Keeping Kosher

So, skipping a long back story, I wrote an essay explaining why as a Reform Jew I keep kosher. Why would someone who is part of a movement/philosophy which allows him to eat, say, bacon, decide not to. I thought I'd share my first draft with y'all for two reasons. First, you might find it interesting (you are, after all, the ones reading this blog). But, I would also love some feedback. This will, potentially, a ways down the road, get published, so anything you have to say about where it's good and, more importantly, where I'm not getting my point across, or where I'm not very clear, would be appreciated!

Enjoy...

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My awakening as a serious, adult Jew began while spending a semester of college in Israel. During that time, I encountered Jewish law, Jewish philosophy, Jewish history and much more from the Jewish world for the first time ever on a serious, intellectual, challenging level. As much as I had always identified strongly as a Jew, I was taking my Judaism, and my Jewish practice, seriously for the first time.

It wasn’t easy for me—I grew up in a family which was extremely nonobservant. So, I had little to fall back on in the way of family tradition or previous practice (or, practical knowledge). In many ways, I was building my Judaism from scratch. I was open to everything, and questioning and challenging everything, as well.

Well, not everything. Certainly not kashrut—the dietary laws of Judaism. I remember being rather dismissive of those. Maybe it was just a lifetime of eating shellfish and pork*, but I couldn't imagine a world in which I give them up. I distinctly remember telling a friend, also a Reform Jew, but much more observant than I was, that I would never keep kosher.

* bloggy addition - I've often said that the closest that that family ever came to discussion kashrut was in asking whether it was allowed to put the shrimp with lobster sauce on the same plate as the roast pork fried rice.

The answer, by the way, is "yes."

During our Spring Break, two friends and I traveled to Turkey and Greece. Somewhere along the way, we stopped at a street cart and ordered gyros. Looking at the meat, I found myself asking the cart owner what was in them. Among other things, he told me, there was pork. It suddenly dawned on me—I hadn't eaten pork in months. Living in Jerusalem, sharing an apartment with students who were much more committed to Jewish practice than I was, keeping kosher was just the default behavior. I had been doing it, more or less, without thought.

I don't know that I can explain the reasons any better now than I could have then, but I was suddenly overcome with an intense, unmistakable desire to not eat pork. Although it came, clearly, from a Jewish place, it felt more nonspecific than that. I just knew that, at that moment, I wasn't supposed to break kashrut. I threw the gyro into the trash, and bought something else to eat.

I didn't commit, at that moment, to a lifetime of keeping kosher. I decided, instead, to take a day by day approach, and to keep an open mind to this new practice which I had suddenly, totally unexpectedly, taken upon myself. I started to learn more about the laws of kashrut, talk to people who kept kosher (for the first time with an open mind, rather than with an eye toward refuting their arguments), and to actively engage with the mitzvah—to make conscious decisions about what I ate, from a Jewish point of view, and to pay attention to how it felt, and what it meant to me.

To my great surprise, it felt good. No—that's not quite right. It didn't feel good. I missed (and continue to miss) the foods I gave up. I often don't “like” keeping kosher. But, it felt right. More than anything, I remember the power of turning eating, an act which had been, up until that time, totally mundane, into a religious event. That's not to say that, every time I ate, I felt the presence of God, or heard angels sing. It's just that now eating had become part of my religious life. Which meant that, every time I ate, I had to shift my mind into “religious mode.” Keeping kosher was the first way that religion became a regular part of my life, and it remains, for that very reason, one of the most important.

I do not keep kosher by Orthodox standards. That might be partially because of a lack of willpower or discipline, but it's mostly because it felt inauthentic to cede my decision-making to authorities who see Judaism so radically differently than I do. The details of my practice have changed over the years—at first, it was mostly a case of “doing more and more.” But, with time, that changed, too as I began to learn which specific details spoke most powerfully to me as a Reform Jew, and which ones didn't seem as if they had a place in my practice. I imagine that these details will continue to change as I learn and grow. But, the larger decision to keep kosher is no longer one which I make on a daily basis. It's simply a part of who I am.

