When 4'33" was first performed, most thought it was a joke and people still refer to it as a kind of stunt. Cage, though, was serious about the intention of the piece. He wanted to use the formality of the concert hall as a lens through which an audience would pay attention to the incidental sounds of the world around them. He wanted people really to listen to air moving, feet shuffling, people giggling and rain falling—and to hear the music within it all.

I heard a live performance of 4'33" as part of a music history course I took as a student at Oberlin College in 1982. A few years later, I heard John Cage give a lecture and conduct a master class. (Cage died in 1992.) He talked about the profound influence of Zen Buddhism on his music and his approach as a composer. He wanted his audience to experience how the world of ultimate reality is available to us all the time; it is in the present moment, if we only will be open to perceiving it. I hear this same idea in Psalm 95: "Today, if you would but listen to God's voice!"

4'33" and John Cage changed the way we define music. It took away the primacy of the composer and performer in the way we think about music. From Frank Zappa, Sonic Youth and Brian Eno to Phillip Glass and Pierre Boulez, musicians and composers since Cage have had to take into account the idea that music is equally created in the mind of the listener, and in the very nature of the happenstance world around us.

I remember a Zen mantra Cage taught when I heard him speak: "Every day is a beautiful day." It is a meditation on the beauty that exists in every moment. Cage explained that the meditation can be translated literally from the Japanese as, "Day, day beautiful day." I think about how it works well in Hebrew, too. Yom yom yom yafeh. Every day is a beautiful day.

We are now in the month of Elul, the month of reflection in preparation for the Days of Awe. It is a time of year when we begin to listen to the quiet moments in our lives. In order to make t'shuvah, repentance, we are asked to slow down enough to notice ourselves. We are asked to quiet our egos enough to pay attention to the world around us and the world within us.

When we really listen to the music that literally surrounds us in every moment, we are able to appreciate the world that has been given to us as a gift beyond any measurable value. By listening, we prepare ourselves to open our hearts in gratitude, turn toward our Source, and set a new direction for our lives.

And there is also this: I was one of the students who giggled during those four minutes and thirty-three seconds in Professor Sylvan Suskind's classroom. Listening to the quiet can embarrass us. It can make us feel ridiculous. But, that too, is an important part of striving toward t'shuvah. 

By the standards of the ordinary world, the idea that you should give up working, playing and eating for a day to discover your inner life is an absurdity. We should notice how odd it makes us feel. We should laugh out loud at ourselves and wonder if we are engaged in a joke, a stunt. Through the joy of that laughter, we are able to lift out of the ordinary and to realize that, through t'shuvah, we discover a world and an inner life of far deeper, richer meaning.


Other Posts on This Topic:
Repairing Everything in an Instant
Vayakhel-Pekudei: Being a Dwelling for God

This week's Torah portion (Ki Tetze) begins with a continuation of last week's laws for going to war. It does not sound very lofty or high-minded when the Torah tells us about how one may acquire a woman captured in battle as a bride. The literal meaning of the text may not inspire our best wishes for ourselves.

Yet, Jewish commentators have interpreted the opening verses as a metaphor for something different. They read the words, "When you go out to battle against your enemy and Adonai your God delivers it into your power" (Deuteronomy 21:10), as a reference to that great war we fight within against our own baser selves. They notice that the verb, teitzei, "you will go out," is in the singular, suggesting that it is not addressed to an army. Rather, it is addressed to one person—to you in your own, personal battle.

Rabbi Moses ben Samuel Schreiber, the 19th-century authority better known as the Chatam Sofer, wrote that we must understand how our impulse toward evil—the yetzer hara—does not overtake us all at once. Rather, it takes control of us in small increments:

One day, it comes at you saying, “do this,” and tomorrow saying, “do that.” So, if you wish to be victorious over it, do not try to do it in great leaps. Rather, go from from one small step to the next small step. 

The Chatam Sofer advises us to use the yetzer hara's own weapons against it. Just as we fall into bad habits gradually, we should gradually develop good habits, one step at a time. Do not expect yourself to transform your behavior overnight. Rather, select one small change to make your own—such as expressing gratitude before eating, putting a coin in a tzedakah box every day, or taking a deep breath before speaking in anger—and allow the new habit to take hold before taking the next step.

