Intelligent Confusion

Every now and then (and, not nearly often enough), I listen to a podcast called “Intelligence Squared.” It bills itself as “Oxford style debating in America.” Basically, they take one interesting issue and frame it as a proposition. For example, I just finished listening to an episode entitled, “Obesity is the Governments Problem.” Then, they get two experts from the pro side and two from the con, and have them debate it out. It's always intelligent, and usually far more civil than anything you're likely to hear in the wider media.

There's one part about it which I hate, though. Just before each debate, they ask the audience to vote on how they feel about the proposition. Afterwards, they vote again. The “winner” is the team which gains the most percentage points. I don't mind the overall idea—“winning” as defined by moving opinions. What I dislike is the vote, itself. I dislike having to pick* whether I agree or disagree. Because, for me, anyway, it's usually both.

*I know that, as a listener to a podcast, I don't actually have to vote, so it shouldn't matter to me. But, clearly, that's not how my brain works.

Sometimes we're uncertain about some topic because we don't know enough about it. For example, I can't tell you how I feel about the efficacy of drugs versus surgery for heart conditions, or about the best place to eat in London. I know nothing about them.

But, sometimes were uncertain about a topic because we know a lot about it. And, in knowing a lot about it, we come to realize that there isn't a single answer. The best place to eat in Tampa, for example*. Or, whether the government has a role to play in obesity in America.

*  although, I would have to admit that that's a simpler question that would be in, say, New York!

The arguments in this particular podcast were fairly straightforward, and fairly predictable. One side argued that obesity is a national health epidemic, that the country would benefit, as a whole, in several ways, from improving our nation-wide weight problem, and that various “let the free market/society/individuals solve the problem for themselves” arguments don't take into account the poor and otherwise disadvantaged who don't have equal access to information or opportunity.

The other side argued that, in fact, our “obesity epidemic” has been greatly exaggerated, and the consequences of said epidemic even more so. That government involvement in an issue almost invariably, over time, leads to creeping government control of that issue, and thus to an incremental, but significant, loss of freedom. And that, even if we felt it was important to solve this problem, government simply can't do it—we (society) don't have the faintest clue how to “cure” obesity (everything we try more less fails), and the government messes up everything it tries to do (one of the presenters had with him the safety sheet that comes with birth control pills. It was so long as to ensure that no one would ever read it. In trying to cover every possible safety issue, he argued, the government failed to meaningfully address a single safety issue. Is that who we want trying to solve something as complicated as obesity?). What evidence is there that the government could possibly have a positive impact on this problem? Better it should just stay away.

I have a very strong suspicion that just about everybody reading this has a counterargument to at least one of the points above. I'm sure that some of them (I know who you are, and so do you) are borderline fuming over some of them. That's not the point. Almost every single thing said during the debate had merit, and also had a counterpoint. And that is the point.

After hearing the debate, I feel have a much better grasp of the issues. I could talk more intelligentally about them. But I don't feel I have a better grasp of the answer, at least not when framed as a “yes or no” question. Both sides of the debate really do have some merit. And, I don't think that's a bad thing.

I once heard someone refer to “informed ignorance.” It's the kind of ignorance that comes from knowing a lot. The understanding that learning (almost?) always leads to greater complexity, rather than greater surety. That truth reveals itself as layers of nuance and complication, not as absolutes.

I am, frankly, so tired of all of our debates being framed as absolutes. As if one side has all the answers, and the other is bereft of anything of substance. Truth is almost never simple. Never black or white. Learning to listen to the debate, understand all the various arguments, and admit to a fundamental confusion is not a flaw, a sign of weakness, or a sign of intellectual impotence. Actually, I would argue, a sign of great intelligence.

I still think that one of the, if not the single smartest thing I've ever said (not counting the 99% of the time I'm just quoting someone else) is that whatever you think on any given issue, someone smarter than you thinks you're wrong.

And, the same goes for them, too.

I am not the do-er

Rabbi Ethan Franzel, who was our scholar-in-residence this past weekend* long ago taught me a kind of mantra. "I am not the do-er." When someone over-criticized you, you say to yourself, "I am not the do-er." When someone over praises you, you say to yourself, "I am not the do-er." What this person is (over-)reacting to is not what you did, but something else. They are acting out some other issue on you, because you, and your action, got to close to their "real" issue.

