"Three Books in Four Days"? That makes it sound more impressive than it was. Actually, it wasn't impressive at all.
Last weekend, Elana and I were able to get away to the Berkshires for a few days of R & R.
Upon my return, someone asked me, "Why do you go? Do you ski?" The correct answer is that, although I can ski, and sometimes do, that's not why we go to the Berkshires. For us, it allows us the opportunity to sit down and read.
This time, I completed three books that I had begun. Without the solitude, without the isolation, I don't believe I would have finished them.
The first was an Israeli novel by A. B. Yehoshua, called, Friendly Fire. Elana had read it and told me that I had to finish it so that I could explain the ending to her. And so I pushed myself and read several hundred pages in two days. I finished the book -- but I don't think I understand the ending any better than Elana. Ethan Bronner, our friend (who grew up across the street from Elana in Louisville, KY), wrote a fine review of the novel for the New York Times, in which he pointed out its flaws. Nonetheless, it felt good to read an Israeli novel. Yehoshua captures that "Israeliness" that is so nice to be reminded of.
The second book was a spy thriller by Daniel Silva, called The Kill Artist. Jan had recommended it the other day. We were talking about the recent assassination of the Hamas operative in Dubai, and the clumsy way that surveilance cameras picked up all of the assailants during their stay in Dubai. It was amazing to read a work of fiction that seemed to anticipate these concerns.
The third book was the best of all. It is Eating Animals, by Jonathan Foaer Safran. It is quite an eloquent, beautiful book, an ethical treatise.
Donna Cover had nudged me to read it -- after Leora had recommended it.
All my life I've waffled with vegetarianism. Even when Jeremy, in his singlemindedness, refrained from eating fish as well as meat, I waffled. After this book, I'm not sure I can waffle anymore.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
As I was leaving our local library this afternoon, I saw a copy of a free newspaper put out by an organization that promotes the study of Kabbalah. As is well known, Kabbalah has become very popularized in our society. I thought that it might be interesting to take a look at this newspaper and see what it does to promote Kabbalah's appeal.
Before I had the chance to do that, I saw something that immediately distanced me from the entire enterprise. Just about the first thing I saw in the newspaper was a sentence on the front page: "The men who wrote the Zohar were a group of ten great Kabbalists led by the famous Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai (RASHBI)."
What fascinates me -- and depresses me -- about this sentence and its prominent place in this magazine is that it is so blatantly false. Scholars don't know everything about the creation of the Zohar, but one thing that they know for certain is that it wasn't written by Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai. Yes, the Zohar is attributed to him. Yes, the text purports to be a collection of tales and commentaries written by RASHBI and his colleagues and disciples. But the work was written in medieval Spain. RASHBI -- if he existed -- was a Talmudic sage who died a millenium earlier. (For a good introduction to the Zohar, consult A Guide to the Zohar (2004) by Arthur Green, published by Stanford University Press.)
Now, someone might ask: Does it really matter? Does it matter who wrote the Zohar? After all, people turn to Kabbalah because they are drawn to mysticism. They are drawn to Kabbalah because they are seeking answers to personal issues and quandaries. It's probably irrelevant to them that the Zohar was written in the Middle Ages and not in Late Antiquity. If it doesn't matter to them, should it matter to anyone? Does it matter at all?
I believe that it does. To me, truth is actually important. I say "actually," because you would think that any religious leader would care about truth. But many religious leaders, though they care about religious truth -- that is, truth with a capital "T," -- they don't care about historical truth. Historical truth is just not relevant to them. And so, if "the tradition" teaches us that the Zohar was written in the 3rd century by RASHBI, that's what happened, and we have no need to question it. The authors of this article are probably saying to themselves, "We 'know' who wrote the Zohar. We don't want to hear about, we don't want to know about, any research that would question that 'fact.' Indeed, questioning that fact may be religiously offensive."
I have a problem with that. To me, Judaism has always been inspiring. It's always been a source of comfort, a source of inspiration. But truth matters to me. It matters a lot. I could never teach people what I know to be false, any more than I could teach them to do what I know to be wrong. And truth matters to me not because of who I am, but because of what Judaism teaches. In our tradition, the word "emet," (truth), is "the seal of God." God desires truth. That which is untruthful is not consistent with our understanding of God's will. To spread falsehood is hardly a praiseworthy religious act.
And so, this little sentence in this newspaper discredits the entire newspaper -- from my perspective. It renders everything that its publisher produces suspect. The people who produce this newspaper don't seem to care about historical truth in the way that I do -- how then can I learn religious lessons from them?
