Rachel Barenblat's Blog, page 204

Reading on the train

I wasn't paying attention when I chose where to drop my bags and settle in, but by sheer luck I picked the side of the train which runs right alongside the Hudson. At this season the hills are a deep brown-purple and the water reflects the grey sky. The tawny reeds and grasses are the brightest, most colorful things in sight. A long low dark-green barge moves upriver, leaving ripples in its long wake.

Every few moments our horn sounds. Warning people and animals off the tracks ahead, I guess. The train rattles slightly, shaking just a little bit from side to side. The journey from Albany to New York City doesn't take terribly long -- only a few hours. But in emotional and spiritual terms it feels like a great distance between here and there. Between rural America and the great metropolis.

I have homework to do while I travel: rereading three studies about religion in American life. (One of them is a 2012 Pew Forum study 'Nones' on the Rise. Another is the 2008 American Religious Identification Survey.) I read these a couple of months ago, before what was supposed to be the first meeting of my Rabbis Without Borders Fellows cohort -- but then Hurricane Sandy got in our way. Statistics don't stay in my head for long; I need to re-read.

It's interesting for me to learn that most people who self-identity as having "no" religious affiliation still consider themselves religious and/or spiritual. "[M]ost of the 'nones' say they believe in God, and most describe themselves as religious, spiritual or both," says the Pew study. I find myself wondering how many liberal American Jews -- those who are affiliated, who do belong to congregations -- would be comfortable defining themselves in those ways.

And I'm fascinated to read that among American adults who say that religion is important in their lives, one-third report attending services less than once a month. It makes sense to me that those who don't identify with a religious community don't come to shul. But that a third of those who do so identify -- and, more, who say that religion is important in their lives -- don't come to daven: what does that mean?

I'm looking forward to seeing what kind of conversations we have and what sort of learning we do over the next two days. For now, I'm alternating between digging into these studies and watching little birds startle from the branches and scatter as we pass.

This week's portion: on abundance and dreams

Here's the d'var Torah I offered yesterday at my shul. (Crossposted to my From the Rabbi blog.)

At the beginning of today's Torah portion, Pharaoh dreams two dreams. First, seven handsome cows arise, and seven lean cows devour them. Then seven fat ears of corn arise, and seven lean ears devour them. None of Pharaoh's soothsayers can interpret these troubling visions. Fortunately, Pharaoh's cupbearer remembers that when he was in jail a few years back, he met an Israelite named Joseph.

Pharaoh summons Joseph and says, I hear you can interpret dreams. But Joseph demurs. "Not I, but God." Joseph doesn't have the answers; God does. But Joseph can serve as a channel, opening himself to allow God's insight to flow through.

It's December in the modern world, and the commercials with which we are deluged remind me of Pharaoh's dreams. Every time my television tells me that if I really loved my spouse I would surprise him on Christmas morning with an expensive car, or diamonds, or electronics, or new clothes, I think of Pharaoh's sleek fattened cows. Richness. Abundance. That's the dream the television is selling.

But in showering our loved ones with lavish affection, it's easy to overspend our budgets and wind up with painfully lean wallets come January. In the Biblical model, that's the seven emaciated cows who devoured the seven fat ones. We fear that scarcity will follow abundance, good fortune dissipating like the smoke left behind when the Chanukah candles gutter.

Joseph opens himself to God's guidance, and recognizes Pharaoh's dreams as divine communication. He suggests that Pharaoh appoint someone discerning and wise to steward the land's resources during the seven years of plenty, so that during the years of famine the people will not starve. Pharaoh, who sees that Joseph is himself discerning and wise -- "someone with the spirit of God in him" -- chooses Joseph.

Torah can be read as a reflection of our own internal realities. Each of us is Pharaoh, dreaming anxious dreams about abundance and the scarcity which we fear will follow. Each of us is Joseph, the immature kid whose pride gets him into trouble; Joseph, who descends into the pit, descends into slavery, descends into Egypt, descends into Pharaoh's jail.

