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Kedoshim: Being Holy

4/28/2011

 
There is an old-fashioned way of referring to members of the clergy. Time was that a priest, minister or rabbi would be called a "holy man."  The term seems to be out of favor these days—partly because so many clergy are "holy women" (I don't hear that phrase too often), and partly because people today seem to prefer clergy to be friendly and engaging, not lofty and distant from the world.

Still, the image of the "holy man" continues to effect the way we think about holiness. Most people don't aspire to be "holy"—that is a designation, they imagine, reserved for saints and religious ascetics. Yet, this week's Torah portion, Kedoshim, asks us repeatedly and unrelentingly to "be holy, for I, Adonai your God, am holy" (Leviticus 19:2; 20:7; 20:26).  Holiness, we are told, is not only something to which we should aspire, it is something we are commanded to be. Are we all expected to be superhuman saints?

Not so. Looking at the portion, the prescription for us to "be holy" does not seem beyond reach. We are told to revere our parents, to observe Shabbat, to share our wealth with the poor, not to steal or deceive, and to love others as we love ourselves. That, it says, is what holy people do. 

There is nothing in the prescription about ascending bodily into heaven or hearing God's voice in our heads. There is nothing about voluntary withdrawal from the world of material things. The Torah's vision of holiness is one in which we elevate an ordinary life, not one in which we try to escape it.

Be holy. Be a holy man; be a holy woman. Be yourself and beyond.

Counting from Freedom to Covenant: Discipline

4/26/2011

 
Last week, I wrote about how the Counting of the Omer is understood to be a journey through forty-nine gates, one for every day of the counting. The journey take the practitioner from the freedom celebrated on Passover to the acceptance of the covenant celebrated on Shavuot.

My practice over the years has been to follow the association between each day of the Omer and a unique coupling of the seven lower sefirot. (You can download the chart of the sefirot on the Favorites page).  Each of the seven lower sefirot is a complex web of interrelated human and divine qualities. In simplified form, they are love, strength, balance, endurance, humility, bonding and nobility. 

Beginning tonight, we will enter the second week of the Counting of the Omer, the week associated with the sefirah of g'vurah, which can be understood as strength, justice, severity, discipline and will. The second week is about contemplating the way in which we set limits for ourselves and the way we judge ourselves and others.

This has alway been a tough week for me. Like many people, I tend to be quite hard on myself. This is a good week for questioning whether my self-criticism and severity is productive or destructive, helpful or harmful.

The first day of this week, Wednesday, will be a day for contemplating the quality of chesed within g'vurah—love within discipline. It is a day on which I try to ask myself, "Do I make room for loving myself at the same time as I try to be strict with myself?" "Is my judgment of other people harsh and without compassion?"

Thursday is the pairing of g'vurah within g'vurah—discipline within discipline. I ask, "Do I exercise restraint in the way I judge myself, or is my self-judgment endless and automatic?" Has self-criticism just become a habit that takes me toward an endless spiral of self-loathing? How can I escape that cycle to reveal joy?

Love and strength are partners when I keep them in balance with each other, allowing me to be both critical and kind to myself and others. Friday--tiferet within g'vurah—is a day for thinking about maintaining a balance in the way I use my ability to judge.

This Shabbat will be the day that pairs netzach within g'vurah—endurance within strength. Personal resolutions for change and improvement require discipline over the long haul. Does my strength endure?

Sunday is the combination of hod within g'vurah—humility within strength—and it may be the most important pairing of the week. Am I able to subdue my ego in the exercise of power? Do I recognize the gifts and beauty of other people, or do I deny their integrity by using them as means to seek my own ends?

Monday will bring me to yesod within g'vurah—bonding within strength. Self-reliance alone does not necessarily make a person strong.  How does my strength come from my attachment to others?

The week of g'vurah ends with malchut within g'vurah—nobility within strength. How do I use my strength and self-discipline to reach the highest within me? How do I transform firmness and discipline into mastery and courage? How does my strength make me the hero of my own life?

"Not One of Them Was Left"

4/25/2011

 
"Adonai, our God, You redeemed us from Egypt and You rescued us from the house of bondage. You slew all their firstborn and You redeemed Your own firstborn. You split the waters of the Sea of Reeds. You drowned the wicked; You saved the beloved. The waters covered their enemies and not one of them was left." 

That is part of the traditional text of the Ge'ulah blessing—the blessing for redemption—that is recited every morning right after the recitation of the Shema. (This part of the blessing is edited out of Reform prayerbooks). 

