The idea that religion is anti-sex couldn't be more false. Though that belief may be true for Victorian-era Christianity, Judaism takes a very different view.

In this series of articles, we will look at some ancient texts from Judaism regarding sex and sexuality and see just how clearly Judaism loves sex.

Here are some of the texts we will explore:

Frequency of sex: Talmud, Ketubot 61b: Sexual relations are expected daily

A Woman's right to sex: Talmud, Eruvin 100b: A man is forbidden to compel his wife to have marital relations…a woman may divorce a husband who fails to satisfy his wife sexually. Exodus 21:10-11: A man may not withhold 3 things from his wife: food, clothing, or sexual relations. If he fails her in any of these 3 ways, she shall be free of him.

Sex is not just for procreation: Talmud, Ketubot 48a: There must be close bodily contact during sex. This means that a husband must not treat his wife in the manner of other peoples, who perform marital duties in their clothes.

CLEARLY not just for procreation: Mishneh Torah (12th cent), Laws Concerning Sexual Relations 21:9: A man may have intercourse with his wife as frequently he or she desires, may kiss any organ of her body he wishes, and he may have intercourse with her vaginally or anally.

Sex is beautiful: Nachmanides, “Iggeret HaKadosh” (13th cent) God created all as Divine wisdom decreed, and did not create anything ugly or shameful. For if sexual intercourse were repulsive, then the sexual organs are also repulsive…If the sexual organs are repulsive, how did the Creator fashion something anything less than perfect? If that were so, we should find that God's deeds were not perfect.

Sex is not restricted to marriage: I Kings 1:1-4:  King David was old and advanced in years; and they covered him with blankets, but he could not become warm.  His servants said to him, "Let a young woman be sought...and let her lie in your bosom, that my lord...may become warm. They sought for a pretty girl throughout all the territory of Israel, and found Abishag a Shunemmite, and brought her to the king...She attended the king, and performed services for him"

Published with the permission of a client currently stationed in Kabul, Afghanistan. Names and locations removed for safety. _____________________________ Tonight was quite the ordeal. I met Ms XXXX at the picnic tables near the East exit of the compound.... both of us dressed to "Kill" in our Flak Jackets and Helmets... Ms XXXX is on the mailing list and today she received an email saying the Shabbat service would be held on XXXX Street next to the XXXX Camp. To get to XXXX Street we had to leave the post at 1800 and run across the street into another US post called Camp XXXX. This Camp is where I often transport ill patients needing advanced medical care... which I certainly cannot provide. As we crossed the street, the Afghani guards held their rifles high and nodded amicably to us. I thought: "...boy if they only knew where we were headed..." Our journey continued across Camp XXXX. We passed the bazaar... now winding down with empty spaces where just a few hours before merchants were selling their knives and guns, scarves and silver. Remnants of a BBQ smoked listlessly near the cross walk. After showing our credentials we proceeded through another checkpoint manned by the XXXX military. They had no clue about us and waved us through nonchalantly. Because we were in a hurry, we paid little attention to them. It was obvious they we looking us over, especially my companion, XXXX XXXX. XXXX is a beautiful young woman who had not attended Shabbat since her Bat Mitzvah at age 13. Her parents, now divorced, raised her to be Jewish but long ago dispensed with the religious house rituals reaffirming the faith. Tonight, it is XXXX's attempt to rekindle her "Jewishness". As she succinctly put it... "I told my mother I am going to “Jew-up” tonight. So, with a toss of her curly blonde locks, a sly smile over her perfect porcelain veneers, we trudged on... like two thieves into the night... we ran the width of the Camp and went down an alley. The sand bags were piled seven feet high and the camouflage netting obscured the view of the sky. It was close to sundown. We had to hurry. As soon as we reached the perimeter of the Camp, we found the hole in the wall leading to XXXX Street. On the other side, there lies the Polish Camp... Quickly, we ran down XXXX Street and found an opening. The Polish guards waved us through. Now...we had to find the XXXX office. I asked, "The XXXX office?" XXXX said yes, the Shabbat was to be held in the building next to the Polish XXXX office. We can pick up the key to the "temple" there and leave our body amour in the office. Never having been there before, I just "went along with the program"... The building was dark but the front door was ajar. We peeked inside. I turned on the light so we could see where we were at. A sign said "Friends of Bill enter here". Friends of Bill? Never heard that one! So we found the key hanging on the wall that said "Chapel" and exited the real estate office into another narrow dark alley. More gravel roads and yet another call to prayer from the mosque via loudspeakers. Oh, I thought maybe this trip was not such a good idea... We went to the next building and up the stairs. Polish soldiers were sitting in a day room still wearing their uniforms. I could not understand a word they said. We opened the room across from the Polish Dayroom and went inside. A synagogue. At last! We were late. No one was there but a bottle of Mogen David wine sat on the table. Fifteen minutes late the Rabbi arrived. Neither one of us knew what to expect. A small fragile gentleman entered the room. He reminded me of Menachim Begin. He introduced himself as Rabbi XXXX. He said he worked at Kabul University. Rabbi XXXX said he was most surprised to see anyone here tonight because for the last three months no one had shown up. He said he was most pleased to welcome us. Then, two of the Polish soldiers came into the room and stood behind us. I had a surreal moment... like I was on a movie set....one of the soldiers looked like Danny Kaye and the other like Roman Polanski... and they were speaking Hebrew! Rabbi asked XXXX to light the candles and with that he handed us booklets in Hebrew. Oh boy, I thought this might become uncomfortable. He pointed at a page (number 11) and he read it in Hebrew, then Polish, then English. It was a moving ceremony. We had our wine and thought the ritual over. Then he asked if we would like to participate in a Kaddish prayer because his father had just passed away... Everyone said yes...I think... The Rabbi then grabbed me and pointed me to face towards Israel while we said prayers in Hebrew for his father. When we were done, he sat with us. Then, two Polish soldiers, who - I couldn't get over it - were spitting images of Danny Kaye and roman Polanski, left and rejoined their colleagues in the dayroom across the hall. A huge truck tire was visible from my vantage point. I wondered what it was doing there... Rabbi XXXX explained he was in Kabul on a contract helping the medical school design residency programs suitable for the aspiring Kabul surgeons. Removing his yarmulke, he became Dr. XXXX again. He explained he had a difficult job because the Americans will not be able to sustain their presence here long enough to train his surgeons. He was clearly sad over this explanation. Dr XXXX looked at his watch got up from his chair, grabbed his wine and said, Thank you for coming and I'll see you next Friday?" We nodded agreement in unison. Since it was almost after dark, we quickly ran back to the XXXX office, replaced the chapel key and put on our body amour. As fast as we could run, we sprinted down XXXX Street and back into the Camp XXXX compound. The PX had a line of soldiers waiting to go inside. We ran past the Nepalese guards - who saluted us in a provocative manner - and back out through the gate. The Afghani Guards had us sign in and escorted us back to the compound. The embassy lights were on. Groups of soldiers and civilians huddled in small numbers ...some playing cards and others manning the computers that line a once beautiful gold leafed wall. The form of a profile of Saddam Hussein artfully scratched from the mural looked down on the occupying force. We parted company. Ms XXXX went to her room at XXXX and I went to my room in the XXXX building. I am so happy to be Jewish. It was a great night!

