Perceptions and Illusions - Greg Marzullo

Parshat Shlah Lekha

Perceptions and illusions are the meat of this week's dramatic Torah portion. After liberation from slavery in Egypt and the famous Red Sea crossing, the Jewish people march through the desert and almost reach the Holy Land. God commands Moses to choose twelve scouts who will check out Canaan, take stock of its natural resources and, most importantly, size up the locals who already live there.

The spies head off to gather intel, and when they come back, all but two of them say how difficult it will be to win this country flowing with milk and honey. The inhabitants are plentiful and very large, so much so that the spies saw themselves as "grasshoppers" compared to these giants. The people of Israel begin wailing about their impossible hardships, saying it would be better that they had never left Egypt. 

The Torah paints God as having had enough with the constant lack of faith, and He tells Moses that He'll wipe them all out and start again with a line of Moses. Luckily, our well-worn human hero begs God to reconsider, and Adonai relents; yet, He decrees that the generation which doubted His power - even after seeing all those miraculous interventions - will die in the desert. After 40 years of wandering, only the non-believers' children will reach the land promised to their ancestors.

Harsh, right? Seemingly. But, of course, there's more to it than that. 

Medieval scholar, teacher and commentator Rashi exhorts us to remember that the heart and eyes are the body's spies. This powerful observation, based on a line at the end of this week's portion to not follow the heart's and eyes' lustful urges, throws the entire portion into a new light - one based less on a seemingly Draconian punishment and more on the natural laws of cause and effect.
In yogic philosophy, the senses are viewed with wariness. They so easily lead us astray from our true intentions. The Upanishads, beautiful mystic texts of India, liken the human experience to being in a chariot drawn by the horses of the senses who madly plunge down the roads of our selfish desires. It's only with a firm grip on the reins that we can peacefully ride through the world and go where our true, transcendent nature would have us, as opposed to being dragged hither and yon by passing fancies. We're all too often pulled in multiple directions at once, convincing ourselves that our addiction to busyness is a necessity to leading a successful life, when in truth, our perceptions are only drawing us further and further away from the real promised land - the sacred earth that lies within our own divine consciousness.

The Israelites give up on their long-awaited goal because of mere perceptions - those guys are bigger than us! there are too many of them! we'll never be able to do it! - thereby creating their own punishment and exile. Stumbling after our every whim and sensory input only leads to chaos and a lack of fulfillment. Ultimately, the very things which drew us away from our connection to God are only going to betray us in the end. No job, car, house, person, experience, personal story, mental habituations (good or bad) can bring us the lasting contentment we're seeking, because all those things are transitory by design. 
We're supposed to fall out of love with the impermanent, so we can become intoxicated with love for the eternal Adonai. 

Seen through this lens, the wandering of the Israelites is not some story in a long-ago faraway place. It happens here and now. Turning our eyes from the land of milk and honey, perhaps not so much a geographic location as a state of being, leads us into the vast desert of ego-driven fantasies and desire that cannot possibly bear any fruit. Instead, we must give no credence to the faulty reports from the spies of our senses, instead staying focused on the Holy Land and gaining entry into the sacred place that has been ours since before the world was made.

Such Great Heights

בס''ד

Parshat Korach
18 Sivan, 5774
June 16, 2014

A few weeks ago, my brother and I climbed 1488 vertical feet to the top of Angel’s Landing in Zion National Park.

I am afraid of heights.

The world looks different from a 1500 ft. promontory. You think differently, up there. An unrestricted view of the sublime changes your perspective.

There is a promise, in the book of Isaiah, regarding Shabbat. Keep the Shabbat, God says, and we will be set astride the heights of the earth (Isaiah 58:14). On the top of Angel’s Landing, I understand that God, in that verse, promised us perspective. To actually be on top of the heights of the earth is to see the world from a God’s eye view, and to have an intimation of what our existence looks like from afar. I don’t mean perspective simply in terms of sheer height, I mean the realization that this cliff which has stood for geological ages, is itself a blip in the history of existence. I mean understanding that all the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full; to the place from where the rivers come, there they return again. I mean knowing how infinitesimally short the mere 10,000 years of human existence really is.

What is our significance in God’s eyes, and how do we seem from a God-like view? To say that we are insignificant is to forget that we are remarkable, and that we are the only sentient creation of which we are aware – something unique in the annals of the world.

But equally true is that humanity's time may be, relatively, quite brief, depending on how we play it and on circumstances beyond our control. Most of the time, I worry only about my own survival as I did on the climb up, peering down over either side, holding on for dear life. But perhaps I should spend time thinking about who we are - all of us - and how we as a species should choose to be known. If we saw ourselves with God's eyes, how would we change the way we live?

Good, Better, Best

בס''ד

Towards Shavuot

4 Sivan, 5774

June 2^nd, 2014

Grammar snob noun \ˈgra-mər ˈsnäb\ : self-appointed tyrant and arbiter of the proper usage of language. Though the grammar snob often resides within social groups, the snob may, after a particularly difficult text message session, abandon the group in exasperation to be alone with his/her/zer's New Yorker, MLA Handbook, and occasionally a Strunk and White's.

The grammar snob's seemingly hair-trigger outbursts and depth of feeling concerning the use of "thru" and "lite" are often a mystery to companions and friends. But to the snob, such reactions are a perfectly reasonable - nay, moderate - response to the misuse of the snob's beloved language, whose purity and precision should be defended at all costs.