The philosopher Franz Rosenzweig taught that, if we do a Jewish practice with enough sincerity, and enough thoughtfulness, we might discover that it's moved from a practice to a commandment. To something which we have to do. I know that, were I to stop keeping kosher, I would not suffer physically—God will not punish me for eating pork. But, given how integral keeping kosher has been in my own Jewish practice, stopping would definitely come with a penalty. It would both symbolize and create a break between me and my religion, my tradition, and my God. Through my practice, then, I can safely say that keeping kosher has become a mitzvah.

A Liberal Jew - and proud of it

I just came across a bunch of articles which I had put aside to blog about, but never got to. They're old, but still relevant, so now I've got some excuses to do some more blogging…

Here's the first one—it's an article by Alex Sinclair, about Liberal Judaism (which, for those who don't know, can more or less be defined as non-Orthodox Judaism), and it's one of those articles that says something that I've been trying to say for years: not only do liberal Jews need to be more comfortable with, and proud of our version of Judaism, but we have to be clear about some fundamental facts, as we see them:

Liberal Judaism makes a powerful claim, and the claim is that Orthodox Judaism is, at its core, wrong. Orthodox Judaism is built around a narrative that contains a foundational error: “The Torah was written by God and given to Moses on Mount Sinai”. This statement, and the orthodox religious narrative that emerges from it, has been disproven by generations of Biblical scholars, archaeologists, sociologists of religion, and historians. These scholars have demonstrated “beyond a reasonable doubt,” in the late Rabbi Louis Jacobs’ words, that the traditional, orthodox understanding of Jewish history is false. The origins of Judaism are much more complicated than that.

Liberal Judaism is, in my opinion, and in the opinion of many (all?) leaders of Liberal Judaism, correct. True.

I don't expect everyone to agree with me, but all of us who are liberal religionists need to make it clear that we are at least as sure in our beliefs as our more conservative (not to be confused with “Conservative Jews,” who are, ironically, liberal jews) brethren. I am not a Reform Jew because I don't have the commitment, or energy, or knowledge to be an Orthodox Jew. I am a Reform Jew because I believe that Reform Judaism comes closest to the Truth.

Sinclair argues that there are three reasons that Liberal Jews are not more vocal about this: first of all, we fool ourselves about how dangerous it is to let the Orthodox control the conversation. I'd say that this is more true in Israel (where Sinclair is writing) because of the overlap of the religious and political worlds, but it's true here, as well. First of all, we all know that our religious and political world aren't actually so separate in America these days (or, I guess, ever). But there's also a religious danger to this—it leaves many Liberal Jews feeling as if they are “less Jewish” than Orthodox Jews. It drives many people who would benefit greatly from a modern, open, rational Judaism towards a less fulfilling (for them) version of Judaism, because they believe it to be "more authentic." It's not, ulitmately, as pressing as questions of settlements in disputed territories or ceding control of marriage to religious extremists, but it's still real.

The second reason that Sinclair gives for our meekness is our desire for Jewish unity:

A second reason that we allow the orthodox narrative to hold center stage is our own fear of Jewish disunity. We tread on eggshells for fear of saying that others’ opinions might be “wrong” or “false”. We nod our heads when we hear absurd and historically ridiculous statements spouted by orthodox friends, because we believe in everyone’s right to their own opinion, and because we want to be nice. We think it’s important to be united as a people, so we swallow our pride and allow the orthodox narrative to become the default Jewish position.

He makes an interesting point, but I'm not really sure how much that still a relevant motivator. Sure, we may shy away from confrontation in social settings, but I'm not sure that it's a big deal when we're talking more seriously. Or, maybe it is, and I'm in the minority on this one.

His third reason is, to me, the most interesting, and troubling. He says that we fear that, even though we believe in Liberal Judaism in principle, it might lead to assimilation and the loss of Judaism:

The third reason we tolerate the orthodox narrative as default is because we are concerned about assimilation, and deep down we wonder if the narrative, even if it’s false, might help stem the tide of Jews leaving the Jewish people.

