thinking jewish

Trust

I take a break from the group and head over to my alma mater, only a few kilometers away. After a no-casualty collision with another taxi, I arrived at my destination. I walk up the steps and show my ID. They let me in to campus. They trust that I am who I say I am, that I can be trusted, that I am there for honest reasons. I head towards the library. So excited.

Down at the plaza in which Jews congregate day and night, a bunch of strangers, now my friends, hover around me. They listen to me teach about strange black "rocks" that Jewish men put on their heads and arms each day. They hear my teaching and ask new questions. They trust my guidance as I help to show them the way to their heritage, their customs, their religion, their traditions. It's all so real, one says. So true.

Walking down steps traversed daily by their coreligionists, two men who you'd more expect to find on the streets of the East Village than the Upper East side discuss tattoos. Just what tattoo should they add to their bodies, they ask. One thinks he will get a star of David in the next few days. But, just then, a woman interjects to let them know of the branding on her skin: a chai. What's that, they ask. It means life. Cool! When we leave this country, two more Jewish men will be adorned with a mark of Jewish living. So interesting.

At the hotel, a man tells me about his past learning experience: the Maimonides Fellowship, that AISH HaTorah-like program that pays students to learn while trying to suck them into a new, uniform vision of how a Jew is supposed to live and think. He didn't trust them. He liked the learning, and certainly the money. But he, and so many others, he tells me, had no interest in following their way of life. He trusts that his Jewish-way is also authentic. But he struggles with his lack of faith in the corporeality of the Jewish soul. I teach him that a small old man from Spain, Maimonides was his name, had the same struggle too. So easy.

Back in the library, I find the book I need and head to the check-out counter. I place the book in the hands of the librarian and inform her that I would like to check it out for a week. She doesn't trust me. I may be a rabbinical student, I may be a tuition-paying member of the community, I have an ID and a promise and an unimposing smile, but she won't give it to me. She won't let me learn. She won't let me grow. She won't give me the benefit of the doubt. So telling.

So sad.

Iraq-ed

So, finally, it seems that, perhaps, if things go right, then, maybe, Mishkan Tefilah, the new siddur of the Reform Movement, will, sometime before the chagim, make its way to synagogues and communities all around the U.S.

Wow.

The hype around this one little book has been, to say the least, intriguing. So many years ago, when I was a wee one at the University of California, at its location in the pot-filled hills of Berkeley, I remember my first encounter with the siddur.

I have on my bookshelf a collection of "borrowed" copies of pre-print editions stretching back to 2002. I walk over to the shelf and take them down. Sitting them on my desk, I begin to ponder.

The project first began in 1994. Thirteen years ago, after a survey of Reformers, the CCAR realized it was time for a new siddur. Why? The precise reasons determined were:

• Transliteration
• Better translation of Hebrew text
• Response to the feminist critique

Thirteen years later, I wonder how we ended up with what we have now. Obviously, committees and personas and collaboration, not to mention a lapsed decade, influence the creative process over time. But look at how Mishkan Tefilah, as it is set to be printed, responds to the original goals:

• Transliteration: Two printings will be offered - one with, and one without. Many synagogues will have transliteration-free siddurim for another thirty years.
• Translations: One example, from the morning blessings, is interesting, to say the least. "שעשני ישראל", by any understanding of the Hebrew language, is a prayer thanking God for, literally, "making me a Jew." But, MT renders it, "for my being a Jew." Why? The literal translation might offend those who have converted to Judaism. So, in the interest of benign inclusivity, the original goal of faithful translations was abandoned. Damn.
• Very feminist. Hurrah. But wasn't the last siddur, Gate of Prayer, as well? It certainly was gender-neutral. New, "feminist" introductions include adding Miriam as a reference before "Mi Chamochah" in the line introducing the text. Only problem is that the original (without Miriam) is a quote from Torah. Miriam is inserted into the text, without textual basis, just to make people happy. If you ask me, that seems a little disingenuous. But, then again, they didn't ask me...