Tradition says that today, the seventh day of Pesach, is the anniversary of that day when God parted the waters for the Israelites and allowed the sea to come crashing down on Pharaoh's army. We've been paying for it ever since.

The rabbis of the midrash and the Talmud cringed at the thought that God would choose to murder the Egyptians in order to rescue the Israelites. According to one midrash, God shushes the angels in heaven when they cheer the destruction of the Egyptians.  "My creatures are drowning," says God to the angels, "and you would sing praises to Me?"

As I look at the words of the Ge'ulah blessing tonight, though, I notice for the first time that the wording is ambiguous. Who is wicked? Who is beloved? Whose heads were covered with water? Such ambiguity cries out to be interpreted.  Why couldn't the prayer just say, "You drowned the Egyptians and You saved us"?  There has to be a reason.

The reason, I think, is to remind us that it could just as easily be the other way around. God does not favor Israel just because it is Israel. God does not punish Israel's enemies just because they are our enemies. That kind of easy triumphalism is exactly what the author of the blessing wants to avoid. There is no promise that Israel is the redeemed in the text, just the possibility of being the saved beloved, which exists alongside the possibility of being the wicked drowned.

"Egypt" (Mitzrayim, in Hebrew) is not just a country in the rabbinic imagination. It is the very idea of the human ego running amok with self-adoration. Mitzrayim is the place of narrowness (the word tzar, hidden within "Mitzrayim," means "narrow.") It is the place where we put on the blinders that keep our vision from expanding to include anything but ourselves. The rabbis were right to cringe. It wasn't an army of Egyptians that God chose to wipe out. It was the egotism that allows human beings to see only themselves until not one other human being is left.

The idea that we would think ourselves great because God saved us from Mitzrayim is the very opposite of the lesson intended from this story. The Ge'ulah blessing had to be written in a way that denied the self-congratulatory reading. Our joy on the seventh day of Pesach is not the product of thinking ourselves special or superior. Rather, it is the joy of humility that we experience when we realize that we are loved despite ourselves.

The seventh day of Pesach is a major festival day, a festival of humility. Unlike every other major pilgrimage festival day of the year, we recite only the short version of the hallel psalms today. We remind ourselves not to be too loud when we praise God for transforming us from slaves into free people. This day is set aside for recognizing that the deepest joy is not the joy of boasting. Rather, it is what we experience when we take off the blinders and see a world much bigger and richer than it could be if it were our invention alone.

Counting from Freedom to Covenant: Love

4/20/2011

 
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Each day of the Counting of the Omer is a gate that pairs two of the lower seven sefirot — chesed, gevurah, tiferet, netzach, hod, yesod and malchut.
Today is the first day of Sefirat HaOmer, the Counting of the Omer.  Today, I am beginning my annual 49-day countdown from the second day of Pesach to the festival of Shavuot. Over these next seven weeks, I hope to travel a course that will take me out of slavery in Egypt and up to the revelation of Torah at Mount Sinai. It is a journey that defines the boundaries of my Jewish identity, going from the ecstatic experience of freedom to the sublime acceptance of covenant. 

The paired opposites find their truest meaning when they are forced together. Freedom needs obligation to be meaningful. Obligation needs freedom to be accepted joyfully.

In the Jewish mystical tradition, this period of transition is compared to walking through forty-nine gates, one for each day of the counting. The gate for each day is formed by pairing two of the seven lower sefirot, the divine "emanations" by which God's qualities are revealed. (You can download the above chart of the sefirot from the "Resources" page). 

The first week of the counting is the week of chesed ("love"). Today, the first day of the week, I am trying to find myself walking through the gate of chesed within chesed — love within love — and I am asking myself how I show my love to other people. Am I loving, gracious and giving in the way I love?  Or, does my love come with a price? Do the people I love feel loved? Or, do I love people in a way that makes it difficult to receive? I ask myself, what can I do to deepen my loving relationships?

These gates are high and wide, yet they are difficult to walk through.

As the week continues, I hope to walk tomorrow (Thursday) through the gate of gevurah (discipline) within chesed — a day to consider how I demonstrate appropriate discipline and restraint in my loving relationships. Friday is tiferet (balance) within chesed — how do I maintain equanimity in my loving relationships? Shabbat is netzach (endurance) within chesed — how do I form relationships that are built to last? Sunday is hod (humility) within chesed — how do I set appropriate boundaries of modesty around the way I show love? Monday is yesod (foundation) within chesed — how do I place my loving relationship at the foundation of my life? The week of chesed ends next Tuesday as I will walk through the gate of malchut (nobility) within chesed — how does my love raise me up to my highest aspirations?