There is great wisdom in this suggestion. Too often, I see people who make resolutions for themselves that are too big to keep. If you swear up and down that you will change your eating habits and lose twenty pounds by next month, you are certain to give up in despair the next time you catch yourself eating that second helping of dessert. Real change does not work that way.

All personal growth is like this. When we set goals that are unrealistic and unobtainable, the result is often worse than not setting any goal at all. It is far better to start small, grow in confidence and in success, and then to go further.

Rabbi Israel ben Eliezer, the 18th-century founder of chasidism known as the Ba’al Shem Tov, had a similar teaching. He said, "Every single Jew has no greater enemy than the yetzer hara. But, if you go out to war against it, 'Adonai your God will deliver it into your power.' The Torah promises that you will be victorious over it."

There is reassurance here that the only thing necessary to overcome our baser instincts is to take up the battle. The war is won in the moment that we decide to become the champions of our own lives. 

When we recognize and confront our proclivity to anger, arrogance, hard-heartedness, dependency or greed—and decide that those impulses within us are actually our enemy—then we already have won. You turn the yetzer hara's own weapons around and, in the Ba'al Shem Tov's words, "Use against it all the agility, exertion and determination that it will use against you."


Other Posts on This Topic:
New Year Resolutions
Noah: The Redemption of God

Here's a bit of the interview:

Progress Planet: What do you do for a living? (if, that is, you’re not making your living from blogging!)
Rabbi Jeffrey Goldwasser: I am a congregational rabbi. I serve the Jewish community of Martin County, Florida, as the rabbi of Temple Beit HaYam in Stuart.

PP: How long have you been blogging?
RJG: I started blogging in February of 2011.

PP: Why did you start blogging? Why do you continue to do it?
RJG:I think my job, primarily, is to be a teacher of Torah. I work to get other people to love Torah as much as I do and to inspire them to build a life around the values of Torah. Blogging, to me, is like a great big megaphone that allows me to do my job better. It allows me to reach further and to more people than I could ever do just by talking to folks in my little synagogue.

You can read the rest of the interview on the Progress Planet site: "Many Voices” Blogger Q&A: Rabbi Jeffrey Goldwasser (Reb Jeff)

As our country enters the final months of our quadrennial election cycle, many of us (and I'm talking mostly about myself here, folks) feel the fervor building up within. We get giddy at every gaff from our political opponents, and we reel every time we see a poll showing our candidate behind.  In such an atmosphere, it is easy to confuse the pursuit of justice with the pursuit of just winning. It becomes hard to remember that there is a difference. It becomes hard to remember to listen to what people who disagree with you are saying.

This week's Torah portion (Shoftim) includes a verse that is a favorite of Jews who are committed to social action: "Justice, justice you shall pursue, that you may live and inherit the land which Adonai your God gives you" (Deuteronomy 16:20). This verse is read as a clarion call for doing everything in our power to fight for what is right and to deplore evil. What could go wrong with fighting for right over evil?

Plenty. We should be careful about our certainty that we always can tell the difference. In our zeal, we sometimes forget that even the pursuit of righteousness must be conducted with righteousness. 

Rabbi Zev Wolf of Zbaraz, a 19th century Ukrainian chassidic leader, had a novel interpretation of the verse to remind us of this truth. He read the doubling of the word "justice" as a sign of self-righteous zeal. He said:

There are many ways that our evil inclination conspires to ensnare us. Just as we sometimes trick ourselves into acting maliciously, we sometimes also entice ourselves into sin by being excessively righteous. We try to be "holier than thou." This is why the Torah warns, "Justice, justice—meaning, excessive justice—you will pursue." You must chase away that inclination, for sometimes that, too, is the way of the evil inclination. Do not be too righteous. (Itturei Torah, vol. 6, p. 110)

Be careful with your zeal. Remember that your rivals also are human beings who believe that they are pursuing justice. The moment that we cast ourselves in the role of the holier-than-thou exemplar of justice and righteousness, we become victims of our desire to win and to be right, rather than servants of what is truly just.