Blessing the Light or Blessing the Darkness?

Rabbi Yitzhak Miller--Hanukah 5770/2009


Jewish commentators through the years (e.g. the Sfat Emet Chanukah drash 5632) have linked the lights of Chanukah in the midst of the darkest time of the year to the personal and psychological strength required to search our darkest innermost places.  Many-the Sfat Emet included-have anchored the Jewish demand for this search in Proverbs 20:27: "...the light of G-d-the soul of the human: searching the deepest places of the innards..." 

Many commentators have noted the enhanced power of even a morsel of light in a state of darkness (a single candle has more effect in a dark room than in a room already brightly lit).

A famous poem from Rainer Maria Rilke offers a different perspective on dark moments-the perspective that darkness itself is worthy of blessing:


Rilke's poem reflects the reality that it is darkness-not light-that embraces our physical universe: that it is the points of light in our universe that are held within the sachet of darkness.  Is Rilke reflecting a physical reality while the Sfat Emet is guiding us spiritually?  Are the concepts opposites?...two sides of the same coin?

I tend to think that Rilke is also guiding us spiritually (yes, I know-"You're both right" is a stereotypical Rabbinic answer-that doesn't make it less true!)...that both Rilke and the Sfat Emet are guiding us to draw strength from the realities around us. 

I remember as a child being fascinated with the lighting of the Hanukah candles.  But I remember being even more fascinated with watching them burn to their last moment and witnessing the flame disappear into nothingness.  Apparently I'm not the only one-there is a famous Jewish children's story of the time when all 8 Chanukah candles went out at precisely the same moment.

We recite blessings when we kindle the Chanukah lights.  This Chanukah, I offer you the possibility of also blessing the moment they go out-metaphorically blessing not only the light in your life but also blessing the darkness-knowing that both are part of our physical reality and both are gifts of the Divine.

May your Chanukah, your year, and your life be blessed with miracles in all forms.

B'shalom,

Rabbi Yitzi

(...The Test of Isaac (part 3) click here for part 1)

In the title essay of his book “Floating takes Faith”, Rabbi David Wolpe talks about how difficult it is for us to trust the universe.  “I remember when I was learning to swim,” Wolpe recalls, “The hardes part was floating…[To swim] one must kick, stroke, move…But floating asks us to be still, to trust in the buoyancy of the water.  Swimming is work.  Floating takes faith.”  Why would we choose to do this?  Wolpe asks.  He uses the metaphor of swimming in the ocean to remind us that our human efforts are most effective when they are aligned with the natural and supernatural movements of the universe: “In the ocean it is sometimes necessary to swim,” Wolpe admits, “but the swimmer goes [uncomfortably] beneath the wave while the floater rides its crest.”

True faith is very different than blind faith.  Who does Fowler hold as examples of true faith?  Mahatma Ghandi, Martin Luther King Jr., Mother Teresa, Dag Hammarskjold, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, and Thomas Merton.  What does true faith look like?  Fowler describes adherents of true faith as “persons in which their felt sense of an ultimate environment is inclusive of all being.”  In other words, adherents of true faith align themselves and their actions with the ultimate movement of the universe.

“Faith,” Fowler says, “is not to be equated with belief.  Faith is a person’s way of leaning into and making sense of life.  The ultimate manifestation of faith is less a noun and more a verb. Faith is the dynamic system of images, values and commitments that guide one’s life.  Faith is universal.  Every person who chooses to continue living each day operates by the basic premise of faith.”

Our society is re-learning a lot about faith this year.  Our society—after decades of living in the unconscious illusion that we humans were in ultimate control of our destiny—is re-acquiring the ability to place one foot in front of the other, to take one step at a time, even when we have no idea where those steps may take us. 

Our country is re-learning the difficult lesson that a house of cards will ultimately crumble; that our actions have consequences; and that a society is only as strong as its most vulnerable members.  This year, as it has many times in the past, our society is re-learning to align itself with the universe—to have faith.

