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Tazria: Newborn Spirituality

3/30/2011

 
Once a month, I lead a spirituality discussion group in the psychiatric unit of our local hospital. Once a month, I spend forty-five minutes talking with people for whom the struggle to find meaning is as urgent and necessary as breathing. Often, there is a power to the insights revealed in this setting that I have not experienced anywhere in the so-called "normal" world. 

I always begin the discussion by asking a simple question: "What experiences have you encountered in life that you would describe as spiritual?" Often, I am surprised by the powerful answers I hear. Some describe imagined visits to other worlds. I have heard people talk with frightening intensity about losing someone they love. I have listened to people recall moments of joy, terror and wonder.

Take a moment, please, to think about your answer to the question. What experience or relationship have you had in life that you would describe as "spiritual"?

In all of the hundreds of answers I have heard to the question, I find one common element. The experiences we call spiritual are those in which we feel connected to something beyond ourselves. Whether it is the intensity of deeply and sincerely empathizing with another person, or the overwhelming realization of ones smallness in a vast universe, spiritual experiences are moments in which we reach beyond individuality and discover that we are inextricably linked to something beyond ourselves.

There is also this surprising fact: In all of the hundreds of answers I have heard to the question, there is one answer that is, by far, the most common. I find that about one in five people says that his or her most memorable spiritual experience is the experience of becoming a parent. It is, in fact, the answer that I would give myself. 

There has been no other moment in my life that compares to holding that dear, tiny, new baby child—who is an echo of my own life—for the first time. In that moment, I feel intensely connected to all the generations that have preceded me and all that will follow. I am gazing into the eye of eternity and see myself to be part of it. It is a moment of shocking clarity and also of disquieting amazement—like being pulled, temporarily, out of the world to catch a glimpse of a deeper reality.  

Does that sound crazy? Or is it, rather, a release from the ordinary insanity of our lives?

This week's Torah portion, Tazria, opens with one of the most baffling laws in the Torah. The law states that a woman is considered ritually impure (tamei, in Hebrew) for a set period of time after giving birth. During her impurity, she must not touch any holy object or enter into the holy place of God's house. For thirty-three days after giving birth to a son, or for sixty-six days after giving birth to a girl (!), the mother is kept apart from the things that "normal" (sane?) people consider sacred.

This law asks many questions; it offers few answers, if any. Why is a woman who may be at a peak spiritual moment considered unfit for the sacred? Why does the birth of a girl force a period of impurity that is twice as long? 

It seems to me that there is something deeply frightening to the normal world about a woman who has just given birth. There is something about her that must be controlled. Boundaries have to be put in place to keep the contagion of danger from spreading. A fence is built around her.

As I ponder this, I consider that this is also how I sometimes think about my spiritual moments—the moments of feeling deeply connected. They, too, are a threat to so-called normal life. I sense that, if I were to linger too long in the place where I am inextricably linked to something beyond myself, I would be in danger of losing myself. It can feel wonderful to dive deeply into the ocean of intense spirituality, but before long, I have to come up from the depths to breathe the air of individuality, self, and boundaries that separate myself from others.

The woman who holds newborn eternity in her hands—who brings the future and the past together as they suckle at her breast—she represents the danger of living without the boundaries that separate conventional reality from the numinous. She defies the laws of differentiation by being two beings in one. Declaring her tamei is a declaration of our own limitations. We are not meant to live in the world of undifferentiated pure holiness.

For those thirty-three or sixty-six days, she is passing through the place without boundaries. It is the place where the distinctions between sacred and profane are obliterated. It cannot last for long, but while it does, what does it matter if she cannot enter the place that normal people deem holy? To her, in that moment of supreme connection, every place and everything is holy.

Sh'mini: Eat. Pray. Kashrut.

3/23/2011

 
The things that the body craves are not always the things that fulfill us. 

I see a candy bar on the shelf by the drugstore register and I have an impulse to pick it up and casually hand it to the woman behind the counter along with the toothpaste and shampoo I actually intended to buy when I walked into the store. Somehow, this time, I stop myself from reaching out my hand to pick up the candy. I remind myself that thirty seconds after eating that candy bar, I would feel no more satisfied than thirty seconds before.

And, yes, there are also times that I don't stop myself.

This week's Torah reading includes rules for eating — what animals may be eaten and which may not. Since I am a vegetarian, these rules don't have much practical impact on me. I don't eat the permitted animals, let alone the forbidden ones, so I have to find another meaning for this text. To me, it's all about making eating a spiritual practice.

We are hard-wired to crave certain foods. We are, in part, still the creatures we were when we had to get our food by hunting and gathering. Like those ancestors, we seek out sweetness — the sugars in a ripe piece of fruit — as a source of quick energy. Only now, in the modern world, sweetness is no rarity; it is all around us in choices that our primeval ancestors never could have enjoyed. Nowadays, if we were to indulge at every opportunity in the foods that we crave, we would destroy ourselves. Of course, many people do just that.

And our unhealthy cravings are not limited to food, either.

The laws of kashrut are not just an exercise in maintaining ancient dietary practices or of blindly obeying God's commands. Kashrut is a practice in making wise choices and protecting ourselves from self-destructive impulses. By forcing us to think about our food, Kashrut teaches us to take care of ourselves and to act courageously in the pursuit of our own happiness.

That is a holy task. When we act thoughtfully and mindfully about how we treat ourselves, we add sanctity to our lives. By thinking about our choices — not just acting on impulse — we raise ourselves up beyond our animal selves and become creatures capable of reaching toward holiness. 

