Stephen Hawking and Boycotting Israel

As you may have heard, the world's most famous scientist, Stephen Hawking, has recently backed out of a visit to Israel, thereby taking part in an academic boycott against the state.

As one of many who deeply admires Hawking, it's distressing to hear of him participating in this. I've been reading many responses to his decision, but in some ways the most powerful is one by Carlo Strenger. I'll include the full text below, but I find it so compelling because Strenger is highly critical of Israel:

Let it first be said that I have been opposed to Israel’s occupation of Palestinian territories for many years, and that I have voiced this opposition with all means at my disposal. I think that Israel’s settlement policy in the West Bank is indefensible morally, stupid politically and unwise strategically, and I will continue opposing it as long as I can.

This is no Israel apologist (he even accuses Israel of human rights violations in the West Bank). But, even with that, he finds this boycott, and Hawking's participation in it, indefensible:

Yes, I think that Israel is guilty of human right violations in the West Bank. But these violations are negligible compared to those perpetrated by any number of states ranging from Iran through Russia to China, to mention only a small number of examples. Iran hangs hundreds of homosexuals every year; China has been occupying Tibet for decades, and you know of the terrible destruction Russia has inflicted in Chechnya. I have not heard from you or your colleagues who support an academic boycott against Israel that they boycott any of these countries.

This gets to the heart of what angers so many defenders of Israel, myself included. It's not that I think that Israel is perfect, or that it's wrong to criticize Israel. But, Israel is often singled out in a way in which no other country would ever be.

How can a person claim that, for political reasons, they will not visit Israel, but then visit China, or any of the Islamicist regimes? Or, even America:

I’m still waiting for the British academic who says he won’t cooperate with American institutions as long as Guantanamo is open, or as long as the U.S. continues targeted assassinations.

What possible justification is there for that hypocrisy? 

I hate blaming things on Anti-Semitism, as that's often a cheap, ad hominem attack meant to derail actual debate. But, I honestly can't think of a better explanation for why Israel is routinely criticized for doing what others do as a matter of course. 

Israel is in a tragically untenable situation, where all of the choices are bad. It's possible (indeed, I would argue) that many of its choices have been the wrong ones. But to single Israel out in this way reeks of Anti-Semitism and hypocrisy. I would love to expect better, especially from a free-thinking genius.

Living up to the standards of human rights and the ideals of democracy in an imperfect world is difficult. Major thinkers like Philip Bobbitt and Michael Ignatieff have invested deep and comprehensive thought into the difficult topic of how to maintain the human rights standard in a world threatened by terrorism.

Professor Hawking, I would expect from a man of your intellectual stature to get involved in the difficult task of grappling with these questions. Taking the simple way out of singling out Israel by boycotting it academically does not behoove you intellectually or morally.   

The Kotel

Another item on my "blog idea" list is to talk about The Wall, and what it means to me. This is a perfect day to write about this, because as you may have heard, it's a big day for gender/religious equality at the Kotel (which is Hebrew for "the Wall"). In short, Israel's Supreme Court ruled today that it is not against the law for women to wear a tallit (prayer shawl) at the Kotel.

You see, the Kotel has long been officially designated as an Orthodox synagogue, which means that it falls under the auspices of the official Israeli Rabbinate, which is ultra-Orthodox. To put it mildly, they don't support gender equality within Judaism (or, for that matter, within anything). And so not only do they think that it's inappropriate for a woman to wear a tallit, which is traditionally something only men do, but they think that they have the right to tell others that they have to think, and behave, the same way.

A relatively small, but ever-growing, segment of Israeli Jewry has been pushing back against this ultra-Orthodox hegemony, and over the past couple of years they finally seem to be gaining some momentum. There was a recent decision to make a mixed/egalitarian prayer area at the Kotel, to go along with the all-male and all-female sections. And now this ruling, which if it's obeyed, means the police can no longer arrest women for having the audacity to dress and pray as they wish.