Other Posts on This Topic:
Welcome to the Silly Season
Vayetze: Righteous Anger

That high regard for life, however, is put to the test when the tradition considers abortion. The idea of taking a potential life, even for a very good reason, is a very difficult choice in Jewish tradition. Yet, traditional Jewish law does allow for abortion in circumstances where birth would lead to tragedy.

Of course, this is an issue that is in the news this week, especially with regard to abortion following a rape. After the inflammatory statements by Rep. Todd Akin, the Republican Senate candidate in Missouri, many Jews may be wondering what our tradition allows in such tragic circumstances.

Not every pregnancy is a reason for joy. From the time of the early rabbis, our tradition has recognized that there are situations in which a pregnancy is a threat to the life of the mother. In those circumstances, the tradition actually demands that the fetus be aborted to save the mother.

If a woman is in hard labor, one chops up the child in her womb and removes it limb by limb, because the mother's life takes precedence over the child's life. However, if the greater part of the birth has gone forth, they do not touch the child, for they do not set aside one life on account of another life.  (Mishnah Oholot 7:6)

Judaism does not endorse, and never has endorsed, the idea that an unborn fetus is life of equal status to the mother, or to any person who already has been born. The fetus is referred to in traditional Jewish texts as a "partial nefesh," that is, a being that is on its way to becoming a full life, but is not yet at that point. A person does not become a full nefesh until "the greater part of birth," often defined as the point at which the head and one shoulder emerge from the mother.

There is greater difficulty in Jewish tradition to understand what may be done in situations where the pregnancy does not threaten to kill the mother, but still poses a threat to her wellbeing. At least one 20th century Orthodox authority has attempted to address this question in a systematic way. 

Rabbi Eliezer Waldenberg was a member of Israel's Supreme Rabbinical Court and a highly respected authority of Jewish law, especially laws related to medical ethics. He wrote in his enormous collection of legal rulings, Tzitz Eliezer, that there is a legal basis for permitting some abortions when non-lethal harm would be caused by birth. He includes in this category the situation of a pregnant mother who is still nursing, a pregnancy that results from adultery, and a pregnancy that results from rape.

As one might expect, Reform Judaism goes much further in permitting abortions. In 1967 (well before the U.S. Supreme Court ruled in Roe vs. Wade), the Central Conference of American Rabbis (CCAR) called for "religiously valid and humane" legislation that would legalize entirely abortions in these circumstances. The Reform rabbinical association called for law that:

Recognizes the preservation of a mother's emotional health to be as important as her physical well-being; and properly considers the danger of anticipated physical or mental damage; and permits abortion in pregnancies resulting from sexual crime including rape, statutory rape, and incest.

There is no suggestion in Jewish law that there is a physiological or miraculous protection from pregnancy for a woman who is the victim of rape. The tradition is realistic in recognizing that pregnancy is the result of sexual intercourse, consensual or nonconsensual, and has nothing to do with the "purity" or "legitimacy" of the act. 

That is also the position of medical experts. The American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists stated this week, "Each year in the U.S., 10,000 to 15,000 abortions occur among women whose pregnancies are a result of reported rape or incest." The group went on to state that there is an "unknown number" of such pregnancies that are carried to term. 

Regarding the reality of rape, the medical group puts it bluntly:

Any person forced to submit to sexual intercourse against his or her will is the victim of rape, a heinous crime. There are no varying degrees of rape. To suggest otherwise is inaccurate and insulting and minimizes the serious physical and psychological repercussions for all victims of rape.

Judaism embraces life, celebrates life, and is joyful in the prospect of new life. Yet, within the tradition there also is the realization that life is not joyful when a pregnancy threatens a woman's wellbeing or when an act of violence robs her of the ability to choose how to bring new life into the world. In those tragic circumstances, traditional Jewish law allows for a potential life to be ended.

In some sense, we are in the same fix that Moses was in. We, too, have to ascend the heights to ask God for forgiveness. We, too, have broken what God has given us—our very lives—and we have to find some way of making things whole again.

