Appropriation

בס''ד

Something Borrowed, Something Blue

28 Nissan, 5774; Yom HaShoah

13th Day of the Omer

Right before Pesach, a practicing Christian woman married to a Jewish man wrote this fascinating piece on why Christians shouldnot host their own Passover seders (to emulate Jesus during the last supper).

Read the piece. Then read the comments. They're almost more interesting.

I think she makes a good point. In fact, I think she makes such a good point that her idea isn't just limited to Pesach. I think her piece is applicable to all kinds of cultural appropriation.

In the Talmud, there are four categories of people who are entrusted with an object that belongs to another person. These are things like a renter, or someone you ask to look after a possession. But of them all, the one who is required to take the most care for your object, the most liable to return your possession to you in the condition it was received - is the borrower. To borrow is to take on the responsibility for treating another's possession as they would wish, and not only according to the borrower's needs.

When we don't honor that responsibility to the owner, we no longer call what's happening borrowing. There is an uglier word we use: appropriation.

Appropriation happens all the time. Beyond the pain of seeing what are often a people’s most treasured possessions – their spiritual traditions, their greatest cultural achievements – taken without regard to their owners’ wishes, appropriation also marginalizes the group that was appropriated from. There is a reason that commercial rock stations all around the country will throw in some hip hop – when group played coincidentally happens to be white. Rock and roll itself only became mainstream after it was appropriated from African Americans.

There is great regard for Native American traditions in our society; a lot less regard for how we treat actual Native Americans. I was in Poland to witness the huge revival of klezmer music and Hassidic culture: tens of thousands of people who aren’t Jewish coming to festivals, some even dressing the part. But Jews don’t do so well in Poland.

As a rabbi, I know something about appropriation, mostly because I’m tempted to do it all the time. It’s so much easier to massage that Hassidic story to sound more palatable or support my point. It’s so great to borrow some spiritual technique from another tradition and toss it in – we all love a little something exotic. But it’s damn hard not to do violence to the people and the context from which that tradition arose, and we lose a lot of the real meaning in the process*.

This isn’t an argument against borrowing. Borrowing traditions and ideas is what’s going to save the world and get us all to understand each other. But we can't borrow without looking the owner in the face. The message has got to be that we can’t separate a tradition from its people.

*A friend with ample experience working with modern day descendants of the Mayans asked a villager he knew about the whole world ending in 2012 thing. The villager said that people couldn’t have misunderstood that tradition more if they tried.

There Are Two Passovers

בס''ד

Erev Pesach
14 Nisan, 5774
April 14th, 2014

There are really two Passovers. Seriously. They are connected to each other by a single strong thread, but Passover is actually two holidays.

The first holiday is a celebration of freedom. Everybody loves this holiday. Who doesn’t love freedom? It’s an easy sell.

The second Passover is a week-long spiritual fast from one substance: hametz – any grain that underwent leavening: for all intents and purposes, bread. 

This holiday is less popular. I can’t imagine why.

The two are connected by one shared symbol: matzah.

Every year, Passover #2 gets a bad rap. Some complain about all the work we’ll need to do. Some sneer at the idea that not eating bread somehow makes a person holy. I have done both.

This year, a friend of mine suggested that I ditch the kashering* and come join him for a pretty exciting opportunity. I was surprised to realize that I didn’t want to. It wasn’t that I had to clean; it was the realization that preparing for that second Pesach is some of the holiest work I’ll do all year.

The first generation to leave Egypt knew what it was to gain freedom. Every bite of that tasteless, over-baked bread told them that they were free. The first generation always possesses the coal of lived experience, and that fire lasts them their entire lives.

We who come after have to work to remember that we’re free. The material comfort of our lives make us complacent; complacency is the enemy of consciousness; we begin to confuse the world as it is now with the world as it must be.

Cleaning for Passover, not eating hametz – these are the ways I tell myself that my world can be changed, and that it takes work to do so. When I dig my hands into the soapy water to clean, when I change the way I eat for a week, I remind myself that nothing is as fixed as it seems, nor do I have to accept it as such. I remind myself that I am free, and I teach myself that I have the strength it takes to work for that freedom – as we all do.

In Judaism, freedom is an obligation. It seems like such a paradox, “I am commanded to be free.” But the mitzvah** to become free speaks to a deep truth. Freedom is not a synonym for vacation; it is the hard-won realization that the world can, and sometimes must change, and that we should be the ones to change it. And every year, it is a responsibility in which I find more and more joy.

“In each and every generation, a person is obligated to see herself as if she personally left Egypt.” (Talmud Pesachim 115b)

*the process of making a kitchen kosher

**commandment

It's Hard to Be Good - Problems of Globalization

בס''ד

Last week, I stumbled on upon this New York Times article about thesudden global shortage of limes. 

I was eating guacamole at the time.