But if each of us is Joseph, then each of us can tap into the humble wisdom he develops as he matures, and as he comes to see that each descent is for the sake of a greater ascent. I'm not the one who interprets dreams, he tells Pharaoh: only God can interpret. But I can open myself up to God and see what comes through.

What are your dreams this Chanukah? What abundance do you dream of enjoying, of bestowing on those around you? When you dream big about the future of your hopes, what do you dream?

What are your fears this Chanukah? What anxieties niggle at the back of your consciousness, what fears plague you when you try to fall asleep? Do you worry that you're overextended, emotionally overtaxed, fiscally or spiritually overspent?

What would it feel like to open yourself, as Joseph does, to guidance from beyond? To trust that even when things seem darkest, you are cared-for by divine providence, you are loved by an unending love? How can you steward your internal resources, so that you can weather both abundance and scarcity with grace?

God, let me cry on your shoulder

A prayer after today's school shooting in Newtown, Connecticut. (See also R' Menachem Creditor's Prayer in the wake of a school shooting.)

God, let me cry on Your shoulder.

Rock me like a colicky baby.

Promise me You won't forget

each of Your perfect reflections

killed today. Promise me

You won't let me forget, either.

I'm hollow, stricken like a bell.

Make of my emptiness a channel

for Your boundless compassion.

Soothe the children who witnessed

things no child should see,

the teachers who tried to protect them

but couldn't, the parents

who are torn apart with grief,
who will never kiss their beloveds again.

Strengthen the hands and hearts

of Your servants tasked with caring

for those wounded in body and spirit.

Help us to find meaning

in the tiny lights we kindle tonight.

Help us to trust

that our reserves of hope

and healing are enough

to carry us through.

We are Your hands: put us to work.

Ignite in us the unquenchable yearning

to reshape our world

so that violence against children

never happens again, anywhere.

We are Your grieving heart.

 

Bat Mitzvah-versary

My birthday is in the spring, but I celebrated becoming bat mitzvah in midwinter. During Chanukah, actually. I think we chose the date because some of my older siblings already lived far away, and Shabbat Chanukah would be a relatively manageable time for far-flung family to get away from their ordinary lives and join us in San Antonio to celebrate.

Practicing Torah reading, while my grandparents looked on.

(Photo taken a few days in advance, since no photography was permitted on Shabbat.)

It's been twenty-five years since I celebrated becoming a daughter of the commandments, and took on the obligations of Jewish adulthood, among them learning Torah, doing mitzvot, and praying in community. As it happens, I'm leading services this Shabbat, too -- as I do twice every month, blessed as I am to serve as my community's rabbi! -- and I'll be reading from Torah tomorrow and offering a d'var Torah tomorrow morning, just as I did 25 years ago.

I remember that when I was studying toward becoming bat mitzvah, I got the notion (from where, I can't say: from my tutor Sarah? from reading books? from somewhere in the cultural zeitgeist?) that proper preparation meant that if the rabbi were to call in sick, the bat mitzvah girl ought to be able to lead the entire service on her own. I don't think I quite managed that, even then, but I do remember leading much of the service. I remember thinking that it was really fun. I liked singing; I liked learning trope (cantillation) for Torah and haftarah. I liked leading the community in prayer.

Receiving the Torah from the generations before me. L to R: my grandmother Alice z"l, my mother Liana, and me.

I'm not sure I would have believed it, twenty-five years ago, if someone had been able to travel through time and inform me that some quarter of a century hence I would be a rabbi. But then again, maybe I would have taken that in stride. One way or another, I'm unendingly thrilled to be leading davenen tomorrow -- parashat Miketz, shabbat Chanukah -- as I did all those years ago. Happy Bat Mitzvah-versary to me!

The beating heart of music in Israel / Palestine

Hearing this track, and learning about this nonprofit organization, brought a bit of light into my Chanukah. (Thanks, A Way In, for sharing this song as one of your Chanukah posts!) So I figured I'd share it with y'all too. The song is called "Bukra Fi Mishmish," Arabic for "when pigs fly" or "when the impossible happens." It's written, and performed, by Israeli and Palestinian youth aged 16-20. It's terrific.