Does Judaism expect us to walk blindly?  Absolutely not.  Judaism expects us to consciously look around every time we take a step.  Judaism expects us to use every resource at our disposal to see the movement of the world around us, to align our actions with the movement of the universe, and to evaluate how our single next step can best serve the Divine mission we strive to achieve. 

But perhaps more than anything, Judaism expects us neither to get bound up in blind faith nor blind rejection.  Judaism expects us to lean into life and to strive every moment of every day to make sense of it.  Each of us, all of us, and the universe itself.  And they walked on together.

G’mar Chatima Tova—May You be sealed for a year of goodness.

(...The Test of Isaac (part 2) click here for part 1)

It is all-too-easy to perceive blind faith and blind rejection as the only 2 religious possibilities—either I pledge myself to God without questioning the implications, or I reject God without considering the repercussions.  Sadly, Fowler notes, most of humanity is trapped in one or the other of these overly-simplistic possibilities.

Let’s cut Abraham some slack.  The whole monotheism thing was pretty new in his day.  So let’s set Abraham’s role in today’s story aside.  I would suggest that it’s Isaac’s role in today’s Torah portion that is much more relevant to us as intelligent, enlightened Jews.  The story of the Binding of Isaac shows us that there are possibilities beyond blind faith or blind rejection—possibilities that Fowler calls “mature faith.”

You know, for a story called “The Binding of Isaac”, our protagonist gets a pretty short shrift from the casting agent.  In fact, Isaac only speaks once in the entire story.  As Isaac and his father begin to ascend Mount Moriah Isaac asks Abraham about the ram for the burnt offering.  Abraham’s answer is a statement of blind faith: “God will provide the ram”.  The next sentence simply says: “And the two of them walked on together.

Why does our story tell us that Isaac and Abraham “walk on together”?  We know why Abraham walks on—he is on a mission of religious zealotry.  But why does Isaac walk on with him?  Is Isaac so naïve that he does not know what his father has in mind?  That is hard for me to believe.  I would suggest instead that Isaac does one of the hardest things for an intelligent human being to do—to trust in the inherent goodness of the universe.

In my 12 years as a congregational Rabbi, I had many opportunities to host groups from neighboring churches to the synagogue.  Invariably, the question would come up “What do Jews believe?”  Early in my career I used to answer this question by trying to explain that Judaism is not a dogmatic tradition, that Jews were a clan-based people for 1000 years before receiving any religious doctrine, and that our own text claims that there were 600,000 Jews all present to receive that doctrine.  Sometimes, if I was feeling a little more sarcastic, I’d say that “Jews believe in 1 God or less”. 

But the more I reflected on this question the more I came to realize that Judaism does mandate at least one belief.  Sometimes in spite of seeming evidence to the contrary, Judaism expects us to live our lives with the faith that the world is improving. 

Some strands of Judaism would put this claim in very transcendent terms—“We believe with perfect faith in the coming of the messiah”.  Other strands would put this claim in much more humanistic terms—“Our task as human beings is to utilize the ethical imperative within us.”

Listen carefully to these affirmations.  They are not statements of blind faith.  Quite the contrary…Judaism mandates that humanity be partners in the ongoing process of Divine creation.  That is what Isaac is asked to do—in the face of a climb up a mountain with all the accoutrements of an animal sacrifice except the animal itself, Isaac is asked to trust.  Isaac is asked to trust that the ultimate Divine force in the universe would never ask a father to slaughter his son.  And they walked on together.

(Click here to continue...)

The Test of Isaac

 

Twice a week Rachel gets on her knees.  “Oh please God,” she prays, “please let me with the lottery today.”  Twice a week with what we might call religious zeal the prayer goes forth to God: “Please, let me win the lottery today.”  For months and then for years the prayer is recited again and again with sincerity, with fervor, with passion, and with dedication. 

Finally, after 3 years, God can stand it no more.  Finally, after 3 years, on one Wednesday morning God answers.  “I hear your prayers, Rachel.  I hear the sincerity with which they’re offered.  I hear the belief in your voice.  But please, Rachel, please—at least help me out and go buy a lottery ticket!”

 

Blind faith is not a lesson mainstream Judaism teaches.  And, in reality, I don’t find that most Jews get too caught up in blind faith.  Sure there are a few in certain neighborhoods of Jerusalem and Brooklyn, but for the most part Jewish tradition raises us to be skeptical, questioning, intelligent, learned, and thoughtful.  Our very name—Israel—Yisra-El means “The one who wrestles with God.”

James Fowler, developmental Psychologist and author of the book “Stages of Faith” talks about the reality of blind faith, and labels it the most elementary form of religiosity.  He calls it juvenile, and simplistic.  Yet sadly, if we listen to the messages our society sends us, we could easily think that blind faith is the goal of religious life.

So here we sit on Yom Kippur morning, feeling very self-justified—“I’m not a victim of blind faith!”  “I’m not that juvenile, I’m not that simplistic!”

Bad news.  James Fowler puts a second category of religiosity into his hierarchy—just above blind faith, but still in the category of juvenile and simplistic, James Fowler puts the religious position of “blind rejection”.  Uh oh.  In my experience, most Jews don’t get caught in blind faith, but many many many Jews get caught in blind rejection.  And that’s where today’s Torah portion comes in…

 

“Yo Dad!” Isaac says to Abraham, “Here we are travelling 3 days and going up a mountain with everything we need for a sacrifice except the animal.  What gives?  Where’s the ram?”