This week, as I take another step on the journey toward Pesach and the time of our liberation, I focus on how I use my freedom to make wise choices that foster my happiness, and avoid the pitfalls of turning myself into a slave of my impulses.

Imagine There's No Haman

3/17/2011

 
Imagine There's No Haman

Imagine there's no Haman 
It's easy if you try 
No efforts to destroy us 
No need to wonder why 
Imagine all the people 
Living for God’s way! 

Imagine there's no hatred 
It isn't hard to do 
No one to bow down to
And no rulers too 
Imagine all the people 
Living life in peace 

You may say that I'm a dreamer 
But I'm not the only one 
I hope someday you'll join us 
Purim joy for everyone!

Imagine no humiliation 
I wonder if you will 
No need for greed or hunger 
All can eat their fill 
Imagine all the people 
Noshing hamantaschen! 

You may say that I'm a dreamer 
But I'm not the only one 
I hope someday you'll join us 
Purim joy for everyone!

Tzav: Find the Sacred in Every Little Thing

3/16/2011

 
The priest shall dress in linen raiment, with linen breeches next to his body; and he shall take up the ashes to which the fire has reduced the burnt offering on the altar and place them beside the altar.  -Leviticus 6:3

Rabbi Tzvi Hirsch HaCohen of Riminov is quoted in the collection Itturei Torah (Vol. 4, p. 30), saying about this verse:

"Ashes" means a thing of little substance.  The word in Hebrew, (deshen), is an acronym for "davar shelo nechshav," something that is not even thought about. This teaches that you should find the sacred in every little thing and raise it up. Anything that seems small and of little value is placed next to the altar.  Treat it as a sacred object.


Take time to celebrate the little things of life—the melting of the snow, the laughter of a child, the smile of a friend, your own passing thoughts. Know that each little thing has the sanctity of an offering upon the altar of the Temple, and the holiness of your own deepest prayer.

Everything is holy when we take the time to appreciate it. Every moment is a gateway to the Divine, if we are willing to open ourselves to the moment. Discover your deepest happiness in the appreciation of a world in which even the windblown ashes are an opportunity to connect with the sacred.

Vayikra: Should I Bow to a Block of Wood?

3/6/2011

 
"Should I bow to a block of wood?"
—Isaiah 44:19

How on earth do all of the animal sacrifices detailed in this week's Torah portion mean anything to me? I don't worship God by burning animal flesh. Is there any way I can read this Torah portion as anything more than a remembrance of worship rituals that were discarded nearly 2,000 years ago and replaced  by prayer and study?

Burning animals on an altar—what is that? When I think about the actual act of taking an animal that I have raised from birth and bringing it to the Temple to return it to the One who made it, only then does it hit me that there is a material reality that is missing from worshipping only with words. Life—my life, your life, and the life of the plants and animals upon which our lives depend—is a gift. It is only when we are required to give back some of that life, materially and physically, that we understand that it was never really ours to begin with. That is the insight that makes Parashat Vayikra begin to make sense to me.

No, I am not advocating the revival of ritual sacrifice. On the other hand, I don't want to denigrate it as a useless anachronism, either. I hear the words of the Torah this week describing my obligation to acknowledge the source of my life by giving some life back to my Source. Whether that life is understood as a first-born lamb, or the energy and attention that make up my life, the message is powerful: Our lives are not our own. We did not create them and, in the end, we will have no claim upon them.

The haftarah we will read this coming Shabbat strengthens the message. In poetic language, Isaiah describes the wood carver who cuts down a tree, maps out a design upon the wood, carves it with his own hands, burns part of it for fuel ... and then turns the rest into an idol to worship. The folly of idolatry is laid bare by Isaiah. Are gods the things we make, or is God that which has made us?

Can we ever find real contentment or happiness in life if all we ever worship is ourselves? Can we ever find meaning or purpose in life if our work is all that gives us meaning? Isn't that the common and contemporary form of idolatry? 

Isaiah wants us to look deeper, beyond the confines of ego and selfishness, and I need that. I need to believe that my life is more than just chasing after my own desires and self-satisfaction with my own temporary accomplishments. My real and deep joy in life comes from being part of something larger—a promise that stretches across generations, keeping faith with eternal values, serving an ideal of how the world ought to be.

I revel and rejoice in a life that is more than a block of wood.

More Pekudei Thoughts

3/4/2011

 
“Within, it was decked with love.”
-Song of Songs 3:10

The rabbis of antiquity wondered why God needed the Mishkan (the Tabernacle in which God's presence rested). God's presence fills all the world, so what is the Mishkan for? We ask the same question when we ask questions like, "What do we need a synagogue for? Why do we need any kind of religious institution to find God? Isn't God everywhere?" One answer comes from a midrash on Song of Songs (Shir HaShirim Rabba 3:20):

Rabbi Yehoshua of Siknin said in the name of Rabbi Levi: To what can the Ohel Mo’ed be compared? To a cave adjoining the sea, which the sea overflows when it becomes rough. Though the cave is filled, the sea loses nothing. So the tent of meeting was filled with the glory of the divine presence, and yet the world lost nothing of the Shechinah [God's felt presence].

There is nothing intrinsically special about the Mishkan (called the Ohel Mo'ed, "Tent of Meeting," in this passage), just as there is nothing intrinsically special about a synagogue. God doesn't need a special place. We do. We need a place to notice God, like we notice the sea filling a cave on the craggy shores of the sea. The sea is always there, but we fail to notice. We fail to notice God in our lives until we set aside a place that we make special for the purpose of experiencing wonder.

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