The month of Elul is the period for examining the pieces of our lives, looking at what we have done, considering how we could do better, and making ourselves ready for Rosh Hashanah. Traditionally, the Shofar is sounded in the synagogue, beginning today and throughout the month of Elul, to wake us up to face the task.

There is a promise, though, that goes with this period. If we are willing to make the trip up the slopes of the mountain, we will receive a fresh start. If we are willing to face our lives with honesty and courage, we are promised that we will be made whole. We will be as good as new.

Better, really. 

Our tradition teaches that both the whole tablets and the broken tablets were kept in the Ark of the Covenant that the Israelites carried through the wilderness. The broken tablets were not kept to remind us of our shame, though. Rather, the broken tablets are a reminder of the possibility of repair. 

In whatever ways we feel ourselves to be broken, we should know that repair is always possible. As Rabbi Nachman of Bratzlav taught, "If you believe that it is possible to destroy, you must also believe that it is possible to repair." Keeping the memory of our brokenness strengthens us to pursue life with courage and conviction. We know that the things within us that are broken can always be made whole.

Rosh chodesh tov. May you have a good new month.


Other Posts on This Topic:
Repairing Everything in an Instant
Shabbat HaChodesh: The Death of Little Things

They are not the same thing.

Our society, it seems, has become so confused about religion that we don't really seem to understand what a religion is. Because of that, we don't really seem to understand what it means to experience God, either.

Seeking God and identifying with a religion are different experiences. Yet, many people seem to think that a person who does not identify with any particular religion must, therefore, be an atheist. That is an insult both to God and, I suppose, to true atheism. Religions are human institutions that, at their best, help people to experience and be close to God. However, the relationship between a religion and God is like the relationship between a radio and music. Just because you don't have one does not mean that you can't experience the other. 

I am thinking about this because a reader of this blog recently sent me a message (you can, too, by going here), wondering what I thought about the growing number of atheists in our society. The reader identified himself as an atheist and wondered how I "remain true to [my] faith." 

You don't need to be a mind reader to realize that a true atheist would not be concerned with the struggle to maintain faith. Atheism is the conviction that there is no God or gods; no ultimate source of meaning, truth or morality in the universe. How could a true atheist struggle with faith when atheism denies the very basis of faith? I had to assume that the message I got was from a person who wanted to experience faith but was frustrated by an inability to find a meaningful experience of God in any religion. Here's part of what I wrote back:

It is my belief that many people who call themselves atheists are really just anti-religion. Maybe that's true for you, too. I think there is a difference between faith and religion.

A true atheist would be someone who believes that our existence is a complete accident of chance, that our lives serve no purpose and have no meaning, apart from what human beings ascribe to their own existence. A true atheist would believe that there is nothing intrinsically good or bad about any human action—from the perspective of the universe, a murderer and a humanitarian are equals.

I don't believe that and I don't think that there are many people who do if you really push them on it. To me, faith is just the gut feeling that our lives continue to matter even after we have died, and that the way we choose to live matters, too—not just because of our biologically programmed preferences, but because there really is such a thing as right and wrong.

Religion is another matter. Religions are systems of beliefs and practices that are designed to enhance the experience of faith. Sometimes they help people to uncover deeper levels of meaning in their lives; sometimes they are just a tool people use to justify the beliefs and behaviors they would have chosen anyway. Religion can give people insight and provide a framework for making good choices in a difficult world. Religion can give people an excuse to hate and be greedy. For the most part, religions, like people, do a little bit of both.

I got back a grateful response from a reader who acknowledges a desire for spirituality to fill the emptiness of life. Is that where you are, too? What do you believe?

I encounter a lot of synagogue-going Jews who say, "I don't believe in God." That seeming contradiction is certainly a possibility. The synagogue is a place where people connect with Jewish community and ethnic identity, not just God. But I can't help but think that many of those "atheist Jews" are people who are frustrated or confused by the way that our society defines religion and belief in God (and that puts me in their camp, too). 

If being religious means believing that your religion embodies the perfect truth, then I will choose not to be "religious," either. If believing in God means holding that there is a mighty being at the top of a religious hierarchy, then I'll be an "atheist," too. That kind of God, to me, is like the cartoon God from Monty Python. 

