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I was going to write a long introduction to how absurd this "toy" is, but, really, it needs and deserves one. Click on the image to check it out.
The only thing I will say is that people should spell-check before making a commercial website go live. I mean really, what the hell is "Netials Yodoyim"???
Come on people!
The time came and went to change the title of this blog. A few reasons:
I sit in my seat as the subway car winds its way through the underground labrynth, slowly pushing me towards my destination, many miles away. I passively sit as life propels me to somewhere else, I
wait for each stop, and prepare to get off the train once my station is reached.
Sometimes it can feel all so out of control. Will the train jump its tracks? Are we going the right way? What's happening? Yet I, in all my uniqueness, am only afforded two options: stay on for the ride or leave. None seems good enough; neither is without its own pain.
The subway can leave you feeling out of control, just a peon along for the thrill, waiting to deal with that which you're served.
And so it seems these days.
Blind luck brings me face to face with a rabbi whom I've admired for some time. I introduce myself, and he's quickly exited. Are you him? Are you that guy? Tell me your wisdom. Give me an answer.
A few days and as many meetings later, I find a fellow in my struggle, someone who knows what it feels like and is here to share in the emotions. I find a job and another guide, someone to look to, someone who wants to look at me.
This doesn't need to be lonely, I learn. There are others. It's all for a greater good.
But so quickly I forget again.
And in the existential solitude, the subway car seems to take on a mind of its own. Where is it leading me? So quickly I've forgotten.
The pain builds, I feel the impatience burn through my skin. It hurts. It hurts so badly.
The train is running local. I wait past each extra stop. I recognize where I'm going but wonder ultimately where I'm being led.
I gasp for air. A few more stops, I tell myself. I'm so close, I'm almost there. Just hang on.
"While the critical historian might view a hermeneutical tradition as a device for overcoming the piecemeal character or obacurity of scripture, the pious mind will regard it as the only conceivable means
by which to gain access to the vast and awesome contents of divine revelation - the means established by divinely ordained tradition as opposed to human invention."
- Paul Valliere
Rounds on the pediatric floor, Monday afternoon, supervisor in tow. He's going to follow me into a patient's room this time. It's going to be awkward as hell. Time to do it. I have no choice. Better get it over with.
I move forward, look at the patient's name on his door, and enter.
Hi, I'm David, I'm a chaplain intern, I tell the man, twenty three years old, who lies in the bed in front of me. I speak, but I do not listen. I see, but it doesn't yet register.
Because, a few seconds later, I realize what I am actually dealing with. The twenty-three year old is built like a child of eight. Staples run the course of his head. He can speak, but only sound comes out.
So the whole process to which I'd become perfectly accustomed was shot. How can I hear him, how can we interact and feel and share, if he cannot? I freeze. My body tightens up. The eyes of the priest behind me burn through my back like a saw through feeble wood.
The man lifts his hand, and puts it to paper with pen. Slowly, one letter, one word at a time, he writes on the page. Hours seem to pass as I wait for what he'll say.
What.... are... you... doing... here?
I have no answer. The man in front of me may communicate with difficulty, but I am just as unable as he. I cannot speak. I cannot formulate sentences. I don't know what I'm doing, and I can't even say so.
The five minutes I spend in there feel like days. I get one opportunity to leave and I seize it. I'm out. Done.
The patient could not speak, and I could not communicate. There was no synergy between our brains. We did not understand what the other was saying because we were not saying a thing.
Fast forward to last night. Sitting in the library, if you can call it that, of my place of work, I talk, catch up and work with my co-intern. Our topics range the gamut, but then, he settles down on something he recently found interesting.
Thinking about himself, and how he describes himself religiously, he realized just how dependent he is, he has been, on one title (in his case, "Reform") for the construction of his identity. What's your background? Someone will ask him. He answers with a history of his involvement in "the movement."
No! He declared. This is a crutch. It says nothing but make me feel good, part of something. I don't even believe or adhere to the connotations of what I'm saying, he tells me. So he wants to try to drop the unnecessary label. To say what he means. To communicate through words that have meaning, not ones that simple make him feel good.
What kind of rabbi are you going to be? They ask me. A Jewish one, I tell them.
And then, one afternoon, on an overcrowded elevator, I find solace in my electronic companion, my iPhone. I try to type a message to my friend. I throw in some Hebrew to my mix, and, rather than saying "good" I say "tov." I tried to, at least.