So, then, what does the siddur accomplish? Does it make any chidush to liberal Jewish prayer or liturgy? Yes. And no. Let's examine.

• MT lays out its pages with a new format - the page spread (not to be confused with the bagel spread). Each page is its own prayer with translation and transliteration and, on the left side, creative poetry. But many sections of the siddur abandon this format - mostly sections with a lot of Hebrew that people like to skip. Also, this page format idea isn't all that new. The Reconstructionist siddur, Kol HaNeshama, introduced it years ago.
• Creative poetry: You have to give them credit on this one. The poetry writers have been hard at work for the last thirteen years. But on close examination, as beautiful as much of the writing is, I have a few concerns on this front as well. First, the content of much of the poetry often has little, if anything, to do with the prayer it is meant to supplement. Second, while the poetry is intended to supplement the Hebrew text, in practical applications it is often seen as a replacement. Sorry, but, as I see it, a poem called "We are Israel" does not replace אמת ואמונה. But then again, I'm pretty old school... Third, all of this creativity leaves you with a siddur that reads more like a choose-your-own adventure book, not a prayer book.
• Liturgy. Ah, the whole point of a prayer book. Mishkan Tefilah reclaims some liturgy abandoned by the excising efforts of past Reformers. But it actually reclaims much less than one may think. At first glance it seems full of new liturgy and presents a "fuller" service. But that is only compared to the "Grey" Gates of Prayer which itself is an abridged form of the original which, in many ways, is even "fuller" than the Mishkan Tefilah that replaces it. Then, you glance at such things as the Psalms of Kabbalat Shabbat which, according to the editors of the prayer book, have whole chunks from the middle excised for the sake of saving space. That's not liturgical or intellectual honesty. That's laziness. Double damn.

All in all, on this eve of a new era in American Reform, we're left with a project that is totally divorced from the original goals it seemed set to address. Sounds to me sort of like an Iraq War II model of doing things, if nothing else.

In the end of the day, I don't really care what prayer books people use. Learn your liturgy and pray, period. Use whatever you want.

As for me, I'm sticking with my little brown 25 shekel, cheaply bound, Israeli, liberal, Zionist siddur. It moves my heart. Or so it's supposed to.

Onward and upwards Christian soldiers. Get out there and start changing the world.

Recipes, Anyone?

Wasting time, instead of packing, this morning before I head back to the land of my fathers, I found a website that made me laugh.

Given, it's two months late. But there's always next year.

Ten points to whomever finds and points out the humor in the site first.

Click here.

Down in Front

This week I picked up a new book from Barnes and Noble. Wikinomics attempts to look at the new ways we work, live and exchange ideas in this world of the twenty-first century. They say you should never judge a book by it's cover but, it had a nice cover, so I bought it. And read it I have.

A few chapters in, I came across an especially moving paragraph. After looking at the comparitive success of some businesses and organizations in recent years verses other, more entrenched competitors, the authors write,

"What was the difference? The losers built web sites. The winners launched vibrant communities. The losers built walled gardens. The winners built public squares. The losers innovated internally. The winners innovated with their users. The losers jealously guarded their data and software interfaces. The winners shared them with everyone."

The distinction, then, between success and less-than-success in the modern age is dependent on openness, democratic openness. That is what the blogosphere is all about, is it not? The free exchange of ideas in bazaar of opinions leads to more thorough thought, better conclusions and, generally, a happier, more productive public. Everyone wins. Except those currently in control.

That is because everything about this modern method of idea-exchange is intrinsically hostile to the status-quo.It is dependent upon an attitude of skepticism towards those in control.

That is, generally, the attitude of youth, even within the Jewish world. But lately I've been thinking. Well, lately, and for a long time. Why are some things how they are? Do they have a rationale? Is there a pedagogic or experiential purpose? I don't think so. And that's why I'm finally about to say what I've been pondering for a very long time.