Today’s Torah portion begins with the words “And God put Abraham to a test.”  Most things in Judaism—the Shema, the v’ahavta, the aleinu—are simply called by their first words.  So the logical thing to call this Torah portion would be “The Test of Abraham.”  But Judaism doesn’t refer to this passage as “The Test of Abraham.”  In fact, Judaism doesn’t even refer to Abraham in naming this Torah reading.  In Judaism we call this Torah reading “The Binding of Isaac.”  What gives?  What does Isaac have to do with this story, and what’s he bound up in anyway?

I would suggest we call this Torah reading “The Binding of Isaac” because today’s Torah portion is not ultimately about a juvenile test of Abraham’s blind faith.  Instead I would suggest that today’s Torah portion is about Isaac’s deep and challenging quest to move beyond blind faith—and also to move beyond blind rejection.  I would suggest that today’s Torah portion is less a test of Abraham than a test of Isaac.

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(...To Life Itself (continued)--click here for page 1)

The Rabbis give us a head start on this challenge of 100 blessings a day.  I know every one of you will be here promptly at 9:30am tomorrow when we begin morning services.  And since you’ll all be here, I’ll give you a head’s up of something to look for.  Near the beginning of the morning service—not just on Yom Kippur—not just on the High Holy Days—but every single day of the week we recite a prayer called “nisim b’chol yom”.  In this simple title, we are reminded daily of one of the great teachings we can internalize.  What does nisim b’chol yom mean?  It literally means “the miracles of an ordinary day.”  Nisim b’chol yom reminds us that we need not search the heavens for blessings—we need only search the sacred, commonplace moments of our own lives, and remind ourselves what a blessing each one of them is.

In designing the morning prayer service the Rabbis remind us of how many blessings we can overlook if we aren’t paying attention. 

·         Blessed are you, God, who caused the sun to rise again this morning.

·         Blessed are you, God, who gave me feet that can support my body.

·         Blessed are you, God, who gave me eyes that can see.

·         Blessed are you, God, who put clothes on my back.

·         Blessed are you, God, who gave me a conscience.

·         Blessed are you, God, who gives me inspiration for this day.

In fact, just by reciting this one prayer, we offer 15 blessings to start our day…15 blessings that we could so easily overlook.  How easy is it to wake up in the morning, open our eyes, see the sunlight, stand on our feet, get dressed, and think about what we want to do that day without even noticing the blessing inherent in every one of these moments.  This prayer reminds us that we do not need to search for blessings.  Life itself is a blessing, within us, and all around us.

Near the beginning of the book of Exodus, when God sends Moses to lead the people out of Egypt, Moses asks God for God’s name.  God answers “Ehyeh asher Ehyeh”—“I am that which is”.  In this simple phrase, the Torah teaches us one of the great lessons of Judaism:  That God is life itself.  I am that which is.  I, God, am not apart from you.  I am not some Divine parent handing out punishments and rewards.  I am not some heavenly wish machine delivering upon requests based on quantity and quality of prayers.  I am not some celestial abstraction reserved for doctoral dissertations in theology.  I, God, am life itself. 

Ehyeh asher Ehyeh—I am that which is—I am the experiences you have and the choices that you make.  Ehyeh asher Ehyeh—I am that which is—I am the forces that you comprehend, and those that you don’t.  Ehyeh asher Ehyeh—I am that which is—I am the elation and the desolation, the attractive and the repulsive, the revered and the commonplace.

There is one final place that Judaism reminds us of this same lesson—in the very toast we use—L’chaim—to life.  We Jews don’t toast to a good life, an easy life, or a comfortable life.  We don’t toast to a pleasant life, a wealthy life, or a healthy life.  We don’t even toast to a learned life, a blessed life, or a meaningful life.  Our toast in Judaism is L’chaim—to life itself—that life itself is a blessing.

 

So on this Kol Nidre night—on this most sacred of evenings—at this most blessed of moments, I won’t wish us an easy fast.  Instead I will wish us a meaningful fast—a fast that reminds us every single day of the year what an unbelievable privilege it is simply to be alive—what an unbelievable blessing it is to be part of reality—what an unbelievable opportunity we have every single moment of our lives—to literally be part of God.

L’chaim, my friends—“To Life”.

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To Life Itself

 

Moshe goes to see his Rabbi.  “Rabbi,” Moshe says, “I must make a confession and ask your advice—last week I missed saying grace after meals.” 

“Why would you make such a transgression?” asked the Rabbi. 

“Because I forgot to do the ritual hand washing before the meal and without the hand washing we’re not supposed to say grace after meals.” 

“OK, so now you’ve told me about 2 Jewish laws you broke last week, but still you haven’t told me why.” 

“The food at the meal, Rabbi, it wasn’t Kosher—so I didn’t think I should do the ritual handwashing and therefore I shouldn’t say the grace after meals.” 

“Your meal was of non-Kosher food?” inquired the Rabbi, “That’s now 3 transgressions and you still haven’t told me what would inspire you to commit even one.  You are a knowledgeable Jew, Moshe.  If you were a schlemiel I would understand, but you know all of these laws.  In fact, you know them well enough to come to me to confess them!” 

“Well it was a non-kosher restaurant and they don’t serve kosher food in non-kosher restaurants,” replied Moshe. 

“What?  You went into the restaurant knowing that they only had non-kosher food and then you didn’t say grace after your meal because you didn’t do the ritual handwashing before the meal because the food was not kosher because you chose to eat in a non-Kosher restaurant?  With all these other transgressions, couldn’t you have at least eaten in a kosher restaurant?” 

“What?” replied Moshe exasperated, “How could I do such a thing?  On Yom Kippur?”