I've touched on this before, because I really do find it troubling: it is not unreasonable to believe that orthodox religion has more staying power than liberal religion. That orthodoxy, of any sort, might be more effective, by many measures. I wouldn't say that it's a closed argument, but there is a lot of research which seems to say that more extreme groups are more and more successful, while more liberal, open groups will tend to dissipate and fade away.

I'm not going to give up on my convictions and become Orthodox just because it's a good “business plan” or anything like that. But, it's an issue that we can't ignore: what if Liberal Judaism, as powerful as many of us find it, isn't sustainable?

In the end, it's probably a question which has to be ignored, on some practical level. All I can do is live the most sincere Jewish life that I can, and try to express to others why I find this version of Judaism so powerful, so sacred, and so true. I may be a practicing a kind of “boutique Judaism” that will never have mass appeal, or that will eventually be put out of business by “big-box Judaism.” But, I really don't believe in their product, so I guess I'd better keep selling mine.

The Liberal Case for Israel

For some time now, it's been fairly standard among the Left to be Anti-Israel/pro-Palestinian. It's certainly not universal, but it's incredibly widespread. Anti-Israel sentiment has become very common in other liberal groups, even when they have absolutely nothing to do with Middle East politics.

I've really never understood where this bias comes from. Some ascribe it to good, old fashioned Anti-Semitism, but I think that's far too simplistic. Others say that the Left has a strong bias towards the weak and oppressed, and that the Palestinians are, or have been effective at portraying themselves as, weak and oppressed. These, and the few other explanations I've heard, never really seem convincing - the strength, and often virulence, of Anti-Zionism on the Left is hard to account for.

As someone who is so strongly Liberal in almost every way, but also passionately pro-Israel, this anti-Israel bias has always frustrated me, but it's also confused me. Especially when, in so many ways, Israel is actually a model of Leftist, Liberal society. It's not perfect (what country is?), but in so many ways, it embodies the causes espoused by the Left.

This point is made, clearly and strongly, by Jonathan Miller. He argues that Leftist groups really should be supporting Israel, especially since Israel is almost infinitely more likely to support their particular cause than any likely Palestinian State would be. I won't pull any quotes from it - it's too good, so it's worth the click-through.

Economic Justice, Civil Liberties, Gay Rights, Women's Rights and more - Israel is, in many ways, a model country on these issues. Her neighbors are anything but.

As always, there are valid complaints about Israel, some of them very serious. But, for (for example) a LGBT group to support the Palestinians over Israel is ironic, to say the least. 

I wish someone could explain that to me.

Are all religions equally kooky?

Rabbi Schmuley Boteach has written a piece, arguing that it's not fair to pick on Mormons as being weird, because all religions are weird, when you get right down to it. As per usual with Schmuley's writing, I find it a mix of interesting, thoughtful ideas and easily picked apart nonsense.

First, where we disagree: It's true that probably every religion makes claims which are, at least on some level, irrational (of course, he all but ignores non-literalist, highly rational approaches to religion, but that's a different complaint). But, are they all equally irrational?

This is an interesting question coming from my evangelical brothers and sisters whose belief that a man, born of a virgin, was the son of G-d, only to die on a cross, and then be resurrected, is, with all due respect, not exactly the most rational belief either. It is equally interesting coming from Orthodox Jews, like myself, who believe that the Red Sea split, a donkey talked to Balaam and the sun stood for Joshua.

Again, this doesn't apply to those of us who don't take our sacred text literally. But, even if I did, I'm still not sure that every literalist belief is equally rational or irrational. There is no way that I can disprove that God split the Red Sea. There is no way that I can disprove that Jesus was resurrected. I can disprove (even if not to the satisfaction of everyone) that dinosaurs never existed, or that they existed at the same time as human beings. And, I can disprove that ancient Israelites came to America.

Simply saying “we all believe crazy stuff” sounds very reasonable, and it might be a nice way to dispel tension at a cocktail party, if the conversation turns to religion. But, it really shouldn't be considered a serious analysis of religions!