As you can probably tell/guess, I not only disagree, strongly, with what the ultra-Orthodox have been trying to do for years, but I also get quite angry about it. I'm certainly not alone. Many of my liberal (non-Orthodox) coreligionists have been disgusted by the attitudes and behavior of the ultra-Orthodox for a long time now. And, partially because of that, many have started to turn away from the Wall — to no longer see it as an important, or maybe even holy, site.

There are other reasons for this attitude towards the Wall, as well. Many find the treatment of the Kotel to be somewhat idolatrous. People pray at the Kotel as if God is more willing (more able?) to hear prayers there. People write prayers on pieces of paper and put them in the cracks of the wall, believing/assuming that somehow their prayers are more likely to be answered from being placed alongside those ancient stones. I know there are good, non-superstitious reasons to pray at the Wall, but my experience makes it pretty clear that most people are using the Wall in a superstitious way — as if it had inherent power. I suppose that there's another explanation for the fact that there is a website where can input your prayer, and they'll print it out and put in the Wall for you, but magic and superstition seem the most obvious explanation. You can probably guess how I feel about that attitude.

Anyway, you add up the ultra-Orthodox control, the nasty, vicious non-egalitarian, and anti-feminist, anti-woman attitude of the powers that be, along with the (semi?) idolatrous treatment of the Kotel, and I can completely understand why some people are, quite frankly, sick of the whole thing.

But, not me.

Don't get me wrong. I am, of course, sick of everything I just described. I find it all to be, in so many different ways, the worst of our religion. But, despite that, I still find myself drawn to the Kotel, and I still love it.

Part of it has to do with my love for ancient places like that. Without assigning any extra meaning to it, I love walking on the Roman Road in the Old City of Jerusalem. Every time I'm there, I get unspeakably excited by the fact that I'm walking on the same stones upon which the first rabbis in history walked. I get chills walking into the amphitheater in Casaeria. And so on.

But, that's not it. My real love of the Kotel comes from a much simpler story. It comes from my first visit to it, ever.

It was the summer after my senior year of High School, and I was on a synagogue trip - a whirlwind tour of Israel. I went thinking it would be fun, but found it was much more than that. It was, as few things have been for me, transformative. I fell in love with the country and I can't, to this day, tell you exactly why. I just knew that Israel felt like home in a way in which few places ever have.

Towards the end of the trip we were finally in Jerusalem. We were finally going to see the Kotel, about which I had heard my whole life - it's a pretty big moment for most Jews, to say the least. But, I was angered by the gender separation. My 17-year old self was indignant about not being able to stand with my friends (well, one friend, in particular. You know how High School is). And so, we agreed to both go stand right by the mechitza - the divider between the men's and women's sections. And so, I wedged myself into that corner, and I talked to God*.

* Back then, I had a much more traditional, simpler vision of God. It made it a LOT easier to talk to Him…

The Kotel is somewhat beat up*. As it happened, right in front of me, a bit higher than my waist, was a worn out depression in the wall. It was the perfect spot to rest my hand while I talked. No big deal - just an arm-rest.

* a couple of millennia will do that to a wall.

But, while I sat there and talked (in my head, as I recall), I made a promise. I had been so taken by Israel, so completely overwhelmed by it, that I vowed, then and there, to come back. Not just to Israel, mind you, but with that kind of dramatic fervor that only teenagers seem to have easy access to, I vowed to come back to that. very. spot.

I remember even pounding my fist, gently, as I said each word. That. Very. Spot.

And so, I did. The next time I went back to Israel, for a semester of college, I found my way to the Kotel. And, I put my hand in that spot. 

Every time I visited the Kotel during that year, I put my hand in that spot.

Every time I've visited the Kotel, in my entire life, I've gone to that spot. And, I've put my hand there. 

I smile a little as I think about a girl I haven't seen or talked to in 20 years or so, and I wonder what life has brought her. I hope it's as much as life's brought me.