 

I won’t put anyone on the spot, but I bet if I asked how many people here are fasting for Yom Kippur, essentially everyone here would raise their hand.

The tradition of fasting of Yom Kippur is one of the most widely observed Jewish traditions.  But I wonder how many people have ever thought about why we fast on Yom Kippur.

We have a lot of very intelligent people in this room.  In fact, the odds are good that an adult Jewish population will have more college and post-graduate degrees than people.  Yet if all the intelligent, gifted, clever people in this room tried going without water for 3 days, we would see how much all those college degrees influence the body’s dehydration.

We have a lot of very committed people in this room.  I bet that every person in this room has a resume so stocked with social justice projects, humanitarian activites, and charitable work that they’d be hard pressed to fit it on one page.  Yet if all the caring, compassionate, committed people in this room tried going without food for 3 months, we would see how much all that compassion influences your body’s starvation.

There’s a traditional greeting at the end of the Kol Nidre service that absolutely drives me up a wall.  When leaving tonight, people will traditionally say to each other “May you have an easy fast.”  What kind of a crazy wish is that?  If we’re going to have an easy fast, why bother to fast at all?  The purpose of fasting on Yom Kippur is not to have a pleasant Yom Kippur.  In fact, the purpose of fasting on Yom Kippur is to remind us all the other 364 days of the year what an amazing life we have—to remind us of the thousands and thousands of blessings we have in our life that are so basic we often take them for granted. 

By this point in this sermon every person here has taken approximately 100 breaths.  Not one of those breaths required a single bit of conscious effort.  By this point in this sermon every person here has had approximately 500 heartbeats.  Again…not one of those heartbeats needed you to think about them.  But what if they weren’t there.  Put food and water aside for a moment.  Try going 10 minutes without breathing.  Try going 20 minutes without a heartbeat.

The Talmud tells us that we should strive to say at least 100 blessings a day.  On the surface, that may seem like a daunting task.  100 blessings!  Do I really have that many things in my life to be grateful for?  But even 2000 years ago the Rabbis of the Talmud struggled with the same reality, but recognized the answer—the answer is not to find 100 transcendental realities every day that give us such awe we can’t help but bless them.  The answer is to find recognize that these transcendental realities are found in the simplest, most ordinary parts of our lives.  Blessings are all around us.  Our job is to look for them, and to look for them in the simplest parts of life.  And when we find blessings there, we sanctify life itself.

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(TRANSCENDING THE EGOIC MIND continued (click here for page 1)

...I’m guessing I also won’t get too much argument if I claim that Albert Einstein had a fairly capable conscious mind.  But I would suggest that what truly made Einstein a genius was not the capabilities of his conscious mind, but his knowledge of the limitations of that conscious mind; his willingness to utilize all the sources of intelligence at his disposal; his ability to see.

 

Two of his more famous spiritual quotations demonstrate his true understanding of human reality:

 

“The intuitive mind is a sacred gift; the rational mind is [but] a faithful servant. We have [sadly] created a society that honors the servant and has forgotten the gift [itself].”

 

“The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious; It is the source of all true art and science.”

 

This year may each of us utilize all the mysterious realities at our disposal which support us in our choice to transcend the egoic self so that we may emerge every day into a progressively more conscious, more joyous, and sweeter life.  It makes no difference to me whether we choose to call that mystery God, inner light, true essence, transcendent wisdom, or any other name that allows us to stand beyond and witness the egoic self-identifications so that each of us can live as often as possible from a place that is beyond these self-limitations.

 

On this and every Rosh Hashana may you be blessed not just to hear, but to truly listen; not just to comprehend but to truly understand; not just to gaze upon, but to truly see the awe-inspiring Divinity that surrounds us and dwells within us.  May you strive to live every moment from the sacred gift of the not only the rational, intellectual mind, but also from the intuitive and transcendent mind.  May you experience the sweetness of the mysterious, and may it always be your source.

 

May your year be filled with the sweet mystery of life.

Shana Tova.

(TRANSCENDING THE EGOIC MIND continued (click here for page 1))

...Eckhart Tolle in his book “The New Earth” puts the challenge in beautifully modern language:  “Most people are so completely identified with the voice in the head—the incessant and involuntary stream of thinking and the emotions that accompany it [such] that we may describe them as being “possessed by their mind”.  As long as you are completely unaware of this, you take the thinking mind to be who you are—the self…It consists of a bundle of memories that [we] call “me and my story”; of habitual roles [we] play without knowing it; of [unconscious or semi-conscious] collective identifications such as nationality, religion, race, social class, or political allegiance…and of personal identifications—not only with possessions, but also with opinions, external appearance, longstanding resentments, or concepts of [ourselves] as better than or not-as-good-as others—as a success, or as a failure.  The basis for [this] identity is precarious, because thought and emotion are—by their very nature—ephemeral…[a reality which] leaves [every] ego continuously struggling for survival.”

 

But the beautiful reality is that anyone here who has witnessed the pain they have inflicted on themselves, on others, on the earth, or on the universe through the unconscious actions of their egoic mind already has the tools to transcend it.  Anyone who has felt regret possesses the ability to choose differently.  Anyone who has taken a deep breath and counted to 10 rather than allowing themselves to be triggered by another person has shown they already have the tools to respond rather than to react—to act from conscious wisdom rather than from unconscious ego.  The very fact that each of us can feel and observe our own actions is what shows us that we have the ability to interact with the world from an entirely different place.