But that is not how I define religion and it is not how I experience God. For me, having faith in God is the experience of accepting that my life matters beyond the satisfaction of my desires and beyond the frailty of my body. To me, God is manifest in the realization that I am here, and so are you, to fulfill a purpose and truth that is greater than any one of us individually. 

No religion, and no human institution of any kind, can pretend to know the entirety of that purpose and truth. Rather, religion is a system of concepts and practices that help us discover the experience of God. Religions that work, don't work for everyone. Religions are not necessarily the best way for everyone to experience God. I believe, though, that they can help most people.

And I notice that most people who say that religion does not work for them have never really tried one. Religions require discipline and practice to work. You wouldn't claim that exercise has no effect on your strength and endurance after only doing a few push ups. Don't claim that religion doesn't work for you after only enduring religious school as a child and attending a few services. If you don't make a commitment, you are unlikely to experience a benefit.

We struggle to know God and to experience God, even though we can never be certain how God will touch us or be revealed to us. That experience, that process, is the way I understand what true faith is. It is a journey that we can each travel, and religion can be a map to help guide us on our way.


Other Posts on This Topic:
The Tebow Effect
Beha'alotecha: Eldad and Medad

It is difficult to explain the loneliness and heartache of being apart. All the rhythms of family life—waking the kids up in the morning, getting them breakfast, packing lunches, drop offs at school, planning menus, food shopping to suit other people's tastes, making sure that homework is done, recounting the day's events with my wife, saying goodnight to someone I love—the music of that constant activity was silent. It was a very loud silence.

I am grateful to the many friends I have in our community who took me into their homes for dinners, invited me to social events, and shared various other outings. That certainly made the summer more fun. But still, I missed my wife and kids.

Last night, after all the hugs and welcome-home kisses were done, I helped my littlest get ready for bed. While braiding her hair, I felt comfort in the ordinariness of it all. Right over middle, left over middle, right over middle, left over middle. The simple pleasure of braiding hair reminded me how much we need each other. Not just my daughter and I. All people need each other for the million little details that make us feel whole.

Human beings are not well equipped to be alone. Left in isolation for too long, we get restless and a little bit crazy. Family, in particular, is a habit that keeps us balanced. And, by family, I mean all sorts of families—nuclear families, extended families, biological families, adopted families, blended families, conventional families, untraditional families, and families of families. We need, in a way that is foundational to our existence, to belong to others.

Jewish tradition teaches this. Kol Yisrael arevim zeh lazeh. "All Israel are guarantors for each other" (B.  Shavuot 39a). Without one another, we are helpless and vulnerable. It is only when we depend upon each other, ironically, that we become capable. 

Yet, American mythology teaches the opposite. We are a country steeped in legends of rugged individualism. We believe in the ideals of "going it alone" and becoming a "self-made man." Judaism teaches that there is no such thing. We need each other. We are a part of each other. Each of us owes a debt to others that can only be repaid by helping others.

The return of my family reminds me of how deeply I need others and how deeply I need to be needed. We crave the experience of helping and being helped, of caring and being cared for, of loving and being loved.

Yesterday, I got that all back.


Other Posts on This Topic:
Anatevka, Lost and Found
A Blessing for Father's Day
Vayechi: Repair of the Dysfunctional Family

This week's Torah portion opens with Moses speaking these words: 

See, I place before you today blessing and curse: blessing, if you will heed the commandments of Adonai your God that I command you today; curse, if you will not heed the commandments of Adonai your God, but turn away from the path that I command you today to follow other gods that you do not know.

It takes a special person to deliver a message like that. You would not believe just anyone who told you that you have to change your life to meet the standards of God. Moses was the right person to transmit the Torah because of who he was.

The Or HaChayim reads the first two words of the portion, Re'eh anochi, as the command, "See me!" (Oddly, the verb, re'eh, is in the singular form, as if Moses were talking to only one person. More on that later.)