The question before us is whether or not the grammar snob is a force for good, albeit in a rather grating manner, in the community.

A friend shared this piece which argues that the grammar snob's influence is more pernicious than helpful. In it, Melissa Fabello points out that the grammar for which snobs would gladly make the ultimate sacrifice was canonized by a bunch of white, wealthy, highly educated men circa 1930. Which is to say that what we call proper grammar is in fact the dialect belonging to the most privileged Americans in the first half of the 20th century.

I want so much to like her piece. Her main point is a good one. Those of us with ethnically Ashkenazi forebears who made it to this country will recognize that the English in which I now write was not the dialect of our grandparents ("You vant I should call you? I'll be staying by Murray - you know, mit the shmatte (clothing) business. Don't forget to wear a nice sweater.") There's African American Vernacular English (AAVE), in which most of white America regularly, and sneakily, indulges. There are even dialects based on profession: management-speak, corporate-speak, medical-speak, airline-speak etc.

So when we hold up one dialect as proper English, we're reinforcing the hegemony of the people to whom that dialect belongs - at the cost of other dialects that are full of their own life and should be treasured. To paraphrase from her piece, when it's called the Queen's English, we all know who's best. The implications go far beyond semicolons.

The problem is the extreme to which this argument goes, for she drops this sentence like a bomb, "any time we create a hierarchy by positioning one thing as “better” than another, we’re being oppressive.”

I have seen this reduction ad absurdum used before, and I protest. The hierarchy of “best” can oppress, but it is equally true that ideas of “the good” and “better” serve to uproot both injustice and pursue aesthetic beauty. All is not relative. Language that promotes freedom is better than language that oppresses; language that argues against the objectification of women is better than misogyny; language that is creative and meaningful, deft and expressive, and well-employed through its own rules of usage is simply good. The judgment of these categories is not merely subjective, but the proper use of the human heart and intellect; their accomplishment, the work of our hands.

When we talk about language and expression through writing, one of the things we need to address is how to get better at them. Such a discussion will incorporate the words, “usage,” and “better,” and “mistake,” and “good.” To write judgment out of language subverts the very goal it is trying to achieve. Without judging, we cannot determine what is just.

Deuteronomy 6:18, “You shall do the right and the good.” Our understanding of the multiplicity of what is good has blossomed, but our pursuit of the good remains constant.

The Spirituality of Grumpiness - A Blessing to My Adult Bnai Mitzvah Students

בס''ד

12 Iyyar 5774

May 12th, 2014

27th Day of the Omer

The Jewish people have a long history of loving their curmudgeons. The prophet Jeremiah could be best described as grumpy. Isaiah walked around naked for a few years, just to shock people into remembering the poor. Elijah the prophet is welcomed at celebrations of Jewish continuity not because of his indubitable holiness, but because he doubted the longevity of the Jewish people. Every Pesach, every bris, we invite in our biggest grouch.

The curmudgeonly spiritual tradition begins in the Torah itself. Right towards the end of the whole Five Books, Moses (the original grump) says to the Jewish people, “Surely this mitzvah that I command you this day isn’t too baffling for you, nor it is beyond reach. It is not in heaven, that you should say, “Who among us can go up to heaven and get it for us and impart it to us, that we may observe it.?” Neither is it on the other side of the sea that you should say, “Who among us can cross to the other side of the sea and get it for us and impart it to us, that we may observe it?” No, the thing is very close to you, in your mouth and in your heart, to observe it.” Deuteronomy 30:11-14

Spiritual crustiness isn’t much in vogue in our time; most of us appreciate spiritual leaders who are inspiring rather than crabby. But we human beings also have a tendency to project the fantasy that spiritual wisdom can only be found far from us. We can get a little too lofty; we dream of the hidden spiritual masters in far-off lands; it’s much harder to see the possibilities for true meaning in our own backyard. That’s why the Torah can sound a little grumpy — we should never stop reaching for the stars, but sometimes what we really need is to be jolted out of our daydreams. The spiritual journey begins with the realization that our feet are firmly planted in the ground upon which we stand.

This year’s B’nai Mitzvah class has a special gift. They are possessed, more and more each day, of a realization that meaningful Judaism is accessible to them, here and now. They have grasped what the Torah teaches, that real spirituality is very close by, in their hearts and in their mouths. They know where they stand. I can hear their understanding when they pray, I can see it when they learn. When they speak, their words ring true.

The thing is, I didn’t teach them this lesson. They gained that insight on their own, through their considerable personal integrity and the impressive amount they’ve accomplished over these last nine months.

The Talmud teaches that human beings can be envious of anyone, except for their children or their students. (Sanhedrin 105b). The statement comes off a bit like paternalistic claptrap, but I’m beginning to understand. It is hard to have negative feelings when people about whom you care grow in wisdom and in depth right before your eyes—on their own merit, no less. Watching this class develop a spiritual vocabulary, confidence in Torah and in prayer, and find themselves again in the heart of Jewish practice fills me with awe.

I bless them to remember one last piece of the Tradition, that the true Torah of kindness is the one that is learned in order to one day be shared with others. I bless them that they recognize their greatness without arrogance or conceit, and use their capacity to bring others like them into Torah and a warm, meaningful relationship with Judaism.

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.