And so, before writing this blog, I tossed that newspaper into the trashcan. However interesting those articles might be, however much I wanted to enjoy that newspaper, I knew it was going to leave me disappointed and discouraged.
Before I had the chance to do that, I saw something that immediately distanced me from the entire enterprise. Just about the first thing I saw in the newspaper was a sentence on the front page: "The men who wrote the Zohar were a group of ten great Kabbalists led by the famous Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai (RASHBI)."
What fascinates me -- and depresses me -- about this sentence and its prominent place in this magazine is that it is so blatantly false. Scholars don't know everything about the creation of the Zohar, but one thing that they know for certain is that it wasn't written by Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai. Yes, the Zohar is attributed to him. Yes, the text purports to be a collection of tales and commentaries written by RASHBI and his colleagues and disciples. But the work was written in medieval Spain. RASHBI -- if he existed -- was a Talmudic sage who died a millenium earlier. (For a good introduction to the Zohar, consult A Guide to the Zohar (2004) by Arthur Green, published by Stanford University Press.)
Now, someone might ask: Does it really matter? Does it matter who wrote the Zohar? After all, people turn to Kabbalah because they are drawn to mysticism. They are drawn to Kabbalah because they are seeking answers to personal issues and quandaries. It's probably irrelevant to them that the Zohar was written in the Middle Ages and not in Late Antiquity. If it doesn't matter to them, should it matter to anyone? Does it matter at all?
I believe that it does. To me, truth is actually important. I say "actually," because you would think that any religious leader would care about truth. But many religious leaders, though they care about religious truth -- that is, truth with a capital "T," -- they don't care about historical truth. Historical truth is just not relevant to them. And so, if "the tradition" teaches us that the Zohar was written in the 3rd century by RASHBI, that's what happened, and we have no need to question it. The authors of this article are probably saying to themselves, "We 'know' who wrote the Zohar. We don't want to hear about, we don't want to know about, any research that would question that 'fact.' Indeed, questioning that fact may be religiously offensive."
I have a problem with that. To me, Judaism has always been inspiring. It's always been a source of comfort, a source of inspiration. But truth matters to me. It matters a lot. I could never teach people what I know to be false, any more than I could teach them to do what I know to be wrong. And truth matters to me not because of who I am, but because of what Judaism teaches. In our tradition, the word "emet," (truth), is "the seal of God." God desires truth. That which is untruthful is not consistent with our understanding of God's will. To spread falsehood is hardly a praiseworthy religious act.
And so, this little sentence in this newspaper discredits the entire newspaper -- from my perspective. It renders everything that its publisher produces suspect. The people who produce this newspaper don't seem to care about historical truth in the way that I do -- how then can I learn religious lessons from them?
And so, before writing this blog, I tossed that newspaper into the trashcan. However interesting those articles might be, however much I wanted to enjoy that newspaper, I knew it was going to leave me disappointed and discouraged.
Monday, February 15, 2010
The other day, a member of my congregation who works at a local funeral home asked me to review a prayer to be recited upon lighting a seven-day shiva candle. I found the prayer to be cold and stiff. When I told my congregant that, she asked if I might be able to write one myself. I willingly agreed.
One of my earliest memories is seeing a shiva candle burning in my family's living room. At the time we lived in a row home in Philadelphia. Unlike the candle pictured above, the candle I recall was contained within a red-colored glass sheath. At night, it cast a beautiful reddish glow through the room.
The candle was there because we were sitting shiva -- though I didn't know it at the time. I don't recall hearing the word "shiva" mentioned. Whenever I see a shiva candle burning in a home, I think of that first one that I saw. It's not an unpleasant sensation. Somehow, even though that candle was burning in a home that had suffered a serious loss, remembering that candle brings back feelings of warmth and security.
My mother died at the age of 39. I was five years old at the time, so I don't have too many memories of her. I do remember that, just before the funeral, my sisters and I were allowed to see her. She was dressed in a beautiful blue dress. I remember that we had been involved in choosing that dress. At some point between my mother's death and the funeral, my Aunt Eva (my mother's sister) had come over to our house to choose the outfit in which my mother would be buried. My aunt showed that blue dress to the three of us, and I recall all of us nodding our heads in agreement.
In the coffin, my mother looked lovely. We were alone. Since children weren't permitted to attend funerals in those days, this was our last chance to see my mother and "say goodbye." I was curious and couldn't stop myself. I reached out to touch her wrist. It looked normal, but it felt cold. Before we left the room, my father bent down to kiss my mother on her forehead.