Since a year ago, I have honed-in my attention on our youth movements as the center of idea-exploration and innovation. It makes perfect sense. We are a youth-centered culture. Even the prophet Joel said that the old may sit around dreaming but it is the youth who "see visions."

And when these youth are praying, in the most frequent iteration of liberal American prayer, they are provided with a single vision of what to see: a person, in front of them, guitar in hand, singing at them. Strum, strum strum. Baruch Ata Adonai. Strum strum strum.

This is prayer? It's not very democratic. It's not very educational either. It does not challenge the individual to learn or connect or experiment. It allows for passive witnessing of a prayer-experience unfolding.

Let me be clear and not mince words. The songleader, as a person and individual, is an invaluable talent within our midst. Song-leading is important. We need people with musical talent. We need people with presences who can stand before an audience and teach. We need performers. We need all of this, but not in prayer.

For that we need prayer-leaders. We have them. They're called shlichei tsibur.

Want music? Great. Instruments? Good. Want to sing your hearts out in prayer or celebration? Awesome. Just get the hell away from in front of me. Join with me. Don't do so at me.

You don't need a guitar to pray. It just enhaces the words and experience. A songleader does not tefilah make. You don't need a special person in front of a group to lead "services." You don't need planning meetings, and "song lists" and spreadsheets and cue cards. Get a group of ten together. Start praying, then you'll learn how to lead it.

At the shul on the slope, that's one thing we've learned quickly and dramtically. The most moving of prayer times came a few weeks back when, at 2 PM on Monday afternoon, a man remembered that it was his mom's yarhtzeit. So he wanted to say kaddish. So he needed a minyan. So we made a few calls and gathered the troups. Come nightfall, a cadre of comrades gathered in the room. The mentor stood at his shtender facing a wall and called out "Barchu." We followed. We prayed. It was purposeful. It was beautiful. It was simple. It worked. And it was so easy. Can't it always be like that?

When, in the sixties, the folk-song-prayer movement emerged from out of the then UAHC's Kutz Camp it was a dramatic break from the oppressive performative hold that operatic cantors held over communal worship. My fear is that, with regards to davening, songleading and "tefilah leaders" may have become the beast that they were meant to slay.

That's my opinion. I'm interested in yours. Do share.

Got It?

The talk goes on of our future plans - of the kibbutz without the vegetables, of the community bound like a community should be - not by fees and committees but by friendship and ideas. Nice. But isn't it just fantasy? It wouldn't really happen. Would it? Could it?

What's significant is the pitter patter of ideas slowly bouncing around. What makes community? What binds Jews? How do we best fix this little world of ours?

And the same conversations are going on over on the Slope - where we fight for new ideas, different approaches and success. A year of hard work has gone into the annals of memory.

And then came Shabbat. Yom shabbat. And this Shabbat the space where just days ago dozens of young people studied and ate cheesecake to their hears content sat empty. It was empty because there was no minyan. Just me.

One kid. One kid. My father bought for two zuzim.

It's frustrating to get all dressed up for Shabbat, prepare for some heavy-duty davening and show up, only to be alone in a room that maintenance did not even set up properly. But more than frustrated, I'm puzzled.

In all of our successes this year, the one area where we have, as yet, failed is in convincing at least a core group of ten people of the importance of showing up regularly on a Friday night for an hour of welcoming in Shabbat. I don't claim that we've necessarily tried that hard to win this fight, hell, I'm the only one who is regularly even there! But on this issue I also don't know where to start.

How do you go about building community out of nothing? Where do you find them, hiding in the cracks, in the back alleys of Jewish existence? Where are they? Where are the 10?

In the fantastical kibbutz in the heart of Brooklyn, this is not an issue, not a problem. There, we become the center of Jewish life. Our homes exude the Jewish living that we wish actually existed. But it doesn't, yet. It will. One day.