My fingers are big and the virtual buttons are small. And in my carelessness I typed "t-o-c." And, just as quickly as I typed that 'c' a little bubble appeared, reminding me that I likely wanted to write the word "tov." How did it know? Was my iPhone fluent in transliterated Hebrew? Hardly.
I write some more, and rather than "books" I write "seforim" but, again, my finger slips, and I write "s-e-g-o-e-i-m." (Maybe this time I erred on purpose...) Again, pops up a bubble, "seforim" my iPhone tells me.
I know what you want to say. I have learned from you over time. I pay attention to what you communicate. A synergy exists between our brains. Your words matter, and to me they mean something.
Am I reading too much into the software of my cellular phone? Probably. But in that moment on the elevator, it all seemed so fitting an example. An example of what I could not do with the patient, an example of what the intern wanted to do.
We communicate to spread ideas, and share feelings, and move around in this crazy world. And the intention behind that action makes all the difference. Our ability to listen to one another, to speak with, not to, one another, to inscribe specific meaning in the words coming from our mouths, all is significant.
And if we try hard enough, we can anticipate the meaning behind the words from other's lips. If we can just open our mouths wide enough, two people can share more than sounds with each other.
They can mean something. They can go somewhere. They can prepare themselves for something bigger.
אדני שפתי תפתח ופי יגיד תהילתך
There is something odd, something ironic and even cruel, about the way that Shabbat comes to life each week these days. The rhythm is predictable; in so many ways it remains unchanged from years before, in other ways it is unrecognizable.
Sunset is approaching, the clock is ticking down. My oven smells of the delicious foods that are to come. The candles bring forth light, I sport my best digs. Time to walk down the street to shul.
Upon return, it's time to eat. Songs and prayers and food satiate the soul. Friends abounding in stories and love. There was evening. Friday. Sleep.
Next morning, light comes, and with it my New York Times. The coffee pot fills with black heroin. And the minutes pass, and then the hours.
Lately, I find myself struggling to make it back to hear Torah read in the morning. Simetimes I show up, but more out of obligation than excitement. And even when I do, the afternoon is filled with activities only tangentally Shabbisdik: the gym; tv marathons; games; friends. Sometimes the occasional meal or study. But not so much.
The day ends, the twisted candle is put in its drawer, Saturday night's fun comes to life. All the while, it seems that this night was my week's focus, not the day before it.
But why? I find myself these days without my Shabbat community of old, a new one still unfound or uncreated. And while the mitzvah still applies as an individual or one of many, it certainly leaves much for want as the former.
This new land of Brooklyn presents its problems. The synagogues seem cavernous and empty, performing rote ritual without the joy that I crave. The streets don't remember the day's importance. And without the excitment of many, I find myself struggling with the day entirely. Yet I lack the luxury of going shopping or cafe hopping; in the absence of a Shabbat community the yoke still chains my neck.
So I look for answers and ideas and in the search see global solutions. Because when it comes down to it, my problem isn't that unique. Outside of the Upper West Side and the 'Hood liberal Jews
almost universally lack committed Shabbat community that spans the full day. There are pockets and individuals, of course, but, mostly, it's entirely absent.
I don't seek "programs" or "activities", rather spirit and opportunities: more "Shabbat Shalom!"s and more invitations to others' tables; more spirit on the streets and a joy that fills the air.
I don't know how to do it, yet. But I'll learn. My charge will come back soon. Meanwhile, the day of rest, the day of community, thrives at the former in its failure at the latter.
It's too bad, certainly; a shame indeed. But it presents one hell of an opportunity for growth.
The sun is set. A new week arrives. Time to get working my friends.
Rushing off to work, I wrote a quick blurb yesterday about an interesting article I had found while surfing the pages of Ha'aretz. I thought little of it - it seemed pretty straightforward.
I did it, it was done.
Mid-day, at the hospital, I finish making some rounds, and take a break to read my email. There, flashing at me, are words of pain and frustration from a friend - one who was totally shocked by the few paragraphs I had written.
Emails fly back and forth. We argue, we clarify, we solve. But, behind it all, I wonder why the swift and sweeping reaction to what I had viewed as truly innocuous words. You can give people gimmic after gimmic to get them into shul, there's nothing wrong with that. So what?
Oops.
Hochiach tochiach, we are commanded. Rebuke! Thank you. Today I was rebuked. And I probably deserved it.