(If you can't see the embedded YouTube video, you can go to Bukra Fi Mishmish at YouTube.)

The song comes out of Heartbeat. Here's how that org describes itself:

HEARTBEAT is an international community of musicians, educators, and students using music to build mutual understanding and transform conflict. Founded in 2007 under a grant from Fulbright and MTV, Heartbeat offers a variety of programs to enable Israeli and Palestinian youth musicians to build trust and actively participate in defining their futures, by developing and spreading their music.

Fear, violence, ignorance and a pervasive lack of trust define the political and cultural reality of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Most Israelis and Palestinians have only encountered the other side through televised reports of extremist violence, soldiers at checkpoints, or politicians. As violence intensifies in this small corner of the world, people retreat to their side, and are too often unable to trust in the humanity of the other. To break the status quo of separation and violence and to build a future of peace, security, justice, and freedom for all, people on both sides must know the other; they must communicate and understand each others needs, fears, hopes and shared humanity. People on both sides must be shown tools of change more effective than violence.

Music has an amazing ability to connect people, build trust and inspire hope in the darkest of places. Modern, popular music has long been the voice of change all around the world and a powerful means for youth expression and nonviolent action. By bringing together young Jewish and Arab musicians and strengthening their voices, we are working to build a global culture of trust, compassion, and respect.

I give tremendous credit to everyone involved in this project; I don't imagine that this kind of creative and spiritual work is easy, but I do believe that it matters.

If this sounds like something you might want to support, consider donating to Heartbeat. They're in the process of applying for 501(c)3 status, but for those who are in the United States, tax-deductible contributions to Heartbeat can be sent to their fiscal sponsor, Jewish Renewal congregation Am Kolel, by clicking on the PayPal link on that donate page.

Happy Chanukah to all! I'll be humming this song long after this festival is through.

December Dialogue

There's some time this morning.
We could go to Target.

    We have plenty of Dora pull-ups.
    Why would we go to the mall today?
   
But they sell shiny decorations.
Maybe there's a Chanukah banner.

    We browsed that aisle last week.
    There weren't any banners then.
   
There might be one now! Or --
how about that hanging chanukiyyah?

    We don't need a chanukiyyah made of felt.
    And neither does the synagogue.
   
But our lone banner looks sad.
There ought to be more sparkle.

    Why the yearning for glitz and glitter?
    What are you really hungry for?
   
My glands hurt. It's dark so early.
I want to be swaddled, cuddled.
 
     I understand. I feel that way too.
     December's never easy.
    
I keep thinking: maybe more money,
more glamour, more presents...

    I think you mean more presence.
    And if it's the dark that's getting you --
   
It is. And the rain adds insult
to injury. Maybe I need a lamp.

    -- try lighting one thin candle.
    Then tomorrow, just one more.
   
But they're so tiny, flickering,
against the maelstrom, the juggernaut.

    That's what makes them real.
    Like a child's jam-smeared kiss.
   
Or a little voice saying
I love you mommy at bedtime.

    Or the faith that, against all odds,
    what's imperfect is enough.

 

 

One of the things I value about my spiritual practices, meditation among them, is that they offer me opportunities to pay attention to the thoughts and ideas and stories which pop up in my mind all the time. When I started paying attention to one of those trains of thought, responding to it with openness and curiosity to see where it would take me, the idea for this poem arose.

All responses welcome, as always.

Another poem for Chanukah

A poem by Aileen Lucia Fisher for Chanukah. (Today we're in day three of the eight day festival; we'll begin the fourth day tonight at sundown.)

 

Light the first of eight tonight—

the farthest candle to the right.

Light the first and second, too,

when tomorrow's day is through.

Then light three, and then light four—

every dusk one candle more

Till all eight burn bright and high,

honoring a day gone by

When the Temple was restored,

rescued from the Syrian lord,

And an eight-day feast proclaimed—

The Festival of Lights—well named

To celebrate the joyous day

when we regained the right to pray

to our one God in our own way.