But, more than that, I put my hand in that spot, and I try to remember what it felt like to be a teenager, capable of melodramatic declarations and of falling head over heels in love with rocky hills and a stone wall.

That spot is mine. And no one, whatever power the Israeli government gives them or (please God) takes away, can take it away from me.

Believing in God

[Well, this isn't exactly the post I thought I was sitting down to write. And, I'm not sure how much sense it actually makes. But, in the spirit of blogging I'll just put it out there. Hopefully, it's interesting.]

For a while now, I've kept a list of topics and articles about which I want to blog, always planning to find some time to write. But, you know how that goes — life gets busy, and the urgent gets in the way of the important. And, before you know it, you've got a long list of blog ideas, and you still haven't made any progress towards them…

And, relatedly, I've been promising (threatening?) myself, and on this blog a couple of times, to start doing some writing about my theology. As any of you who know me, or read this blog at all regularly, know by now, my personal belief is nothing like what most people consider "traditional belief." I do not believe in a God who is "out there" and I certainly don't believe in a God who controls the world, in any literal way. I read and think about that so much, and talk about it in certain contexts so often, that I forget that not everyone really knows what I do believe (although, I guess I did actually give a sermon all about this on Yom Kippur). It's probably important that they do — I am, after all, a Rabbi.

And so, I finally found myself with a free hour, and some motivation (and hopefully, some focus) to write. And as I scanned through my list of blog topics, looking for one which inspires me, I came across this article from a little over a year ago*. In it, Jeffrey Small is discussing his conception of God. And, although it certainly isn't exactly what/how I believe, there's a whole lot of overlap.

* Note to self: write more often, or stop bothering collecting blog ideas...

Start with "classical" God imagery:

God as the potter, the watchmaker or the chess master has lost its relevance for many in our post-modern world. The response to this critique by some is to close their eyes to science and the realities of existence.

I don't really want to get into a refutation of this image of God (if you want to get semi technical, this is usually referred to as an "Active God," or a "God of History." Basically,  it's the God who is an independent, factual reality, and who can, if He so chooses, act in our world directly). Maybe I'll do that some other time, but I still think that Sam Harris' Letter to a Christian Nation does a powerful, if slightly obnoxious, job of that. Suffice it to say, for now, that I find this idea of God completely untenable and, frankly, undesirable. As I've often said, if there is a God who is capable of curing a child of cancer, but chooses not to for whatever reason, then I need a new job, because I'm not working for that God anymore.

But, if I don't believe in that God, then what, exactly, do I believe in? Well, let's start with what Small believes:

I have come to understand God, not as a transcendent Zeus-like figure, but instead as the infinite creative source of existence.

By "creative source" here, I do not mean to say that I think of God as creating existence by waving a magic wand from afar, but rather that all of existence -- matter, energy, the physical laws which govern the universe, even our consciousness -- comes out of God. This understanding of God is rooted not in Creationism, Intelligent Design or a desire for a father figure, but rather comes from this simple question posed first by the ancient Greek philosopher Parminedes (b. 510 BCE): Why is there existence in the first place, instead of nothing?

You know what? As I'm rereading that, I realize that it doesn't describe so well what I believe. It's not that I disagree with it so much, it's more that it doesn't resonate. That's the problem with this less literal understanding of God — it's not so much about describing, in specific detail, the God in which I believe. Rather, it's about describing an image of God which resonates. Theology becomes a matter of perspective and awareness — not a statement about understanding how the universe works, but rather about what the universe means.

Some people will hear this and, whether or not they like this imagery/approach, will think to themselves "that isn't God." It might be nice, and it might be true. But it isn't God. Right?

This probably just turns into an argument about semantics, which is rarely interesting (although, strangely, often quite strident). If you define "God" as an all-powerful being with independent existence then, no, this isn't God. But if you define God as something else, something more general — as, perhaps, "the ultimate" — and this can, indeed, be God. This is a description of the fundamental, transcendent, holy basis of creation. Some people will find it inadequate — will say that, if this is really God, then God is useless, because God can't do anything. To them, I guess I have two responses. 