Not because of what I said, per se, but because of the meaning that could have been in my words. I was free-wheeling, not cautious. I did not think thoroughly through how my words might be read by others.
And maybe my opinion on this subject is a little off-center. Fine. So be it.
But there's another angle to this. To what extent to do we read into others' words, others' actions, so much more meaning than there is on the surface, either because our imagination runs wild or because we are better served by the outcome? To what extent do we see what we are expecting, wanting to see, rather than what is actually there?
Sitting on a friend's couch last night, catching up after a long period of "away," we go through the usual laundry list of ideas - girls, work, school, Judaism. We get to the last, and the conversation heats up. Yes, no comments needed, thank you.
Oh! I heard so much about your friend, so and so, at the Biennial, he says. He stood there on a stage, next to all those other people and davened!
I ask what he means...
I mean, he was there, right in the face of all those old-timers and he shuckled through the entire Amidah.
This friend is excited that someone like him "showed it to the man," that he forced a reckoning amongst old-timers for a new-wave of Jewish action, that he, on the stage, had done what he, on the couch, could only hope to.
But I think about the story, and my friend on the stage, and I chuckle inside to myself. Because I know him well enough to know what he really was doing. He was praying. He wasn't making some grandiose political statement or trying to change a movement of people in that one moment.
No! The Amidah is my space with God, no one can take that from me, he used to tell me. He was being real to himself, being real to his God, not letting others tell him how to be - nothing more, nothing less. He was praying! And the world saw this as the birth of a revolution.
We all do things, in our own individuality, that are interpreted a myriad of ways by others. Sometimes this is intended. Sometimes its not. We cannot be responsible for the way that others choose to read things, choose to see things, choose to feel things, if this is not our intent or real effect.
But we can, I have learned, I learned the hard way, yesterday, be cautious of the words and actions we put out into the world - cautious that, though unintended, they can be seen so differently than their intention, they can cause pain and anger and, worst, hurt - often to the people we love most.
And I certainly don't want that at all.
Ha'aretz has an interesting article today about the use of music in prayer in American synagogues. To note the obvious, more and more synagogues are changing their jingles from operatic organ music to more "modern" styles.
Read it here.
It seems to me that this music is really no different than the music that preceded it. Both are intended as gimmics to lure the masses into synagogue. Opera was once what rock is today, many synagogues were just overly slow in responding to modernity.
Regardless, this is a cure for a symptom, not the underlying problem. You can give people gimmic after gimmic to get them into shul, there's nothing wrong with that. But, eventually, if you want prayer to be sustainable and actually go anywhere, you need them to depend on more than just gimmics - they need to normalize and internalize prayer, so much that it can happen at any moment, without the guitars and drums and cellos and mandolins.
So, play the keyboard all you want in my book. But recognize the music for what it is: window dressing. The real question is how you make the actual window look nice, with a handle for easy opening, not what fabric you hang in front.
Rounding out a journey through rabbinic literature for my Survey of Judaism class, I decided to present my students with some RaMBaM. And we've done the usual before, forays into the Mishna Torah, with the rabbi's definitions of God and laws for study of Torah and the like. Time to kick things up a notch, I thought.
Bam!
I picked up my copy of the Guide for the Perplexed, and sorted through my notes to find a few of his more interesting chapters. In a 400-page treatise attempting to define and prove everything that is existence, it's not too hard to find interesting things.
But this day brought me to one chapter in particular, Book III: Chapter 27. Maimonides is trying to explain the nature and purpose of Torah, in his words, Law. Why do we have it? Why is it written in the way that it is? What does it accomplish?
The answer to his questions produce two definitions: True Truths and Necessary Truths. What? How can a truth be anything other than true? What does he mean? What is he talking about?
I read the chapter and am dumbfounded, speechless. I've read this before, but this time it makes so much more sense. I get it. It's brilliant! I have to teach it. I did.
On an Island is a button. The button is connected to a timer. Every 108 minutes the timer counts down to zero. At four minutes to zero, the timer starts to beep. At one minute, it beeps louder. At zero, all hell breaks loose.
You see, every 108 minutes, when the timer is within four minutes of zero, the button must be pressed. When it is the timer returns to 108 minutes. If the button is not pressed, the world will end.
That's right. Push the button every 108 minutes or be responsible for the destruction of humanity.
For years on-end, men spend their lives pressing the button. They take shifts. They contemplate the button's meaning. Sometimes they get so depressed with their pitiful existence that they consider letting the timer reach zero.