 

Judaism has always claimed that there is a fundamental difference between humans and animals.  In the story of Adam and Eve, it is called “knowledge.”  In Jewish philosophy, it is usually called “self-reflection”  In the 21^st Century, we tend to call it “awareness” or “consciousness”.  Most religious traditions have also called it by that challenging 3-letter word God—which I will define here as whatever internal or external entity it is that challenges us, guides us, and helps us to transcend our own egoic minds. 

 

Whatever label we choose to put on it, we are talking about allowing the sources of wisdom beyond our individual human egos to help us reflect upon our own selves—to see ourselves “from the outside”—to be witnesses to our own reality and our own challenges, and to choose to respond to these challenges rather than react to our ego-driven triggers.

 

Tolle continues:  “By not reacting to the ego, [we] are…able to bring…sanity…and [true] consciousness… you look through the ego to the sanity [and Divinity] that is in every human being as his or her essence.  [This includes looking through our own egos to see the true essence within ourselves].

 

Moving beyond our egoic minds is a challenging endeavor.  Our egos fight tirelessly against our quest for deep consciousness.  Our egos tell us that if we look beyond them, we will certainly fall into an abyss from which we may never recover.  “Let me not see,” Hagar says in our Torah portion, “…and she wept”.  If transcending the tendency to be “possessed by our minds” a challenge in Biblical times, how much more difficult is this challenge in our modern, enlightened society which strokes our egos so strongly for our intellectual accomplishments?

 

Neither I nor Judaism asks you to give up your conscious mind.  We are the people of the book.  We value our education and our intelligence. 

 

But we are also people whose traditional practices include meditation, prayer, chanting, silence, mysticism, and other tools of deep reflection and connection.

 

I would suggest that this is one of the lessons today’s Torah portion can teach us:  “And God said [to Hagar], ‘I see that you are troubled…Hold the boy in your hand’  And God opened Hagar’s eyes”.  When Hagar moves beyond the angst of the anxiety that her egoic mind creates for her, and simply holds her son in her arms, the Divine love between mother and son begins to flow again.  Her eyes are truly opened.  She is able to not just look, but to truly see. (click here to continue)

 

Transcending the Egoic Mind

 

A few weeks ago I was working with a woman at Stanford Hospital who was wrestling with the gut-wrenching question of when to turn off the breathing machine that was keeping her father’s lungs moving, although his brain function had ceased.  The nurses on the unit had called me up in frustration—“She already decided that we should turn off the machine,” they said, “but she can’t decide when.”  I listened to this poor woman’s angst for nearly an hour—all the things she had never said, all the emotions she wanted to express.  She kept repeating: “I want to keep talking to him forever—how do I know when it’s time to stop?”

 

A question emerged from my mouth almost without passing through my conscious mind.  “How did you know when it was time to marry your husband?”  Upon reflection, it could have been a really stupid question.  I didn’t even know if this woman had a husband.  She was there with her children.  If she had been married, I had no way to know whether her husband was still alive.  And even if she did have a living husband, for all I knew they could been in the midst a bitter divorce.  Upon conscious reflection, all sorts of things could have made my question a complete disaster.  And yet, somehow I knew it was the right question to ask.

 

Sure enough, the moment I asked the question, she took her head out of her hands and looked straight at me with a deep knowing.  “You are right,” she said, and she stood up and walked out of the consultation room and back into the intensive care unit.  The words “You are right” are certainly nice to hear, but I had to admit that I had no idea what answer I had given or even suggested. 

 

I sat there for nearly 10 minutes until I suddenly understood that the question had taken her out of the angst that her mind was creating for her, and moved her into the sources of wisdom that she had in her heart.  And that the same had been true of me—the question that my mind analyzed for nearly a quarter of an hour was a question that came from the heart—not the head—and the rightness of the question came from that reality—not from the careful analysis of what to say next.

 

My egoic mind would love to write my question off as luck or coincidence.  At this point in my life, such things happen too often and too consistently for me to believe my egoic mind.

 

“So what does any of this have to do with Rosh Hashana,” one might rightly ask?  I have often struggled with the question: “Why is the story of Hagar and Ishmael the Torah reading for Rosh Hashana?”  What does a story of a catfight between Abraham’s wives have to do with repentance and atonement, or with the celebration of the new year? 

 

I would suggest that today’s Torah portion is a story of Hagar learning to see with more than just her eyes—to listen beyond her ears—and to act beyond the limitations imposed by their own egoic self.  I would suggest that by actively training ourselves to live in a state of consciousness we do for ourselves exactly what the words of our book pray for on Rosh Hashana—we write ourselves into the book of life—life at its fullest.

 

I freely admit how much I have personally struggled to learn what Hagar learns in today’s Torah portion:  not just to learn about, but to accept and trust the incredibly powerful deep sources of wisdom that reside beyond our egoic mind—the sources of intelligence that bring not just information, but that ultimately bring us wisdom, sanity, and peace.

 

I consider my conscious mind to be quite well-developed and quite useful.  I got good grades in school, went to a good university, got my postgraduate degrees.  I cherish and bless the reality of my conscious mind and have no desire to ignore it, set it aside, or disparage it—nor do I ask you to ignore, set aside, or disparage yours.  Here in this great institution of higher learning on this move-in weekend where so many are stepping into college life for the first time, I invite you to cherish your conscious mind, but also to recognize its limitations.  When used for its intended purpose, the egoic mind accomplishes great feats of learning, calculating, designing, and understanding.  But it is much less well suited to feeling, trusting, and loving.

 

I am often asked to intellectually defend religious belief.  I can’t.  I can’t even defend it to my own egoic mind, much less to anyone else.  I have often said that if I ever write memoirs, they’re going to be titled “Tales of a Proudly Agnostic Rabbi”.  Now don’t mistake the word “agnostic”—not knowing—for the word “atheist”—the religious belief that there is no God.  My honest answer when people ask me if I believe in God is “some days definitely yes; some days definitely no; and most days I can’t decide.”