* and who, it must be said, was awesome

Of course, Rabbi Franzel is a mystic, and so he believes that this is not just true for over-reactions (although it's most useful there, perhaps). It's really true of everything that we do. Even the things we do, we didn't really do them.

It's a farily esoteric idea, and not one I can do justice to. At least, not in a quick blog post written when I really should be prepping for Passover. But, here's one hint of an explanation. From the New York Times, of all places.

Nicholas Kristof wrote an article about the origins of our political ideologies. What makes me a liberal? Why are you (if you are) a conservative? And, if you've read any of this kind of thing before, you know that the answer lies almost entirely outside the realm of logic and rational choice. I am not, for example, in favor of Universal Health Care because I have rationally looked at the pros and cons of the issue and come to the conclusion which best suits the data. I am in favor of Universal Health Care, independent of rational reasons, and then I unavoidably construct an argument in favor of that view. It takes quite a bit of counter-data to shake me off of my instinctively arrived at position. And, this isn't just about me, or about this issue, of course. This probably applies to everyone of us, on almost every issue about which we care.

But, it gets even kookier when he talks about some other experiments. It seems that, at least in some cases, it's not hard to influence people's views in subtle, but distinct ways:

A University of Toronto study found that if people were asked to wash their hands with soap and water before filling out a questionnaire, they become more moralistic about issues like drug use and pornography. Researchers found that interviewees on Stanford’s campus offered harsher, more moralistic views after “fart spray” had been released in the area.

That's right. The views which I hold so dear, which make so much sense to me, which I can't understand why anyone would disagree with, they are so right, is malleable under the influence of soap or farts. 

It makes you wonder if you actually really believe anything at all.

There's plenty in the article interest, and probably offend, most of us. That's well and good, but that's not the point of this blog, at least. The point of the more spiritual one: my views aren't “mine” in the way that I think they usually are. They aren't something which I have attained by myself, for myself. They, like probably every aspect of my personality, happened to me. Or, to put a little differently, I don't have opinions, opinions have me.

Trust me. I am not the doer. And, neither are you.

Passover, Racism and Other Hidden Slaveries

Yesterday, I was watching a TV segment about a (relatively) famous controversial interview. In honor of the 40th anniversary of Jackie Robinson breaking the color barrier in Major League Baseball, Ted Koppel did an interview with Al Campanis, General Manager of the Los Angeles Dodgers. During the interview, Koppel pushed Campanis on the issue of ongoing racism in baseball. He asked why, despite there being so many African-American players, there were none to speak of in front office or managerial positions. He said that many believed that smacked of a underlying racism among “baseball people.”

Campanis responded that he truly didn't believe it was racism. It was, instead, the simple fact that blacks didn't have “some of the necessities” to succeed in those positions.

That's right. It's not racism. It's just that blacks are inferior.

People were shocked to hear Campanis say this. Not for the obvious reason that it's a shocking thing to say. Not for the almost as obvious reason that it shocking that he would let himself say it (the article, and the segment I was watching, talks a lot about why, and how greatly, Campanis was disoriented during the interview. Essentially, his guard was completely down, and he said something that he never would have said, even if he thought it, under normal circumstances). No, people were shocked because Campanis was exactly the type of person who'd be expected to not believe this kind of claptrap. He was with the Dodgers, for cripes sake—the very team with which Robinson played. He had been a personal friend—roommates, even—with Robinson. He was one of the first players to publicly support Robinson.

He was a good guy. People who knew and loved him rushed to defend him as such. It was unfair, they said, to call him a racist, because so much evidence pointed to the fact that he was nothing but.

So, how could it be that this good guy, this representative of non-racism, could be spouting this kind of garbage? How could it be that he was a racist, after all?

My opinion? This points to the problem with defining someone as “racist.” What I mean is, there's a problem when we define “racism” as a single quality, and assume a person either has it, or doesn't. Either person is a racist, or he/she isn't. Clean and simple.

But, that's not how the world works.

Racism isn't one thing, and it's not an all or nothing thing. Racism is a quality, a flaw, that all of us possess, in some quantity or another. There are some people who are quite obviously extremely racist—Nazis, Klansmen and the like. There are some people who are all but devoid of racism. Most of us, I'm pretty sure, are somewhere in between those two poles on the spectrum. We harbor racist biases, prejudices, and so on, to some degree. Many of these, maybe most of them for most of us, are subconscious, and we may not even be aware that we have them. So, when someone accuses us (or someone we love/respect) of being racist, we angrily reject the accusation. “I'm not racist, and I can prove it.” If I can provide a strong counter example—evidence that I'm not racist, examples of my open-mindedness and tolerance—then it proves that I'm not a racist. But, in reality, it doesn't prove that. All that it proves is that I'm not a frothing at the mouth, extremist racist. It doesn't prove, not one bit, that I'm not racist at all.

