beloved freedoms by asking ourselves the simple question, “to what end?”

Freedom from the constraints of physical and emotional oppression is a necessary first step; this point is easy to emphasize and relate to, especially in our society.  That freedom fundamentally requires us to worship God through the pursuit of a moral and ethical life is too often overlooked and too easy to forget in our society.

“You shall not wrong a stranger or oppress him, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”(Exodus 29:20)

The goal of freedom is the exercise of responsibility.

Time, which has a way of turning things on their heads, allows for the creation of circumstances previously unimaginable.  During the Seder, symbols such as the maror (bitter herbs), haroset and the broken middle matzah compel us to imagine the life of a slave devoid of hope, and require us to confront those elements in our lives to which we are still enslaved.

At the same time, the four cups of wine, festive meal, presence of family and friends and yes, the matzah again, confirm our current freedoms and markedly changed circumstances.  In ancient times we were at the bottom, but today we are on top.

Perhaps the reading of the Emancipation Proclamation at the Passover Seder represents more than a superficial connection to modern notions of freedom.  Once, we were slaves, freed by the proclamation of God through his prophet Moses.  Today, we are empowered, free to liberate others and issue proclamations of our own.