 

This is the angst that the egoic mind generates when I or anyone else asks my egoic mind to do something which it is not designed for nor capable of—to understand the transcendant realities of our existence. 

 

I think I can say with reasonable confidence that Carl Jung—star protégé of Sigmund Freud and often credited as the foundation of modern psychology—was a reasonably intelligent person.  One of the most comforting things I have ever heard was his statement about God.  “I don’t believe in God,” he said, “I feel God.”  This statement gave my conscious mind the permission to do what it does very well regarding God—to study philosophy and theology, to debate, to wrestle, to learn, and to challenge.  But Carl Jung’s statement also gave me the permission to seek transcendent reality through the other faculties that I and each of us is blessed to possess.  (click to continue)

 &l

(THE EXQUISITE BEAUTY AND THE AGONIZING HARSHNESS OF THE SHOFAR...conclusion (click here for page 1)

...Two summers before UCLA I was in Jerusalem, beginning Rabbinical school.  I had decided to buy a shofar.  This shofar, in fact.  I chuckle with a twinge of embarrassment as I think back how many afternoons I spent scouring Jerusalem for “just the right shofar”—one that looked beautiful, was easy to blow, and sounded a pair of resounding notes.

TEKIAH

Listen to the notes of the shofar

TEKIAH

Listen to the tones of the most beautiful shofar I could find in all of Jerusalem

TEKIAH

You know, the shofar has been around for a long time.  Yet I’ve never seen a symphony for shofar and orchestra.  I’ve never seen a shofar as a part of a wind ensemble or chamber music group.  I don’t know of any internationally-renown shofar virtuosos, and I’m quite certain that there is not a single shofar instructor on the music faculty here.

TEKIAH

The reality is that the most beautiful shofar I could find in Jerusalem simply doesn’t produce a beautiful, melodious sound.  The call of the shofar can be harsh and painful.  The call of the shofar can be distressing, heartrending and anguished.

TEKIAH

The call of the shofar is an opportunity.  The call of the shofar inspires us to look to the oceans and the mountains in awe of the glory of the creation around us.  But The shofar also calls us to hear the pain of life without having to personally experience it.  Our Torah gives us a famous challenge—that we choose blessing or curse.  We often cannot choose our reality.  But we can choose to make it a blessing.  Every person in this room has experienced pain.  And because every person in this room has experienced pain, every person in this room has the resources to transform that pain into a blessing.

The shofar demands we ask ourselves what we will do with the pain that is an inherent part of being a human being—Will we run from it, curse it, and insulate our children from every bit of it?  Will we block it out, hide from it, or medicate it? 

Or will we channel it into connection with those around us?  Will we allow or even embrace the reality of pain and treasure the empathy, compassion, kindness, benevolence, gentleness, munificence, generosity understanding, and love that truly feeling both joy and pain can evoke in us for our planet and its inhabitants.  Will we bless only our joy, or will find a way so that even our pain can be for us a blessing?

Neither John nor Rachel had the choice whether or not to feel the pain of their tragic circumstances.  The pain of years of life in the heart transplant process is a pain that no human can ignore, and no medication can eliminate.  But John and Rachel did have the choice how to channel that pain.  They could choose connection like John, or disconnection like Rachel—connection with other people, connection with the world around them, and—I dare say—even connection with God or whatever we choose to call the transcendent incomprehensible guiding realities of our universe. 

May we truly hear both the exquisite beauty and the agonizing harshness of the shofar. 

Tekiah Gedolah

May we truly feel the fullness of our lives—both the pleasant and the unpleasant—both the splendor and the tragedy—both the glory and the agony.  And may we choose every day of this year to manifest the full and entire reality of our lives as a blessing.

Shana tova

(THE EXQUISITE BEAUTY AND THE AGONIZING HARSHNESS OF THE SHOFAR continued (click here for page 1)

...Then there were patients like Rachel.  Rachel was two doors down from John.  The first time I visited, her carefully-crafted corporate facade couldn’t mask the uncomfortable twitch we Rabbis are very used to seeing when we visit someone Jewish in a hospital whose parental voices in their head are telling them it’s been too long since they were in synagogue.

Rachel turned heads whenever she moved about the hospital.  There is no doubt in my mind that she turned heads everywhere she went, and every one of those turning heads fueled her externally-dependent sense of self.

A 45-year-old attorney, Rachel never would tell me what kind of law she practiced, but she made sure to mention in almost every conversation that two years before she had argued a case before the supreme court.  I always wondered what kind of law Rachel practiced.  Clearly it wasn’t something she was proud of. 

Rachel would allow even the doctors or nurses to see her in the morning until she had gotten out of bed, showered, done her hair, and put on her makeup, low-cut silk chemise, stockings, thigh-high skirt, jacket and heels.  Six sets plus the one she was wearing hung in her closet.  Seven more were at the dry cleaner’s each week, so that she could rotate all 14 outfits over the course of two weeks.  Some days I found the sight of someone in a multi-thousand-dollar designer suit tethered to a breathing machine, a heart monitor, and an IV to be a bit comical.  Most days it was sad.

Visits with Rachel were spent alternating between hearing hear professional accomplishments and listening to her curse the doctors, the nurses, the hospital, and the medical system in general.  One particular day, Rachel was pressing the nurse call button even more frequently than usual.  Finally Hannah came in—already with an exasperated look on her face.  She said nothing as she looked at Rachel to find out what she needed this time.  “Where’s Mark?” Rachel asked, “he said he’d be here at 10:00, and it’s already nearly 10:45.” 