First of all, whether or not we like something has no bearing on whether or not it is true. The God described in the Bible is quite powerful, indeed. But, that God doesn't actually exist. And, my wishing (or yours) that He did doesn't change that.

But, more importantly, this God can do something. Just in a different way than we're used to thinking:

What I may have lost from the illusory "comfort" of believing in a supernatural father figure who may or may not intervene on my behalf, I have more than made up for with a new realization: I can touch and experience a God that is the ground of my being (though I'll never fully understand or see God) at a much more intimate level, because God is the spark of light within me. 

I've managed, really without intending to, to write an entire (somewhat rambling) blog post about my theology without actually saying a whole lot (barely anything, really) about what I actually believe. That's okay — I'll be doing that soon enough (I promise). For now, maybe it's enough to keep talking about the fact that even if you don't believe in the God in which you thought you were supposed to believe, that's okay. I don't believe in that God, either.

The Waiting Room

Yesterday, something I read gave me an image which is been stuck in my head.

Some writer described cable news as a ersatz hospital waiting room — when something terrible happens, we all go there. We mill about, restlessly and aimlessly, waiting for some news. Wishing that there was something we could do. Of course, there is no news coming anytime soon, and there's nothing we can actually do, right now. All we can do is wait. And so we wait, and we keep looking for news, and we keep telling ourselves we should do something else, and we keep waiting.

I know I'm not alone in feeling that way in the wake of the bombing in Boston, yesterday. I keep checking news sites, looking for any updates. But, the only updates I really might see this morning are the ones I really don't want to see — changes in the death toll, mostly. But, the senseless tragedy keeps drawing my attention back in. It feels voyeuristic and otherwise pointless to keep reading the news, but it seems somehow disrespectful to ignore it — to go on with my life as if the little things which were to occupy my day really matter. And so, I stay in that waiting room, sad, and angry, and restless, and useless. I don't know what else to do.

Recently, in the weekly Torah portion, we read the story of the deaths of Nadav and Abihu, two sons of Aaron who were killed for some ritual violation. Moses, Aaron's brother, explains to Aaron that this is how God asserts His holiness. And, the Torah tells us, Aaron was silent.

A lot of ink has been spilled, over the centuries, trying to explain Aaron's silence. For me, the most compelling explanation is numbing grief. What could he possibly say, what could any of us possibly say, in the face of such a loss? What is the proper reaction to the death of innocents? Anything that we say sounds wrong to our ears. And so maybe the best thing to do is to remain silent. It is, at the very least, more honest than any words we might try to use at times like these.

In Israel, on Yom HaZikaron (Fallen Soldier Remembrance Day), as on Yom HaShoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day) a week earlier,  a siren is sounded, and for that minute, the country stands still. Whatever people are doing, they stop, stand, and are silent. Cars stop. Businesses stop. Pedestrians stop. Everything stops. And everyone is silent.

In the face of tragedy greater than we can comprehend, and in the face of each and every tragedy, great and small, since, words fail us. And so, we simply stand in silence.

My heart is with the people in Boston. May they find healing, and strength. May they find peace.

My Shortest Lesson Ever

The shortest lesson I've ever taught about Shabbat:

I have an idea for a post, and I was about to sit down and write it.

But, it's warm and sunny outside. So, I'm going to go for a bike ride with my son, instead.

Shabbat Shalom!

How To Read Your Bible

It happens a lot, but it happens especially at times when we're debating some serious, divisive issue - an issue about which religion has something to say. So, to take the obvious example, it happens when we're discussing Same-Sex Marriage, as we are lately, with Prop 8 and DOMA going before the Supreme Court. 