Moses, according to the Or HaChayim, used the great stature that the Israelites attributed to him to amplify his message. When the Israelites saw Moses, they saw a man of great power, authority and prestige. Since Moses appeared as a person who had received every blessing that God promised to those who follow the commandments, people believed Moses when he promised that they could receive that blessing, too.

In seeing Moses, people believed what the Rambam (Maimonides) taught: "Each person has the potential to be as righteous as Moses our Teacher" (Hilchot T'shuvah 2:2). Moses inspired people to believe that they could accomplish everything that he had achieved.

Yet, Or HaChayim says that Moses himself was not seduced by belief in his own greatness. He was able to "re'eh anochi," to see himself in ways that others could not, for Moses understood that all people have the same divine spark within them that he had. When he said, "See me," to the Israelites, therefore, he saw them. He attributed his own greatness to them.

That is why, according to the Or HaChayim, re'eh anochi, "See me!", is written in the singular. In his mind, Moses was talking to one person, to himself. In the end, the thing that made him such a great teacher was that he could see himself as he truly was, a creature of God just as his students were creatures of God. That is what truly made him great. That is what truly made him the right messenger for the Torah.


Other Posts on This Topic:
Re'eh: Giving and Receiving
Re'eh: MOST FOLKS ARE ABOUT AS HAP Y

The trend started that year when Geraldine Ferraro (a woman, obviously) was the Democrat's vice-presidential candidate. Four years later, Michael Dukakis, who is a member of the  Greek Orthodox Church, was at the top of the Democratic ticket. The next two cycles returned to all WMP candidates, but in 2000 Joe Lieberman (a Jew, don't you know?) was the Democratic Party's candidate for Vice-President. In 2004, John Kerry, a Catholic, was that party's presidential candidate.

After that, the White male Protestants started to look like an endangered species on major party tickets. In 2008, John McCain was the only one. His running mate was Sarah Palin. His opponents were an African American and a Roman Catholic—Barack Obama and Joe Biden. Four years later, the candidates are Obama and Biden, Mitt Romney (a Mormon) and Paul Ryan (a Roman Catholic). The WMPs have been shut out.

To give a little historical perspective, consider the fact that for the first 140 years under the U.S. Constitution, every single major party candidate for President and Vice President was a White Protestant man. It was only in 1928 that Al Smith, the first Roman Catholic on a major party ticket, lost to Herbert Hoover. (Hoover was a Quaker, a faith that some regard as Protestant and others do not). Smith's religion was a major issue in the election and it certainly cost him many votes. 

It took another 32 years for a major party to nominate a Catholic presidential candidate. That was the year, 1960, that John F. Kennedy defeated Richard Nixon (another Quaker) to become the first unambiguously non-Protestant president. Kennedy's religion was an issue in the election, but most historians believe that he gained about as many votes as he lost due to his religion. 

What does this mean for me as a Jew? It means that being a Jew—or being a member of any other historically discriminated group in America—does not mean the same thing as it once meant. America is no longer a place where one group—defined by race, gender and religion—has exclusive hold on the nation's identity. As a Jew, I feel that my face is as much the face of America as a Native American grandmother, a Catholic Hispanic man, a girl whose parents came from Japan, a Black kid who goes with his parents to an A.M.E. church, a pair of Mormon missionaries I see walking down the street, or, for that matter, a White male Protestant. 

I don't know about you, but to me, that feels good. It means that, from now on, all Americans are "real Americans," no matter what hyphens or adjectives we apply to our identities. For a kid who grew up watching all the WMPs in charge on I Dream of Jeannie, Lost in Space, and Mission: Impossible, it's a cultural shift that I didn't think I'd live to see.

It also means that I no longer think that it is just possible, I think it's probable, that I will see the first woman president, the first Hispanic president, and the first Jewish president in my lifetime. What a change that is.

So, what did happen to the White male Protestants? They're still here. (In fact, some of my best friends are White male Protestants☺). They still are teachers, police officers, bank presidents, machinists, small business owners, community organizers, doctors, ministers, senators, fathers, sons and grand-fathers.

But for this year, at least, they are not running for President or Vice-President of the United States.


Other Posts on This Topic:
Welcome to the Silly Season
A Charge of Deicide