It is the kind of problem that spins my head right round. Globalization and modern technology make limes cheap and available almost everywhere. Because limes are awesome*, we've quickly assimilated them into our diet: guacamole, margaritas, what passes for Mexican food out here, etc.

The ready inclusion of limes in our lifestyles jacks up demand, and growers, mostly in developing countries where labor is cheap, step in to supply American markets. However growing monocultures (one species of produce in massive quantities in the same place), makes disease much more likely, and a citrus infection called HLB has been rapidly infecting much of Mexico's trees (Florida too). HLB, combined with the weather, created a huge lime shortage; prices skyrocketed.

Unfortunately, there are groups in Mexico very much interested in money wherever it is to be found, by any means necessary. It appears that drug cartels stepped in (they already launder money through Mexican agriculture), and they or other criminals are hijacking lime transports and plundering groves. The cartels have the funding to do all this because of the lucrative American market for illegal narcotics.

The Torah teaches "Turn from evil, and do good." (Psalm 15) In truth, the former is a hell of lot harder than the latter. It is easier to do good - treat people in our lives well, pay our taxes, donate to charity, do mitzvot, volunteer. In fact, I am always stunned by the sheer amount of goodness in the people around me. The strength that humans can muster is awe-inspiring.

Much, much more difficult is to turn from the evil that our society produces as a necessary consequence to its structure. Structural evil is the worst kind of problem – the kind that saps slowly away at our energy, that requires concerted effort over a long period of time by many individuals to steer our conglomerate selves from our fixed path. Turning from that evil requires a high tolerance for frustration, accepting feelings of impotence, and immense restraint. Do we have the energy to fit composting into our lives, the time to check whether a fruit is sustainably raised, the restraint not to eat what we crave any given night, and the patience – even the arrogance - to persuade our friends to do the same?

But I want to remind us of that strength that we possess; we have more of it than we even imagine. Our ancestors remind us that it is possible to work towards redemption for generations, and to keep hope alive. The good world that God has given us is worth the strength we can muster.

* As are avocados, and, indeed, anything that grows in the great state of California.

Authenticity

בס''ד

Parshat Metzora

29 Adar, 5774

March 31^st, 2014

I love banter. Love it. Once I start teasing you, you can be assured of my affection.

My faith in banter comes from a love for language combined with mistrust for the way language is used. I love words and believe in their power; I also know that people regularly use language to conceal their true feelings. More often than not, in our culture, ill-will comes with a smile and a carefully worded statement from the management.

So some times, in order to display the strength of a relationship, one flips language on its head. This is the intent behind what Rabbi Shira and I do on Purim, writing “sermons” for each other that the other doesn’t see until s/he reads it, embarrassing the hell out of one another. We flip everything over on Purim, to find the hidden truth underneath; if there wasn’t real affection between us, there’s no way that we could make fun of each other. The teasing is a testament to its opposite: the real connection between people.

Lately, I’ve been challenged to think about what it means to speak authentically. This, almost criminally long essay on smarm by Gawker features editor Tom Scocca and Malcom Gladwell’s response on sarcasm in the New Yorker duel as to the nature of what makes speech authentic.

In an unfairly small nutshell, Scocca points out to damage that smarm can do. Smarm he defines as niceness, politeness, and achieving the right tone without any relationship to the content of what’s being said: basically, someone smiling at you whether they promote you or fire you, telling you that s/he feels your pain whether they’re caring for your needs or denying you benefits, etc. Smarm makes kindness untrustworthy.

Gladwell argues for the opposite, that sarcasm and mockery are tools of conservatism and the status quo; they are a quick way to take down new, revolutionary, and  important ideas, to stop upstarts in their tracks with a barrage of laughter.*

As for me, I search for authenticity in the golden mean between these two extremes. Of one of the teachers in the Talmud, Rabbah, it’s said that “before Rabbah would start teaching the rabbis, he’d say something funny, and the rabbis would laugh. After that he’d sit in reverence and begin teaching Torah.” (Talmud Shabbat 30b)

That is my test, for relationships, for ideas, and for speech. Can they hold reverence? Can they bear humor? Is there space for both? When the answer is yes, I have found the authenticity that I seek.

*For example: women should be given the right to vote? Ridiculous. One should as well give animals the same right. In fact here is a pamphlet mocking the famous feminist Mary Wollstonecrafts essay “A Vindication of the Rights of Women.” It is by the philosopher Thomas Taylor, wholly a work of satire. Much to his posthumous surprise, I’m sure, his satirical essay has become the completely serious basis for the animal rights movement.