I invite you, too, to use this week as a time to examine the role of love in your life. Discover the ways in which love has become tired, unbalanced, blocked or unfocused. Then think about what you'd like to do to make it right. In this way, you and I can deepen our love, make it more fulfilling, and live more of the joyful life we were meant to live.

Bedikat Chameitz

4/17/2011

 
Tonight, my children and I performed one of their favorite rituals, and I have to admit that it is one of mine, too.

I brought them down to the bottom of the stairs in the dining room, which was in total darkness, and asked my older daughter to light the candle while her sister held the feather and the large wooden spoon.  I held the paper bag. Together, we made the blessing for the search for chameitz (leavening). 

Baruch atah Adonai Eloheinu melech ha'olam asher kid'shanu b'mitzvotav, v'tzivanu al biur chameitz.  Blessed are you, Adonai our God, Source of all being, who makes us holy with mitzvot, and commands us to remove chameitz.

I told the girls that our search for the ten pieces of bread (which they knew I had hidden a few minutes before) would be done only by the light of the candle and, as much as possible, in silence. We were searching not only for pieces of bread, but also searching ourselves for all the stuck places in our hearts where we wish to free ourselves. The two of them started wandering through the house, holding back their squeals of delight each time one of them spotted a square of quartered sandwich bread. The feather would come out to sweep it into the spoon and then the spoon would deposit it into the bag.

Why do my girls love this ritual so much? Of course, there is the excitement of knowing that Pesach (Passover) begins tomorrow night. There is also the fun of carrying the lit candle through the house and playing with the props of feather and spoon. Maybe that's it.  Maybe they also really like seeing how seriously I take all the Pesach preparation and give them their own special role in all the madness. Maybe, they also get some of the deeper stuff. Maybe.

I know why I love this ritual. I love the way we use rituals to do the impossible and pretend that we have accomplished a miracle.  We are supposed to rid our homes on this night of every vestige of leavening. Every single molecule of grain in the house is to be hunted down and exterminated so that the festival can be celebrated in a state of purity and perfection. We pretend that it is so, and in so doing, we really do perform a miracle. 

It is the miracle of creating within our souls the memory of deliverance. We were slaves and now we are free. Our imperfect lives — so filled with so many forms of self-imposed servitude — are redeemable. We are made free with a word, a spoon and a feather.

The pieces of bread are all gathered in the bag.  (Well, actually, all but the one that the dog found and ate while I was trying to find a feather.) Tomorrow morning I'll burn the bag on my driveway and utter a formula declaring my home to be free of chameitz. I'll be ready to sing the songs and drink the cups of wine at the seder tomorrow night.  I'll know, against all material evidence to the contrary, that I personally was delivered from slavery in Mitzrayim. A miracle.

Tonight, my children and I performed one of their favorite rituals, and I have to admit that it is one of mine, too.

Acharei Mot: Facing the Direction of Azazel

4/12/2011

 
By fire, God killed Aaron's sons, Nadav and Avihu, for the sin of bringing an offering to the Tabernacle when they were not told to do so. It was right after their death, of all times, that God chose to tell Aaron about the ritual on Yom Kippur for purifying the Tabernacle of sin.  

If the timing of this instruction was painful for Aaron— like God rubbing salt into the wounds of his grief—the symbolism of the scapegoat ritual may have been even more agonizing. God commanded Aaron, every year, to watch as the pair were symbolically cast into fire again.

"Bring two goats to the Tent of Meeting," God tells Aaron (Lev. 16:7-8). "Place lots on them, one marked 'for the Lord' and one marked 'for Azazel.'" The one marked 'for the Lord' was offered as a sacrifice upon the altar to atone for sin. The one marked 'for Azazel' was sent off into the wilderness, never to be seen again, to symbolically carry away the people's sins.

Aaron doubly experienced the worst possible grief, the death of a child, and was doomed to recapitulate it every Yom Kippur. Those two goats, marked for death because of sin, might as well have been the ghosts of Nadav and Avihu for Aaron. 

Perhaps Aaron wondered which of his boys was meant "for the Lord" and which "Azazel." Could it have mattered? Both of them were dead.

What (or who) is Azazel? No explanation is offered in the Torah. Azazel has been explained variously as a vestigial reference to a demon, a place of impurity, a personification of wickedness, or simply as a word that means "sent away."  In the end, it does not really matter what the word meant originally. We understand it as the place where our sins go once we wriggle loose of them. 