Rachel had never mentioned a husband, a brother, or a son.  “Doctor Simmons was called into surgery,” Hannah said, “A heart match came for John about an hour ago.  I’m sure he’ll be here as soon as he can, but it will probably be a while.”  “Tell him to hurry up—there’s something wrong with my medications,” Rachel snapped, totally missing the reality that her neighbor 2-doors down might well be leaving through what was colloquially called “the happy door.”

When I left Rachel’s room that morning I got the same look I usually got from the nurses.  Their mouths said “Thank you for visiting.” Their eyes said “Thank you for keeping Rachel out of our hair for a while and for being the one to listen to all of her complaints.” 

I didn’t much like visiting Rachel, ceretainly because it was generally unpleasant, but much more so because Rachel triggered something deep inside me I preferred not to see.  I identified way too much with Rachel, and that scared me. 

I, too, had parents who made sure I had all the right teachers as I was growing up; had a mother who managed to both be a university professor and be home every afternoon to schlep us to just the right extra-curricular activities for which ribbons and awards still hung neatly in my well-decorated room at home.  I went to the right schools, had the right things on my resume, and the right letters of recommendation attached to it.  On the same weekend as Shoshanna and I got married, my parents celebrated their 25^th anniversary and her parents celebrated their 30^th.

Rachel scared me because I knew that if it was me in that hospital bed, I—too—might have been so focused on the frustration of my doctor missing a committed appointment time, that I—too—might have totally missed the reality that he was missing that appointment with me was because another person was receiving a treatment that would add 10-20 years to her life.  Rachel scared me because she showed me the reality of someone who had grown up with the perception that they could control life suddenly discovering that they ultimately can’t control most of the things that truly matter. 

Rachel was still awaiting a heart transplant when I left UCLA at the end of the summer.  I don’t know which door she left through.  But I know that Rachel is one of the greatest blessings in my life.  She is a blessing because I was present enough to catch a glimpse of my internal reality vicariously, rather than having to go through the pain directly, and because I was brave enough to look into that reality rather than to turn away from it.

Two summers before UCLA I was in Jerusalem, beginning Rabbinical school.  I had decided to buy a shofar...(click here for conclusion)

The Exquisite Beauty and the Agonizing Harshness of the Shofar

 

It was my second summer in Rabbinical School.  I was interning as a chaplain at UCLA medical center, and was assigned to the heart transplant floor.  Patients on the heart transplant floor at UCLA know the odds, and they know the reality.  Patients know that ½ will exit via the front door, and the other ½ will exit through the back door.  Patients know that the average person will stay on 6 East for nearly half a year waiting for someone, somewhere, with just the right blood type to get into just the right kind of car accident, have just the right type of brain hemorrhage, commit just the right style of suicide, or meet their end by some other tragedy that ends their life, but keeps their heart so intact that it can be removed from their body, packed in ice, airlifted to UCLA, and be given to someone who has 5, 10, or maybe even 20 more years to live.  Patients know that transplanted hearts don’t come from 92-year old patients with pneumonia who have lived a good life and die peacefully.  Patients on 6 East know that continuing their life will depend on someone else in the world dying in a way that may well destroy a family; that more than likely somewhere there will be grieving parents—not grieving children—crying out in anguish: “This is not fair—this is not how it’s supposed to be.”

I encountered an amazing reality that summer:  Many—if not most of the patients there were coping with reality amazingly well.  One after another I met people who—in one way or another—said to me: “This is my life’s reality and I’m going to make the best of it.” 

I remember an African-American man in his late 50s and his bass guitar.  His name was John.  I almost could have guessed that before he told me.  In most parts of the world you’d be hard-pressed to notice him.  But on the heart transplant floor of a hospital, the very serenity which would have made him almost invisible in our daily world was a striking reality.  

Almost any moment of any day you could find John picking out blues rhythms on that guitar.  Most of the time he would sit in a chair or on the floor in his room with the amplifier turned off, so you could only hear the tones if you sat very close in complete silence.  Occasionally he’d be invited to someone else’s room to play for guests who had come to visit.  John’s guitar skills were mediocre.  But the very heart that was failing to pump blood well enough for him to live outside a hospital room could pump emotion through that guitar in a way that couldn’t help but go straight to your soul.

When I sat and talked with John, he told me stories of his life—horrible, tragic stories:  being the only one of his 8 siblings to live past their teenage years; stepfather after stepfather who beat his mother, raped his sisters and sometimes even his brothers, and destroyed the meager possessions of their house in drunken or drug-induced rage; stories of growing up in the parts of New Orleans that the tourist bureau specifically tells you to stay away from.

John told me of getting his High School equivalency at age 22, and graduating college at age 35.  He spoke with pride of his career as a social worker for the county of Riverside, and with sadness that he had never married or had children.

What struck me even more than the frightening details of John’s stories, though, was the equanimity with which he told them.  These were the stories of his life.  They weren’t pleasant.  To this day he could feel the pain.  But this was the life he had been given, and he was going to channel every bit of it through the dark, soulful rhythms of his base guitar.  This was John’s story, and he was going to use every bit of it to connect with anyone around him who was willing to connect.  Connecting for him had only one requirement—the connection was real:  no whitewashing; no sugar-coating; no pity; no victimhood:  deep connection of soul over the realities of life. 

Patient after patient echoed John’s sentiments—this was the reality of their lives, and the holiest thing they could do was find a way to make it a blessing.

 

Then there were patients like Rachel.... (click here to continue)