Until then, I spend this Sabbath eve at home, in contemplation, stubbornly rebelling against what I believe to be true and right to write this very post. God knows there's some logic in this.

So I conclude, and I leave. I go pour myself something to drink. Perhaps a cold glass of skim milk.

Got milk? Got 10?

Ideas on Reform

(Opinions from an undisclosed Far Side reader. What do you think?)

The difference between the Reform Movement and other denominations is that it [is supposed to] accepts the individual's right to make his/her own informed choices in terms of practice, thought, and belief - the Reform Movement accepts that there are a multiplicity of 'truths'. Whereas, in the Orthodox stream, there is but one way to practice - there is one truth shared by millions of people.

The successes of the Reform Movement, as outlined by Rabbi Yoffie, are largely educational objectives, thus fulfilling the goal of reaching out to synagogues and providing Jews with a Jewish education. If that is our goal, than what is our obsession with giving individuals an excuse to opt out on Jewish practice? It would seem that that is what we are trying to avoid.

I don't know if Rabbi Yoffie realizes it, but that's what often takes place. What needs to occur, is instead of taking stances on this and that, decreeing what is a 'Reform' belief and what is not, we must become a movement founded on education.

Maybe my dreams are much too ludicrous, but I truly and honestly believe that, not only must we provide everyone with an unbiased education, but we have the opportunity to foster informed, involved, and inspired Jews.

When we take stances on what is a 'Reform' belief and what is not, we shun those that wish to be a part of our community. When we claim that the Jewish practices of old are barbaric - or something of the like - we provide an excuse for those that do not practice Jewishly to disaffiliate himself with tradition.

So then, how do we become an educational movement that sets a guideline for Jewish living without providing an excuse or shunning others? How do we become inclusive? How do we invite pluralism? How do we remain organizational, but fight against the isolation of others within our movement?

Brand Loyalty

Torah was received, again. The learning was good. The cheesecake was better. Yum. Enough dairy has been consumed for an entire year.

Last night, in the very new basement of a very old synagogue, Jews of all colors and walks of life came together for one express purpose: Torah (aka, Toirah, the Law, the Pentateuch). Torah Lishma, as it is called, learning for its own sake. Thousands of years ago, our people, standing at a mountain, found God and God's Torah. And today, we celebrated that event.

Around my lunch table(s), the conversation centered on the usual topics: sex, drugs, and Judaism. The first two come and go like all fleeting thoughts of busy twenty-somethings. And then there's the big kicker. We can't get enough of it. Those of us who spend our days studying, those of us who spend our days working, those of us who these days do neither - we can't help but let the table-talk continually return to the elephant in the room.

The room, as it happens, is filled with an unordinary bunch: crazy liberals, religious ones at that, interested in more, interested in something else. Yet we still haven't figured exactly how to find it. We joke of our urban kibbutz - a little more hipster, a little less pepper-growing. We rant. We joke. The ideas bounce around.

What binds us is our consumer loyalty. We are all products of a world, of a system, of a movement that we refuse to abandon. We could. It would not be hard. But nothing else is just right either. Rather, in ways unique to each individual, in our frustration we remain steadfast, ever committed.

What's the point? Is a movement anything more than the product of those who say they are a part of it? What keeps us from rising up against the machine? Anything?

Perhaps. Perhaps not. Perhaps this summer, when cosmic coincidences will result in so many of us being together, as leaders, of a small community in tick-infested Orange County. Maybe then, we'll rage against the machine, whoever that is. Perhaps not.

Or, perhaps, we'll finally learn to stop worrying about norms, and "how things are" and "how things were" and finally begin to really focus on "how things are going to be, now" rather than "how they should be, then." Maybe we'll realize to just take action and begin the trek down the path we keep talking about. Today. Not tomorrow.

When Israel was offered Torah, so many years ago, their answer was not "OK," not "interesting, we'll consider it." They said, in so few words, "We will do (observe) and we will listen (obey)." Act now. Figure it out later. Doesn't always work. But maybe this time it should.