And, frustratingly, it derails the conversation. Now it turns into a ridiculous back-and-forth of “You're a racist; I can prove it” followed by “No, I'm not; I can prove it.” And thus, it prevents a real, meaningful, potentially helpful discussion about actual racism. About what racism is, and how it affects us. About how we identify it in ourselves, and in others. About how we can end it.

I can't help thinking that this same discussion is incredibly important in relation to the Trayvon Martin case. On the off chance you don't know what I'm talking about, you can read about it here, but the salient point is that an African-American teenager was killed, and the evidence seems to show (although many dispute this claim) that he was guilty of nothing except of being black.

I've read some pretty upsetting things, some of them by people I know, and who I frankly expect to know better. And, some of them have been upsetting, at least in part, because they make the claim that this isn't, at all, a racial issue. Race had, and still has, nothing to do with this.

Really?

Look, I'm not claiming I know exactly what happened. But, if a white man kills a black man, especially one who is unarmed, and he isn't arrested for it, then it's impossible to say that race is not a part of this. We don't have to assert that racism was the only reason the white man killed the black man. We don't have to assert that racism was the only reason that the police didn't arrest that white man. We don't have to assert that racism is the only factor which drive those who call for his arrest, or who support him.

But, do we really have to argue whether or not race and racism is a part of this?

Do we really want to pretend that this situation is nearly as likely to happen in a world which is free of racism? Do we really want to pretend that our own views on this are not inherently and unavoidably influenced by our own racism, however mild it may be?

I called this post “Passover, Racism and Other Hidden Slaveries.” After I wrote it, I realized that it's easy to assume that I meant that racism is the way in which we still keep African-Americans enslaved. That's not what I meant (although, it may well be true). What I meant is that racism is, among other things, a slavery which binds us all. It is something which enslaves me, and almost certainly you, as well. I am much less racist now than I was years ago. I hope to be free of all racism, someday. But it would be arrogant folly of me to claim I don't have any racism in me. I'm not proud of it—in fact, I'm quite ashamed of it. But I am proud of the fact that I recognize it, and I actively work to minimize it.

The first part of solving any problem is, of course, recognizing that the problem exists.

And that's what brings us to Passover. There are two well known spiritual approaches to Passover (actually, there are many—but I'm only focusing on these two). One is to understand that Egypt, which in the Hebrew (Mitzrayim) actually means “the narrow place” or “the confining/constricting place” does not refer simply to a single empire which lived and died thousands of years ago. It refers to anything which constricts us. Anything which keeps us from being who we truly want to be. Anything which enslaves us.

And, the other approach? That teaches us that the worst kind of enslavement, the enslavement in which the Israelites found themselves after hundreds of years of servitude, is not even knowing that you're a slave. Is not even realizing that there's something better. that there's a freedom which awaits, if only I'd try to get there.

Racism is, clearly, just one example. But, it's one which has been in the press, as always, quite a bit. And it's one which has been on my mind. And, sadly, it's one which probably applies to all of us. Acknowledging the racism that we see is not the same as calling someone a Nazi. And, we should react as if it was. We can never be free unless we know what we need to be freed from.

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

Some love for Leviticus

This (hopefully brief) post is intended mainly for my rabbinic friends/colleagues, but I suppose that anyone might find interesting…

Many of you were with me at the CCAR conference, this past week. During that time, several teachers (many of whom are wildly more knowledgeable and more intelligent than I am, it has to be said) tripped over one of my pet peeves: they began talking about the book of Leviticus by insulting the book of Leviticus! They would, usually quickly, say something like, “Well, what could be better than teaching about this book, huh?” It drives me crazy, frankly.

First of all, and less importantly, it's just bad form, and possibly bad business, for a rabbi to insult the Torah.

But, that's not my main problem. My main problem is this: Leviticus is awesome. Or, maybe, Awesome. I'm not claiming that every verse is filled with deep meaning. But, there is so much in this book to explore and to learn from: the absolute centrality of sacrifice in religious life (even if our sacrifices are less literal than our ancestors were); the importance of “bringing our best;” trying to figure out why our ancestors believed that blood was life, and thus challenging ourselves to understand what we think life really is.