What To Do When Spring Hasn’t Sprung

בס''ד

Parshat Tazria

22 Adar II, 5774

March 24^th, 2014

They call spring a song:  “For now the winter is past, the rains are over and gone, the blossoms have appeared in the land, the time of pruning has come; the song of the dove is heard in our land.” (Song of Songs 2:11-12)

Here is a partial list of the songs I have heard instead of the song of spring:

·         The song of my space heater, wheezing mightily;

·         Synchronized groaning as another snow day is announced;

·         Quick clacking of heels on pavement as their owner hurries to get out  of the cold;

·         Repeated muttering, “why did leave [insert warm location here]?
(To be fair, most of that last one was my solo performance.)

The Talmud teaches that when God created the world, God did not let the seeds of all the plants sprout until Adam and Eve prayed for rain. God desires the prayers of the tzadikim – the righteous; Adam and Eve’s prayers added spiritual quality to the new world. (Talmud Chullin 60b)

We could add a little righteousness of our own. The question on many of our minds is whether we have anything to do with this brutal cold: whether it is just a tough winter or the continuing depredations of climate change.

So as we steel ourselves and wait just a little longer until the blossoms come, perhaps we could plan for a righteous spring: set up the compost bin we’ve been meaning to get to; plan our window herb gardens and vegetables; get our bikes tuned up to green our commutes; figure out where we’re going to get local produce when the season comes. 

How do you plan on preparing for a spiritual spring? Comment below.

Should Children Choose Their Own Religion?

בס''ד

Parshat Shemini

20 Adar II, 5774

March 18^th, 2014

Rabbi Hanina wryly says the Talmud: “Everything is in the hands of heaven except belief in heaven.”** God can do anything, except force a free human being to believe in Her.

Belief cannot be compelled. A few centuries ago, the philosopher John Locke pointed out the contradiction of forced religious conversion. Forcing someone to convert does not make them a believer, it just makes them lie to you; belief, by definition, is sincere.

So when parents or couples say that they want to hold off on religious education until their kid is old enough to choose religion for him or herself, I understand. Belief is a fundamental choice. The protection of that choice is one of Western Civilizations most sacred values.

Here’s the problem: children are not adults. Children are also possessed of capacities that they will lose when they enter adulthood, especially their sponge-like memory. Rabbis of the Mishnah used to use teenagers as walking encyclopedia. Apparently, young teenagers’ capacity for memorization is near infinite, and fades with age.

The point isn’t academic. That which is meant to be remembered is best taught young. Prayers, melodies, Torah texts, Hebrew, rituals, laws – all these are sucked up greedily by a young mind, and, with occasional reinforcement, last a person her entire life. But any of the above are like breaking teeth when learned as an adult. Some Torah for the cooks and bakers among us: “Rabbi Nehorai said: When a person learns Torah in youth, that person may be compared to dough that has been kneaded with warm water. When a person learns Torah when advanced in years, that person may be compared to dough that has been kneaded with cold water.***

So many adults walk through our doors with the extraordinary desire to learn Torah; so many will struggle because the basic building blocks – Hebrew, the prayers, the stories, the actions – will elude them without considerable work.

When they are grown, every one of our children will choose their own religion. That freedom of choice is a contemporary inevitability. But I worry that, by not educating them young, we actually limit their choice by limiting their capacity. Like all languages, a spiritual vocabulary is strongest when learned earliest.

* He said “every man.” Nobody’s perfect, I guess  

** Brakhot 33b

***Avot de Rabbi Natan 23       

House of Cards

בס’‘ד

Parshat Vayikra
2 Adar II, 5774
March 4th, 2014 

I was late to the House of Cards party, but am now a wholehearted fan. Could there be two greater anti-heroes than Frank and Claire? God bless exceptionally tight TV writing.

I wish that moral outrage was the only reason to watch the show. However, there is more to these characters, and one is shocked to find oneself approving as they orchestrate the downfall of yet another poor, benighted sap taken unawares by Frank’s caramel Georgia accent and Claire’s perfect elegance.

Their cruelty is attractive; it is an outlet for our fantasies; we wish that we, like them, were not possessed of the burden of feeling quite so much, nor were so much at the whim of our own emotions, nor so anxious about the thoughts of others. The pull of House of Cards is that it lets us pretend, for a moment, that we could live without caring.

We idolize those people or characters who live untroubled by compassion, insecurity, or loneliness, for those emotions are so tiring, so utterly fatiguing, and we wish that we could set them down off our shoulders for just a moment.

Know, though, that there is a difference between cruelty and strength; where we are on the spectrum between those two poles is defined by the extent to which we care about the wellbeing of other people; so, to set our caring down and ignore it is inhuman; to grow strong enough to hold our emotionality and still accomplish something in this world, divine. “and HaShem your God will circumcise your heart and the heart of your child to love HaShem your God with all your heart, with your life, and with all that you own.” (Deuteronomy 30:6) 

Toughness necessitates exposing one’s heart, not cutting it out. Let cold-bloodedness live in fiction, where it belongs.