This Too is Torah

"Conversion should be entrusted to progressive rabbis who recognize the national importance of the matter and the immigrants' needs."

-Israeli Immigrant Absorption Minister Ze'ev Boim, click here to read more.

Shavuos Tovus

Tikkun Leil Shavuot
Learning, Music and Nosh

Tuesday, May 22 - 9 PM to Midnight
CBE Rotunda - Eight Ave. and Garfield Place - Park Slope

Join Brooklyn Jews for our annual night of learning in celebration of
the Giving of Torah. Tuesday, May 22, at 9 PM, we will be gathering in
Beth Elohim's Rotunda, following the congregation's Ma'ariv services
and Yizkor. Rabbis Andy Bachman and Dan Bronstein, interns David
Singer and Matthew Soffer, and PhD candidate Loren Spielman will lead
various learning opportunities throughout the night.

Avi Fox-Rosen, will play for our listening enjoyment.

Classes include:

Sparks from a Rock and Mountains on a String: Torah in Rabbinic Literature
A New Look at Sh'mot 19 & 20 Mikraot G'dolot.
Ruth: An Anti-anti-intermarriage Polemic
Hagadah Shel Shavuot: Midrash on the Ten Commandments

Join us for the whole evening, or just a bit. Come to be made into a
Torah scholar or just meet new friends.

Get Me

One of my favorite Israeli bands, איסתרא, plays often on the streets of Jerusalem, mostly around the corner from Kikar Zion, at the base of the Ben Yehuda pedestrian mall. I discovered them one day a few years back while shopping before Shabbat. A group of classic secular Israeli hippies, the guys in the band have long, curly Jew-fros and wear baggy tie-died shirts. Feels like Berkeley...

Their best song, "Freddie," tells the story of a man fed up with the world around him. He is surrounded by madness. Thirty years ago, everything was different... now it's all messed-up. Society sucks. No one understands.

פרדי אומר זה לא מקום טוב...
Freddie says this isn't a good place.

What's the narrator's response?

אבל אני מעדיף להתעלם ולשכוח
But I prefer to ignore and forget...

Notice the difference in two men's reactions to something they don't like. Freddie calls it out. The narrator ignores. He moves on. He sees the problems as too large to fix. He becomes apathetic.

Apathy is a sure path to failure. (Rabbi Tarfon said... לא אתה בן חורין לבטל ממנה).

During the past weekend, as the halls of Saratoga Spring's top hotel were filled with with the (loud) voices of Bolotins and Singers and Levinsons, chatter about politics and the world and the Jews, I quickly came to recognize to what extent some in my family don't understand what it is that I labor day and night for. In so many ways we hold the same bush-hating, Israel-loving, Jew-charishing beliefs. But in other ways, or at least what we do with these thoughts, we differ.

Like the conversation at Shabbos dinner about prayer. Services in synagogue are so boring, my grandpa said. Here here! I hate them too. So I daven to a different tune.

Or the conversation about how ludicrous some Biblical ideas of God are. How that is a God that toddlers, if anyone, should believe in. That that's a God that they reject. So do I! So I study and teach Maimonides and Heschel.

Maybe it's something about youth. Maybe with young age comes enthusiasm and optimism and a go-fix-it attitude that fades off later in adulthood. Perhaps.

Or maybe it's a unique quality - only some people are able to see problems and decide to fix them, rather than just continue living with the thing I hate.

That is not to be self-congratulatory. I don't think my enthusiasm is all that special. I don't have unheard-of talents - if anything, I'm too hard on the clumsy, awkward self that I know as me. But I do know that some part of the rebellious spirit within me has pushed me to push others to make something with their frustrations - to change the world, even as unchangeable as it may seem.

Maybe they don't get me cause they don't think I can succeed. But I, like Freddie, don't get them for thinking they can not try.