Boteach also tries to claim that highly scientific people believe crazy things, for example by pointing to Richard Dawkins, a famous and vocal atheist, who believes that life could have been seeded on earth by aliens. Of course, Dawkins doesn't believe that. He actually proposed it as a thought experiment, showing how crazy he thought Intelligent Design actually was. He didn't believe it—he was using it to mock people who believe things like it. Oops…

So, what do I like from the article? Well, first of all, I agree that being kooky is not the worst thing. Even though I am always eager to jump in and defend rationality, ultimately, there might be better ways to judge a person, whether as a religious figure, or a political figure:

Nor should it matter. It is what a person does, rather than what they believe, that counts. It took four years for the Dalai Lama to be identified as the reincarnation of his predecessor in a process that to Western eyes can appear highly arbitrary. Yet, the Dalai Lama remains one of the most respected men alive because of his commitment to world peace and good works.

There are flaws with that approach, to be sure. I do think that “Are you rational?” is a relevant question to ask anyone who is assuming a leadership position, especially one as important as President. But, it also seems relatively clear to me that a person can be, at least partially, irrational and still be a good leader. So, I wouldn't think that these kinds of questions are out of bounds, in the political arena, but nor do I think that they are the end all, be all of campaigning.

But, where I think Schmuley has something most important to say is when he discusses Religious Fundamentalism. I often make the mistake of conflating Fundamentalism and Literalism, but they aren't exactly the same:

The religious fanatic is the man or woman who has ceased to serve G-d and has begun worshipping their religion, making their faith into yet another false idol. Religion is solely the means by which by which we come to have a relationship with our Creator. But when it becomes a substitute for G-d it becomes soulless and fanatical, seeing as there is no loving deity to temper it. It is in this light that we can understand why an Islamic fundamentalist is so deadly, seeing as he is even prepared to go against G-d's express commandment not to murder in order to strike a blow for the glory, not of the deity, but Islam.

Again, it's an incomplete analysis. I would argue that, depending on a number of factors, it's often an incredibly short leap from Literalism to Fundamentalism. After all, if God spoke the words of your religion, then following that religion, even to the extreme, is following God, right? But, it's hard to argue that you can't be a Literalist without being a Fundamentalist; there are many, many people who are exactly that. I clearly don't agree with their literalism, but it would be ridiculous to claim that they are exactly the same as the Taliban, Westborough Baptist Church or Baruch Goldstein. I've heard it said that a non-fundamentalist literalist is just a fundamentalist without conviction. I can see the logical argument behind that, but reality proves it wrong, I think.

Comments are always welcome, of course, but I'd be especially interested to hear people's thoughts about the relationship between rationality/irrationality and leadership potential!

A moment of mindfulness - and of living

A nice little piece from Leon Wieseltier in today's The New Republic e-mail talks about the importance of taking the time to do something, even if it might be done a bit more efficiently:

I am interested in more than outcomes. I am wary of finding myself in the middle of an existence too busy, too arrogantly busy, for elementary things. I inhabit a universe in which busyness is a measurement of importance, but really what is taking place is an exchange of one variety of importance for another. It is often a bad bargain. 

Living really should be about more than just getting things done. Sometimes, taking the time to do something carefully, even if it doesn't demand it, is a miraculous thing to do. Focus on the doing itself, not just on getting the task done.

In a little bit, I'm heading out to have lunch with a congregant. I'm looking forward to the lunch (and, especially, to the conversation). But, it also means that I'll have 20 or 30 minutes in my car to listen to a podcast, or some music. And, to just look around. I'm going to enjoy that, too.

Heterodox prayer

So, I just posted a blog entry about heterodox/heretical belief. Almost immediately, someone wrote back (on Facebook) asking whether I truly meant that I don't believe in prayer being literally answered. Because it's such an important question, and one which takes a longer answer than I could give there, I want to say a bit about it, here, instead.

First of all, I'll make it very clear: I don't believe in the literal efficacy of prayer. I don't believe that there is some Being listening in on my prayers, and that, if I pray well, I am more likely to receive something from that Being.