The rabbis of the Mishnah elaborated on the scapegoat ritual and say that the High Priest would tie a piece of red wool onto the head of the goat sent to Azazel and that he would "turn in the direction to which it was sent" (M. Yoma 4:1-3). And so, I imagine, Aaron, for many years after the deaths of his two oldest sons, staring off into the wilderness on Yom Kippur, searching for the place where the goat was sent. I hear him muttering: Are you there, Nadav?  Avihu, my boy, are you there? Is that bit of red I see on the horizon the ribbon I tied on your hand the day you were born? How can it be that I have wriggled loose of you?

Regret and grief are not feelings we associate with joy, but they are a necessary part of living in a world of imperfection and impermanence. In order for us, who have lived through sorrow, to come back to joy, we have to be willing to look in the direction of our loss. We have to be able to acknowledge the hard pit of grief in our gut that will never go away. It is only after we have turned in the direction of Azazel, that we can turn back to living life with appreciation of what we have, and what we had.

A Pesach Lesson from Yoga: Freedom Comes in Two Flavors

4/9/2011

 
In Jewish tradition, Pesach (Passover) is called Z'man Cheruteinu, the season of our freedom. Tradition also tells us that on Pesach we are  to consider ourselves as if we, personally, were delivered from slavery in Egypt. That must mean that the freedom we celebrate on Pesach is not just the remembrance of a long-ago liberation. Pesach is a time to experience and act upon the freedom in our life today—in the here and now.
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During the weeks before Pesach this year, I've been trying to put more focussed attention on freedom and what it means to me in my personal life. I ask myself: In what ways am I free? How do I unintentionally constrict my freedom? What do I do with the freedom I have?

By coincidence (if you believe in that sort of thing), my amazing yoga teacher chose to talk last week in class about freedom. "Freedom," she said, "comes in two flavors: freedom from and freedom to." We experience "freedom from" when we remove ourselves from the things that hurt us or confine us. It's the kind of freedom that we celebrate when we see a dictator fall or when we decide to move beyond the limitations of our own past. "Freedom from" is liberation from confinement and contraction. 

"Freedom to," though, is a different sort of experience.

"Freedom to" is the experience of reaching beyond our present selves to expand the limits of our potential. We celebrate this freedom when we try new things, embrace new ideas, and attempt to do things we thought were impossible. Where "freedom from" is an act of self-preservation and self-affirmation, "freedom to" is an act of self-discovery and self-transformation. Exercising "freedom from" helps us to feel secure; exercising "freedom to" helps us to feel expansion and joy.

The entire discipline of yoga can be oversimplified as the practice of developing a sound foundation that is rooted in reality — an act of "freedom from" — and reaching from that foundation, to the extent our bodies will allow, to create a new reality — an act of "freedom to." Yoga poses are built on a secure connection to the ground that expands outward and upward into an expression of courage and joy.

Much the same thing, I believe, happens in Judaism. 

Living a life of Torah begins with the grounding principles of ethics, reverence, humility, and acceptance of the mitzvot. However, building this foundation alone is not enough. A life of Torah also means living with love, joy and courage to strive toward our greatest potential and possibility. Adhering to halakhah (Jewish law—however one may understand it) is only half the battle. The other half is to be a warrior in the cause of self-transformation and self-discovery. It is to become the champions of our own lives.

My tendency during Pesach is to focus on the first part. I get very caught up in the search for hametz (leavening), the rituals of the seder, and keeping the dietary restrictions of the holiday. This year, I want to let the second part receive the energy it deserves, too. I want to make Pesach a time of exercising my freedom to be more in touch with the needs of my family and the others I love, to try new ways of expressing myself creatively, to make new connections with people and with community. 

Those things, too, are part of what we celebrate when we identify with the liberation from Egypt. After all, it would not have been enough (dayeinu!) if the Israelites had only left the confinement of Egypt and not marched onward and upward toward the Land of Israel. The full celebration of z'man cheiruteinu is to break free of the places in our lives where we are stuck in narrowness, and then to discover the joy of becoming the people we are yet to be.

Chag sameach!

Metzora: The Sanctity of Our Homes

4/4/2011

 
A mezuzah on the door. A set of silver Shabbat candlesticks on the table. A Torah commentary on the bookshelf. These are some of the objects you might see at my house that declare it to be a Jewish home, even to the casual observer. Each of these objects, too, suggests that there is something sacred about a Jewish home.