And, even if you don't find meaning in those themes, we have thousands of years of rabbis finding hidden meaning (even if, quite often, they were stretching the text pretty far, as rabbis are want to do) in this text. What's the “secret meaning” of the small alef in the first word of the book? Why does God only speak from one location from here on out? And, so much more.

Whenever someone begins their talk with, “The book of Leviticus is so hard for us to relate to,” they're undercutting themselves. Here's what they're really saying: “This book stinks. There's nothing in it worth knowing. But, if you squint, and if you let me pretend, I'll make up some meaning for you to find.”

Look, if you really think that the book of Leviticus is void of meaning for us, as moderns, then skip it. Talk about Passover, or Israel, or baseball for a couple of months, if you prefer. But don't trash the book, and then try and tell me what it “really” means. And, if you don't think that the book is void of meaning, then just tell me what it means.

Traditionally, this book is the first book which children learn when they begin to study the Torah. The midrash says that this is because children are pure, and the sacrifices were pure, too. I'm pretty sure there's something for us to learn there, and I can't wait to get to it.

Shabbat shalom!

Religion or Spirituality

Rabbi Eric Yoffie, Past-President of the URJ, recently had another post up on HuffPost, responding to a well-viewed YouTube video about being spiritual, not religious. And, not surprisingly, Rabbi Yoffie isn't a fan.

I hate spirituality, at least as it has come to be used in these contexts. Spirituality is a weasel word, impossible to define or pin down. It can, and does, refer to pretty much anything. The only thing that it seems to mean with certainty is the absence of the disciplined, regular, organized spiritual seeking that is so essential to religious belief and moral behavior.

More than just complaining about the word "Spirituality," Yoffie also expresses a defense of Organized Religion:*

* Although, as I've often said, if you don't like Organized Religion, then you should come to our congregation - you'll love us!

And we need that. I need that. Because as much as I may thirst for the holy and yearn for God, I know that there will be times when I will be tired, distracted or lacking in inspiration; and when that happens, I will simply be incapable of heartfelt prayer or moral uplift. I know that spirituality is a matter of moods; sometimes it is there, sometimes it is not, and therefore it is never enough. I know that the "behavior modification" that Bethke dismisses is precisely what I -- and most of humankind -- must have to do.

As Yoffie says, and almost everyone will agree, organized religions can, and often do, lose their way. They get, in his word, ossified, and they become hypocritical and, at worst, destructive. No doubt about that. But, that doesn't mean that organized religion has to be that way. At it's best, it can be a source of serious spiritual engagement, challenge, uplift, morality and more. And, by its nature, it can be (again, at its best) a more regular, stabilizing force than an undefined "spirituality."

Being spiritual without being religious doesn't make you a bad person, in any way. But, then again, neither does being spiritual and religious.

An Ode to Sincerity

It's possible that, from time to time, I engage in snarkiness or sarcasm. It's possible that I read snarky blogs, watch The Daily Show and do a lot more which induldges my need for snark and sarcasm. I'm not going to stand here and tell you that I'm going to stop, or that I want to stop.

But, my favorite writer, Joe Posnanski, has a post up about the glory of sincerity - about being not snarky in a snarky world. And, you know what? He's right. And, he's brilliant. 

I'm not going to pull any quotes, because it's so darn good. Olive Garden, Disney World and watching the world from an airplane window. Little joys in life, which we don't have to smirk at.

OK. 1 (long) quote:

There's so much good, funny, smart writing available on the Internet these days that it's easy to miss that there's a certain kind of writing that isn't much available: And that's VULNERABLE writing. Could you imagine how much different "Catcher In The Rye" might have been if readers were allowed to write their immediate comments below it?

PsychoBrat: "Hey, Holden quit WHINING!!!!!"

StevieStevie: "Rye sanwichh. Mmmm."

TerribleTim: "Stooooooooooooopid."

MarjorieM: "You guys totally missed the point. This was about the confusion of youth and the desire to find something real and authentic in a world changing too rapidly …"

BaseDuen2847: "Shut up Marjoarie. Maybe YOU missed the point."

StevieStevie: "Rye sanldwiche. Mmmmm. Mmmm."