I recall that sometime afterwards, someone -- it might have been my Aunt Eva -- asked me, "Weren't the flowers lovely?"
"What flowers?" I said. And this elicited startled, amused reactions: "You mean you didn't notice the flowers?" "Can you believe it, he didn't notice the flowers!"
The memory I have of that shiva candle must have been from later that day or one of the days thereafter. The house was a grieving household, and yet I can recall feeling calm as I looked at that candle.
The symbolism of a shiva candle is, indeed, powerful. It's a reminder of the ability of a human soul to illuminate someone's life -- even after death. That was certainly true in the case of my mother, and it is true whenever a loving, caring person, a person who forms strong connections with other human beings, dies.
My hope is that I will be able to write a prayer that can bring to the surface mourners' appreciation for their loved ones, and rally their hope for the future, so that when they light the shiva candle, they will feel the way I did, way back when I first saw such a candle burning in my family's living room.
One of my earliest memories is seeing a shiva candle burning in my family's living room. At the time we lived in a row home in Philadelphia. Unlike the candle pictured above, the candle I recall was contained within a red-colored glass sheath. At night, it cast a beautiful reddish glow through the room.
The candle was there because we were sitting shiva -- though I didn't know it at the time. I don't recall hearing the word "shiva" mentioned. Whenever I see a shiva candle burning in a home, I think of that first one that I saw. It's not an unpleasant sensation. Somehow, even though that candle was burning in a home that had suffered a serious loss, remembering that candle brings back feelings of warmth and security.
My mother died at the age of 39. I was five years old at the time, so I don't have too many memories of her. I do remember that, just before the funeral, my sisters and I were allowed to see her. She was dressed in a beautiful blue dress. I remember that we had been involved in choosing that dress. At some point between my mother's death and the funeral, my Aunt Eva (my mother's sister) had come over to our house to choose the outfit in which my mother would be buried. My aunt showed that blue dress to the three of us, and I recall all of us nodding our heads in agreement.
In the coffin, my mother looked lovely. We were alone. Since children weren't permitted to attend funerals in those days, this was our last chance to see my mother and "say goodbye." I was curious and couldn't stop myself. I reached out to touch her wrist. It looked normal, but it felt cold. Before we left the room, my father bent down to kiss my mother on her forehead.
I recall that sometime afterwards, someone -- it might have been my Aunt Eva -- asked me, "Weren't the flowers lovely?"
"What flowers?" I said. And this elicited startled, amused reactions: "You mean you didn't notice the flowers?" "Can you believe it, he didn't notice the flowers!"
The memory I have of that shiva candle must have been from later that day or one of the days thereafter. The house was a grieving household, and yet I can recall feeling calm as I looked at that candle.
The symbolism of a shiva candle is, indeed, powerful. It's a reminder of the ability of a human soul to illuminate someone's life -- even after death. That was certainly true in the case of my mother, and it is true whenever a loving, caring person, a person who forms strong connections with other human beings, dies.
My hope is that I will be able to write a prayer that can bring to the surface mourners' appreciation for their loved ones, and rally their hope for the future, so that when they light the shiva candle, they will feel the way I did, way back when I first saw such a candle burning in my family's living room.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Earlier today, I heard a speech on the radio that disturbed me.
It happens to be a speech by a national political figure, so I hesitate to speak or write about it, because I don't in any way wish to say anything about the speaker's political views. But because the comment isn't so much about political views as it is an expression of an attitude regarding intelligence and its role in leadership, I feel compelled to respond. The speech included the following sentence:
“We need a commander-in-chief, not a professor of law standing at a lectern.”
It occurs to me that a statement of this kind was probably uttered many times during the presidential campaign of a genuine war hero who ran against an intellectual senator from Illinois who was known as an intellectual . I'm referring to the Dwight D. Eisenhower's successful campaign against Adlai Stevenson.
“We need a commander-in-chief, not a professor of law standing at a lectern.”
It occurs to me that a statement of this kind was probably uttered many times during the presidential campaign of a genuine war hero who ran against an intellectual senator from Illinois who was known as an intellectual . I'm referring to the Dwight D. Eisenhower's successful campaign against Adlai Stevenson.
It makes me want to go back to Richard Hofstadter's book, "Anti-Intellectualism in American Life." I don't believe I ever read that book in full. -- I only skimmed it. Now, I want to read it from cover to cover.
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