Of course, what really makes a Jewish home a sacred place is more than special objects. Real holiness, in Judaism, is not conveyed by holy relics. Jewish tradition has always been a bit shy about the idea that a physical object can be holy.  That would smack as a bit too idolatrous. The closest we come to declaring an object holy, perhaps, is a Torah scroll or the written name of God. Even then, the tradition acknowledges that such objects gain their holy status only from the intention of the people who create and use them, not because of an intrinsic closeness to God.

The holiness of a Jewish home really comes from the relationships and behaviors within the home. When couples treat each other with loving dignity and care, there is holiness in the home. When parents spend time with their children to teach them the essential values of compassion, integrity, justice, humility and reverence, there is holiness. When visitors are treated with hospitality and open-heartedness, then the home becomes a holy place in a way that is more meaningful than any mezuzah could convey.

This week's Torah portion, Metzora, deals with the strange phenomenon of a house that has contracted a disease. Many commentators puzzle over the possibility that a house could have tzara'at, the skin ailment that is usually (but wrongly) translated as leprosy. 

One commentator, Rabbi Yehudah Lieb Alter of Ger (known as the Sefat Emet), says that the idea that a Jewish home could contract the disease is an indication of just how holy a Jewish home can be. Tzara'at is understood in Jewish tradition as a disease of the soul; it is a physical manifestation of a moral or spiritual brokenness. Rabbi Lieb says that "Israel’s holiness is so great that they can also draw sanctity and purity into their homes." How else could a home contract a disease that afflicts holiness?

This week, as we prepare for the holiday of Pesach, our attention is drawn to the holiness of our physical homes as it is at no other time of the year. We begin the process of removing chametz (leavening) from our home to purify it for the coming holiday. There is a tendency to become a little obsessive about removing every crumb from every corner of the house.  (I speak from personal experience).  I want to suggest, though, that the obsession with the physical aspect of purifying our homes should not overshadow the more important task of revealing the sanctity of our homes.

In preparation for Pesach, you may wish to think about they ways that you make your home a sacred place with respect to the relationships and behaviors within it. Take time to repair any brokenness in the ways that members of your household treat each other. Make the process of searching for leavening also a process of searching for opportunities to renew the sanctity of loving relationships. In this way, we affirm the sanctity of our homes.

Shabbat HaChodesh: Prepare for Freedom!

4/1/2011

 
This coming Shabbat is Shabbat HaChodesh. It is the fourth of the four special Shabbatot before Pesach (Passover).

The Jewish calendar sets periods of preparation before major holidays that require special spiritual attention. The month of Elul is a time to prepare for Rosh HaShanah and the Days of Awe. The Omer period is often interpreted as a seven-week period of purification for receiving the Torah on Shavuot. Similarly, the first two weeks of the month of Nisan, which begins this coming Monday night, is a time to prepare ourselves spiritually for the liberation of Pesach.

The special haftarah for Shabbat HaChodesh includes a passage from the prophet Ezekiel (45:16-46:18) that describes the sacrifices offered at the Temple during the first two weeks of Nisan. In particular, the first and seventh days of Nisan are marked by special offerings to cleanse the Temple. Interestingly, the seventh day is for cleansing the Temple "from the uncleanness caused by unwitting or ignorant persons" (Ezekiel 45:20).

What could this mean for us? How do we prepare the sanctuary of our hearts to joyfully wipe away our own unwitting ignorance as we prepare for the holiday of liberation? 

Ignorance is the enemy of freedom, just as mindful awareness is the enemy of oppression.  This year, to make ourselves truly ready to become free from Mitzrayim--the place of narrow imagination and confined spirit—we can make a special intention to take off the blinders of ignorance and indifference to see the world around us. When we do, we can discover the joy of connecting ourselves to the highest aspirations of human beings around the world for freedom.

These last few months have been momentous for the cause of liberty. Change is sweeping the Middle East and Northern Africa as people long inured to dictatorship are fighting for a new age of democracy. Just as the people of Egypt, Tunisia, Libia, Yemen, Syria, Saudi Arabia and other nations are shaking off decades of passivity and fear, we can begin to support them by opening our hearts and minds to their cause. 

In response to the nuclear disaster in Japan, people across the globe are speaking up and demanding a sane energy policy based on safe and renewable energy sources. To make this Pesach a meaningful holiday, it is time to cleanse ourselves of our ignorance about the price the earth pays for our addiction to unsustainable energy sources. 

As we enter Nisan, let us joyfully prepare ourselves for the celebration of freedom by washing away our indifference to changes that can help renew the world.

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