(Source: Light the Festive Candles, at the Poetry Foundation.) Wishing a joyous festival of lights to all who celebrate.

On "Otherness" at Christmas

 

With family, at holiday party, 1982; with friends, in uniform, 1992.

From the age of eleven on, I attended an Episcopal school called Saint Mary's Hall. Six years of white sailor middy and pleated skirt, saddle shoes, "dress uniform" (white skirt and knee socks) on Mondays for chapel. I loved it there. The yellow brick archways and live-oak-filled courtyards, the motto which appeared on the entrance steps I climbed every day ("teach us delight in simple things"), the years I spent learning Latin and French, literature and biology. The friends I made, many of whom are still in my life.

And I didn't mind going to chapel every Monday, or learning the Lord's Prayer, or even singing the school hymn, which was "Fight the Good Fight." I enjoyed going each December to Christmas vespers services at the church we could walk to, down the street from the campus, where students would tell the story of the birth of Jesus, and students would play handbells, and we would all sing "Adeste Fideles" which I was unreasonably proud of actually understanding in Latin.

I didn't mind being one of the few Jewish kids at my school. I'd been going to synagogue with my family my whole life. I'd spent two years at Jewish day school. After my celebration of bat mitzvah, I became a teacher's aide and a bat mitzvah tutor at our congregation. I'd gone one year to Jewish summer camp. Nothing about attending an Episcopal school felt strange to me. It was just normal, and it was where my friends and teachers were, and I loved it there.

In retrospect, it's a little bit amazing to me that I felt so perfectly comfortable in my "otherness," especially given that adolescence is so often a time when our differences pain us. But I don't remember ever experiencing a disjunction around being a Jewish kid at a school where most of the kids were Christian or where attendance at weekly Episcopal chapel services was mandatory. Nobody expected me to be, or to become, anything other than what I was. I was different, but that felt safe.

I think about that often at this time of year, as Christmas approaches. I know a lot of Jews who find this season incredibly stressful, who react to the hegemony of Christmas in American public life with anxiety and frustration. What do I mean by hegemony? Look at it this way: I have countless childhood memories of encountering the Christmas story, singing Christmas songs, watching Christmas cartoons. Most Christian kids do not grow up steeped, willingly or unwillingly, in someone else's religious culture. (This is poignantly expressed in Arlene Goldbard's essay My Xmas Kvetch. For a slightly snarkier take, try gyzym's the juggernaut cometh.)

I understand the anxiety and frustration. It is not always (or often) easy being non-mainstream, being part of a religious minority. And when everyone around you is enjoying something which you don't feel you can enjoy -- or, perhaps worse, which you feel guilty for enjoying! -- that can feel alienating and painful. When everyone around you is operating on a different religious calendar, observing holy days which are not meaningful to you (and expecting you to recognize and honor their holy days, without necessarily recognizing or honoring or even knowing about yours), that can feel alienating and painful too.

It's the lack of reciprocity which is often most difficult...and I'm not sure that elevating Chanukah to major-celebration status actually solves that problem. (Actually I'm pretty sure it doesn't.) What I really yearn for is for people to understand the major spiritual and communal importance of the Days of Awe and Sukkot, of Pesach and Shavuot, which do not fall during December at all! (Though I do appreciate Chanukah wishes when they come my way.) I'm blessed to have in my life an awful lot of loving friends who do understand and appreciate my religious calendar, even if it isn't theirs, but not everyone has that good fortune.

I think there's something profoundly valuable in the de-centering experience of recognizing that one's own paradigm is not the only paradigm. But I recognize that it isn't always easy or comfortable. And if it isn't happening in a reciprocal way -- where I recognize that my way isn't the only way, but so does the other guy; specifically, so does the person with the privilege of being in the dominant / majority position -- it can feel alienating and painful. Everyone else is having a great time and I'm outside the party -- alienating and painful. That mainstream experience is "normal," and I feel perennially "other" -- alienating and painful.