It happens, unfortunately, very often in the comments section of some website*. Someone brings up how the Bible says something, usually in opposition to some liberal standpoint. You know the kind of thing I'm talking about - I say that I support Same-Sex Marriage, and then someone points out that, in case you haven't read it, Leviticus seems to oppose my position**.

* I say "unfortunately" because, in my opinion, there are few places better than the comments section of many websites to get really frustrated, and to wonder if we're making any progress as a society, or as a species. That isn't a statement so much about the content of many of these comments, but the tone and intelligence. But, that's another rant, I guess.

** I say "seems" because, if you actually study the Hebrew, Leviticus isn't quite as unambiguously anti-gay as it seems. But, that's another rant, I guess.

Now, the back-and-forth begins. Maybe I point out other areas of the Bible which we don't all follow. Maybe I point out the human origins of the Bible. Maybe I describe some overarching principle which I use to find my way through the Bible - maybe I even quote some great figure who said that "Love Your Neighbor as yourself" is the greatest principle of all.

Then it happens. 

Someone says, "You can't pick and choose. You can't treat the Bible like a Chinese menu, picking one law from column A, and two teachings from column B. It's all God's word, and it's sinful and idolatrous to think that you can use your own judgment over God's."

From there, it gets fairly predictable. Someone will (re-)state that overarching principle, claiming that that's God's will, or some higher truth (which, religiously speaking, are the same things). Someone will (again?) point out that we all pick and choose. And, we go 'round and 'round.

But, I feel like one part of this always gets missed. For lack of a better word, the philosophy which underlies the whole liberal approach to text and religion.

You say that it's wrong, sinfully wrong, to use my own judgment to decide between what's right and wrong in the Bible.

I ask you what better idea you've got?

I don't mean to imply that I'm better than God. That my judgment is perfect. That I am the ultimate, final arbiter of all that is Right or Wrong. That I trust myself to make these judgments, and to never make a mistake.

I just mean to state that I don't know a better alternative.

The Bible is not perfect. It isn't. Some people reading this will have a different opinion about that, and we probably can't have a meaningful, productive conversation, because our starting assumptions, our paradigms of belief, if you will, are fundamentally different. If you believe that the Torah, or your scripture, comes down, perfectly, directly from God, despite all of the countervailing evidence, then you're going to believe that, and my pointing out that the Torah claims that the rabbit chews its cud* probably won't convince you. 

* it doesn't. 

But, if like me, you come from a tradition which accepts, and even embraces, the human origins of our most sacred texts, then you are left with a pretty clear choice. You can either pretend that the Torah, and/or the rest of the Bible, is perfect, and try your best to follow it devotedly. 

Or, you can openly admit that it's not perfect, and try to find a different way to follow it.

This different way - and there are many - is going to be flawed. It's going to be ambiguous and vague. It's often going to be inconsistent and (horror of horrors!) even hypocritical. 

But, it's going to be honest.

Pretending that the Bible is perfect - is divine - even if we know it's not? That, my friends, is idolatrous.

Admitting that the Bible is often a source of great, holy inspiration, but is often also the source of misguided, and/or outdated views? That's troubling, and confusing, and fraught. But, it's true. It's honest. Personally speaking, I am (literally) religiously devoted to choosing honest complexity over simplistic consistency. 

Of course being the arbiter of what I do and don't believe, of which parts of the Bible I do and don't follow is tricky. Of course I'm going to contradict myself - I'm going to claim to believe something which seems to, or actually does, go against something I claimed to believe yesterday. Of course I'm going to apply my principles inconsistently - how else am I going to figure out how to apply them at all? I'm learning as I go. I'm thinking, and reading, and talking, and listening. I'm making judgments, and checking them against my other judgments, and against other people's ideas, and against the reality which is being created as I watch. I'm finding my way through a complex, ambiguous, ever-changing world. It seems only logical, only honest, that my way will also be complex, ambiguous and ever-changing.

If someone tells you they have simple answers to complex questions, be very, very suspicious.