Who wants to expose their hearts on the Internet? Who wants to admit -- except in some deeply ironic way -- that they really and truly like something? Who wants to lay bare their enthusiasm, open it up to the boots of cynics and skeptics and snarkers? Much better to start a "Fire Rex Ryan" Web site … or poke fun at Yuni Betancourt.

Good stuff, man. Good stuff.

Purim - an antidote to idolatry

It won't come as a surprise to most of you that I love Purim. It's my once a year opportunity to act really, really silly, while still “acting like a rabbi.” For those who don't know, Purim is a holiday on which we dress up in costume (under Jewish law, it's the one time a year when we're allowed to dress like a member of the opposite sex), get a little drunk (officially, we're supposed to get more than a little drunk, but that's a story for another time), and generally behave as ridiculously as we can.
One of my favorite Purim traditions is the mock service—and by “mock” I mean that we mock the service itself. We do goofy versions of our prayers. We sing them to random tunes (“Adon Olam” to “Stairway to Heaven” anyone?). It's a complete sendup of our (usually) sacred service. I know that some people are uncomfortable with this part of Purim. It feels “over the line,” somehow. But, besides being a whole lot of fun*, I think it's also a religiously essential act, because it's a kind of anti-idolatry. Let me explain…**
* I've led services dressed as Jesus and a gorilla (not at the same time). I'm pretty sure that if I had known of the idea of a “bucket list” back then, both of those would have been on it.
** no. There is too much. Let me sum up…
Worship is a sacred act—that should be pretty obvious. It's our attempt to reach out beyond ourselves and connect with the Most High. Prayer is one of the pillars of Judaism, and one of the most important, absolutely essential things that we do as Jews. I could spend a lot of time talking just about how important prayer is, and why, but I'm pretty sure that it goes mostly without saying.
But, at the same time, it's possible to take our prayers too seriously. It's possible—easy, really—to forget that our prayers are a tool that we use in an attempt to reach holiness. They are not holiness themselves. It's possible, in short, to make an idol out of our prayers.
Let me give you an example. One year, I did a silly version of the Barechu (actually, I usually do that…). Officially, that's the “call to worship,” so I did it as a cell phone call. I had God call me, while I was on the bimah, and tell me that it was time to start praying.
Afterwards, a rabbi I know (and who, it must be said, I love and respect greatly) chastised me about it*. He told me that he thought that the service was inappropriate. And, the example he used was that Barechu. I remember him saying something like, “you made a mockery of the Barechu, of all things!”
* If he had chastised me because the joke was lame, then maybe I would have agreed. A cell phone call to worship? I did that my first year of Rabbinical school, for cryin' out loud!
I remember thinking, “the Barechu? Really? That's what offended you?” The Barechu isn't even a prayer, technically. Like I said—it's a call to worship. It's the starter's pistol—the moment in which the prayer leader tells us all that the warm-ups are over, and it's time to begin the “main” prayer. Sure, it mentions God—just about everything in the service mentions God, naturally. But, liturgically speaking, it's just not a major prayer, if it's a prayer at all. To hold it up like it's some sacred, untouchable icon just seems disproportionate. Inappropriate, even. It's giving it a status that it may not really deserve. And, when that status is "holiness," then we've ventured into idolatry which is, at its core, treating something that isn't sacred as if it were.
Like I said, praying is one of our most sacred and important acts. But, at the same time, our prayers are just prayers—just words. They are, as I often say (quoting some long forgotten source) the barely coherent mumblings of a bunch of pretentious, hairless apes. Really, who cares if we mock them? What harm does it do? Do we think that God will be offended? Will the prayers' feelings be hurt, or will they be less effective tomorrow because of this?
As Bruce Lee once said (in the first scene of "Enter the Dragon") "It's like a finger pointing at the moon. Do not concentrate on the finger or you will miss all of the heavenly glory!" Our prayers are a finger pointing at the moon. If we focus on them, we miss all of that heavenly glory!
Most of the time, treating our prayers like they are sacred is an important part of praying - we treat them as sacred, so they become sacred, and they can lead us to the sacred. But, it's so easy to start thinking that the prayers are the thing, and to forget that they are just pointing us, instead.
So, once a year, we remind ourselves. We treat our prayers not like sacred rites, but like ridiculous ramblings. We mock ourselves, and we mock what we do in synagogue. We remind ourselves that our prayers are, in fact, just prayers.
Then, tomorrow, we go back to looking for the moon.