Nu, what to do? I look back at my own childhood in south Texas. (When I first moved to New England, college students who thought they were very clever would quip, "there are Jews in Texas?" It was funny the first time.) I think about growing up as a member of a religious minority, and about spending seven years at a school which had roots in the Episcopal church. I remember attending Christmas parties with my parents every year -- especially the one with the rompope (Mexican eggnog) and the mariachi band. And I think: what was the magic ingredient which allowed me to feel safe and rooted in, rather than alienated or threatened by, our minority status?

It must have been something my parents did profoundly right, something so foundational that I can't remember it or separate it from my childhood writ large. All I know is that I felt so thoroughly rooted in the Jewish community and Jewish tradition, and in my Jewish identity, that I didn't feel anxious about decorating my friends' Christmas trees with them, or attending midnight mass with my best friends from across the street (who were altar boys), or singing carols in chapel. None of those things changed who I was; how could they? No more than inviting my Christian friends to join us for latkes and dreidel, or for seder, changed them.

Well: those experiences probably did change all of us. They broadened us. They opened our hearts to other ways of celebrating, other ways of marking time, other ways of connecting with the sacred.

To this day I love attending other peoples' religious rituals. I will try pretty much any kind of religious service, just to experience it. (As my beloved teacher Reb Zalman has said, "I'm a spiritual peeping Tom! I like to see how other people get it on with God.") I love experiencing other peoples' ways of doing things, and being able to say, "ahh, I see, you do it this way -- that's so interesting; we do it that way..." Or, sometimes, "wow, I don't even know what I would compare that to; it's entirely outside of my realm of experience." On my best days, I can bring that lens to the whole Christmas phenomenon.

Of course, there are also days when I don't feel so generous. And I don't mean to diminish the negative feelings many of my friends and coreligionists have at this season, or to imply that they feel anxious because their Jewish identities aren't strong enough. Poppycock. First of all, those feelings are what they are, and minimizing or ignoring them doesn't change that. Beyond that, it's beyond chutzpahdik to imply that if we all just strengthened our feelings of Jewishness we'd sail through this season unscathed. I don't know that there is a recipe for sailing through December unscathed, no matter who you are.

But I do wish that I could bottle the feelings of comfort and contentment which I feel (most of the time) blessed to carry with me, and could share them with everyone I meet at this time of year. I wish I could take the sting out of Christmas, both for my Christian friends who struggle with its omnipresence or its expectations or its pressures, and for my Jewish and other non-Christian friends who struggle with its...omnipresence and expectations and pressures. For a holiday which is supposed to be joyful, it seems -- or its trapping seem -- to make a surprising number of people unhappy. (My therapist confirms this.)

How do you make December work for you -- whether you are Christian or Jewish or something else entirely? What are your tools and tricks, your techniques, for savoring the sweetness of the season without getting blindsided by the things which can hurt? Can we together assemble a toolkit, an amulet, a heart box filled with things which will help all of us through -- through the darkening days (in the northern hemisphere; sorry, global Southerners, I don't mean to ignore you, it's just -- dark here!), through Christmas whatever it means or doesn't mean to each of us, into the turn of the secular year?

Keep Calm and Chag Sameach!

I am easily amused. Once I learned that there is a keep-calm-o-matic, I couldn't resist making some Chanukah images.

Happy Chanukah to all!

Sufganiyot in the Saturday Poetry Series

Thanks to the Saturday Poetry Series for reprinting my Chanukah poem Sufganiyot (which was originally published in Zeek in 2004.)

I particularly appreciate Saturday editor Sivan Butler-Rotholz's kind comments:

With today’s piece Rabbi Rachel Barenblat elevates these phenomenal holiday treats from the realm of the epicurial to a heightened world where femininity, sexuality, and deep fried delicacies become one...

Read the poem, and her commentary, here: Saturday poetry series presents: Rabbi Rachel Barenblat. Happy Chanukah to all!