Absolute certainty may seem strong and faithful and appealing.

But, I'll take ambiguous complexity. It may not be perfect. But, it's the closest thing we've got.

Pesach and Freedom for All

This is really just a longer version of the status which I just posted on Facebook. In theory, if I can say something in a short status, then there's no reason to say it in a full blog post. But, brevity has never been the main requirement of the rabbinate...

I'm incredibly moved by the number of people who, this morning, have changed their Facebook profile picture to the Marriage Equality logo*. Over the next two days, the Supreme Court is hearing arguments about Prop 8 and DOMA, and there seems to be a real (if not particularly overwhelming  shot that, in the coming days (week? months?), Marriage Equality will be the Law of the Land, and people will be allowed to marry whomever the want, even if (gasp!) they happen to be the same sex.

* Of course, I acknowledge that my Facebook friends list isn't exactly a scientifically representative sample of the population. It may lean, on average, to the left. Slightly.

Many have noted that Pesach is the perfect time for this to be happening. Pesach (Passover) is the Festival of Freedom - our annual retelling (reliving, actually) of our Exodus from the slavery of Egypt. In Hebrew, Egypt is called Mitzrayim, which comes from the Hebrew for "narrow." Egypt is, literally, "The Narrow Place." Originally, that was probably geographic - Ancient Egypt existed almost entirely along the Nile, so the kingdom was very narrow, physically. But, our sages* read it metaphorically - Mitzrayim is whatever constricts you. Whatever hems you in. Whatever keeps you from being fully, fundamentally free. From being you were meant to be. From being fully yourself. In other words, Egypt and Freedom aren't only historical and physical, they are also personal and spiritual.

* Who, let the record show, never let a simple explanation get in the way of a longer one...

Pesach doesn't just celebrate that one slavery, and our freedom from it. Pesach uses that one story as a paradigm to talk about every slavery, and every freedom. And so, Pesach really is the perfect day to be talking about (among a billion other things) Marriage Equality. Because, someone (a government, a religious group, a mob) telling you that your love isn't equal, that your marriage doesn't count, that your family isn't real? That must feel an awful lot like Mitzrayim.

And, that brings me to one of my absolute favorite, core teachings of Passover, and of all of Judaism. Several times, the Torah tells us that we must be kind to the stranger, because we were strangers in Egypt. We must, we are taught, fight for all who are enslaved, because we were slaves, once.

That's why we retell the Passover story, every year. That's why we're supposed to find new and creative ways to retell it, to make it feel real. Because, when we do that, when we can actually convince ourselves that, in some way, we were slaves, we'll actually remember what that felt like. We won't just talk about slavery, but we'll remember slavery. We'll feel the pain.

And, we'll be sure - absolutely, passionately sure - that no one - no one - should ever feel that way again.

We retell our story of slavery not to engage in some multi-generational pity-party, or to lay claim to some historical recompense. We do so in order to motivate ourselves to fight for others who are not free.

Time and again, the world (or, the be fair, some narrow minded segment of the world) has told some of us that we aren't equal. Jews had to be slaves. Africans had to be slaves. Their descendants were told that they were less intelligent, less capable, not worthy of mixing their blood with ours. And so on. We hear those stories, and we shake our heads in disbelief. We look back on our ancestors (and ourselves) with shame.

Except with gays, lesbians, bisexuals and transgender people. We're perfectly happy to tell them that they aren't the same. That they aren't equal. That they have to stay in Mitzrayim.

Tonight, many of us will attend a 2nd seder. We will, once again, retell the story of our slavery, and our freedom. During the seder (or just at dinner, if you're not going to a seder) stop and imagine that someone looked at you, and your family, and call you all sinners. Called you all evil. Called you all illegitimate. Not real. Imagine that your government did that, every day.

Imagine how that would feel.

Remember how it felt.

Don't let it continue. Not one more damn day.

Freedom to marry. Now.

Now, we are slaves. Next year, may we all be free.