One man is now alone, pressing the button each day. His name is Desmond. But along come new pioneers in the task. A priest, Mr. Echo, and a bald man, John Locke.
Locke takes on the task of button-pushing quickly. He is convinced it is his fate, he has faith in his purpose. Mr. Echo too believes this and is diligent in his work.
Over time, they continue to press the button faithfully. They wonder its meaning. They are convicted in its purpose. They fulfill their roles dutifully, based on nothing more than faith.
One day, Locke and Mr. Echo find a video. This video suggests that the button is just a button, that nothing will happen if it is not pressed. It says that they are part of an experiment.
Desmond continues to believe that pushing the button is important. He does not know the truth of this video. He no longer wants to be the button-pusher, but, ultimately, believes that the world will end if the button is not pressed. To Desmond, the button is true.
Locke is furious. He looses faith because of the knowledge of this video. The button is a lie, something pulled over our eyes to shield us from reality. He is so certain in this that he wants to keep the button from being pressed. To Locke, the button is false.
Mr. Echo, is the oddball. He knows the truth of the button. He also knows the truth of the video that proves the untruth of the button. Nonetheless, he is as committed as ever, maybe even more committed than ever, to pushing the button because of the video. He will do everything in his ability to keep pressing the button. To Mr. Echo, the button is true and the video is true.
Mr. Echo's knowledge of the untruth of the button does not challenge his faith in the purpose of the button-pressing. He is a Maimonidean thinker in the fullest.
You see, Rambam's definitions of truth (true truths and necessary truths) explain a situation just like this.
The masses, Rambam believes, are generally incapable of serious thinking. They need laws to keep society functioning. They need truths to prove things. They need a button. They don't question it. It doesn't matter. They will spend all their lives pushing the button because they are told to - because they learned they are supposed to. The masses are Desmond, or Radzinsky, or Kelvin.
The button is a necessary truth.
But necessary truths are necessarily metaphor. They are not actually true. God does not have a back, though we need to believe that Moses saw it. A few special people are smart and committed enough to internalize philosophy and move beyond the necessary truth.
Locke, a philosopher like Maimonides but limited in his ability, is unable to see past the disappointment of learning true truth, of learning from the video, learning that the button isn't actually true. His faith is shaken by reality.
He no longer believes. True truth, for Locke, is too hard to handle. He would rather have never learned the truth at all. But now that he has, he wants nothing to do with the button.
The message of the video is true truth.
Mr. Echo knows the necessary truth and the true truth. He knows the law of the button, and he knows the truth behind the law of the button. But the truth behind the truth does not shake his faith in either truth. Rather, they are mutually fulfilling. They build off of each other.
This is what Maimonides asks of us.
If we are capable of living in the modern world, of knowing that there is more truth than the Law's truth, if we are able to actually understand God and the world around us, then we either allow true truth to buttress the necessary truths or to shatter them.
God doesn't have a back, can either lead me to rebel against Torah or find added meaning in why I say that Moses saw God's back. The former leaves me angry, faithless, and, like John Locke, generally without purpose. The latter gives my life new meaning, allows me think outside of the box, and go even further with my theology.
Somehow, a thousand years ago, Maimonides knew all this. He understood man well enough to predict how we act. And Lost is brilliant enough of a television show to encapsulate this lesson in an entire season's story line. (Will Season 4 start already!?)
Knowing all we know, what do we do? Can you set aside reason? Can you internalize faith? Can you push the button? Do you?
Check out the current issue of Zeek, lots of great articles, most about the indie-minyan scene.
I found the following paragraph especially interesting:
Of all these [issues that most independent minyanim are committed to], halacha in particular gets a bad rap, primarily because of specific holdings and conclusions that some find objectionable or problematic, as well as because of its propensity to overly legalistic conversation. But as I am employing the term, halacha refers to the shared spiritual discourse of mining the Jewish past for insight and wisdom, without assumptions of how the discussion will conclude - or whether it will conclude in the same way for everybody. It thus ought to be applicable to a vast range of possible Jewish communities - not just those conventionally referred to as “halachic” - ultimately including any community that wants to bring the discourse of halacha to bear on contemporary Jewish life. The details always come out differently in different conversations, but the assumption that we seek normative guidance from our tradition - that is, guidance on how we ought to live - is, I think, at the heart of any engaged, thoughtful and self-reflective Jewish community, “halachic” and otherwise.
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