I don't believe that for at least two reasons. First of all, it doesn't seem to comport very well with the reality which I see. Lots of people pray for things; many don't get them. There is, as near as I can tell, no correlation between a person's sincerity/piety/worthiness and their likelihood of having their prayer “answered.” And, at the risk of offending some, I'm very unmoved by some of the standard responses to this such as, “God works in mysterious ways” or “sometimes God answers, but the answer is, 'no.'” if there is a God who is capable of, say, curing an infant of cancer, but that God chooses not to, for some “larger” reason… well, as I've said before, I need a new career, because I'm not working for that God.

I also don't believe in that kind of prayer because it doesn't make logical sense to me. If there is a God who is capable of listening to prayer, then that God is already aware of everything that I want and need. What possible purpose could there be of conditioning the fulfillment of those needs on the proper execution of a ritual? In other words, why would God wait for me to pray for something, especially through a formal act of prayer, before deciding whether to grant it?

My responder asked a very important follow-up question—if I don't believe in the literal efficacy of prayer, then what purpose does prayer have? Well, I may not believe that our prayers are “answered” in the way that a parent can decide to grant, or to not grant, a child's request. But, clearly, prayer can be effective in other ways.

I hate to again fall back on "it's too much to go into here," but I have to, at least for now. The purpose of prayer, if you don't believe in simple, literal efficacy, is an incredibly complex topic. In fact, it's really the impetus behind our new monthly session on personal prayer called “Making Prayer Real.” Those workshops are based around the book of the same name, and it says a great deal of what I think/believe.

In fact, one of the reasons for this blog post is that I wanted an excuse to share a paragraph from it:

It's very surprising for people to learn that very few rabbis, Jewish philosophers, or theologians really have a conventional view of prayer, namely, that we ask for something and God gives it to us, or doesn't. It's really striking. The Kabbalists [ed: Jewish mystics] have all kinds of ways in which prayer can have an effect, but not the standard “you speak and God listens” model. Likewise in the philosophical tradition, and even in the rabbinic tradition. In the last two thousand years, reflective Jewish religious thought actually does not give a lot of space to what 99 percent of us would immediately assume is the point of prayer.

Jay Michelson

I'm realizing that for myself, and for anyone who actually reads this blog regularly, I really do have to start explaining what I do believe about God, prayer and all that. And, I'm thinking about how, exactly, to approach that. So, I promise that, in the near future, you'll hear plenty about what I do believe, along with what I don't.

But, while respecting the fact that there are a great number of sincere, devout, intelligent people who do take a much more “standard” view of prayer than I do, I want to make sure that anyone who's reading this, who either questions or rejects that kind of prayer/God, knows that they aren't alone. There are many of us who value religion, but not religion the way most people mean.

Thank God, there's room for all of us.

What is God - a semi-heretical, Christian approach

A few times recently (and, many times in the past), I've referenced the fact that I am an extreme non-literalist believer. I don't believe in the kind of God who literally listens to our prayers and then decides, based on some semi-known criteria, whether to respond positively, or not. For some reason, these past few times, I've had a number of people, some of whom know me quite well, ask what, exactly, I do believe.

I was a bit surprised by the question, because it often feels to me that I'm always talking about that these days. But, I've realized that that's only true with a small number of people - I've had some sporadic, and some ongoing, conversations with some people, but there's no way that many others would really know what I believe.

I've been meaning to write specifically about it, but it's hard - as much as I talk about it, trying to get it down into a cogent, relatively concise form is tricky. I'll do it, but I'm not sure exactly how or when. Maybe I'll make a series out of it, here on this blog.

But, interestingly, I came across an article a couple of days ago by Andrew Sullivan. Sullivan is a relatively well known writer, and it turns out that he's also a very devout, but very non-literal believer. He obviously views Jesus much differently than I do, but a great deal of what he says resonates strongly with me:

Nonbelievers need to let go of anthropocentric, grey-bearded beings in the sky for God itself, the highest consciousness of all, and the force that gives this staggering beauty, available to us all, love.

This kind of belief is criticized on several levels. The most common, although it comes in various forms, is that it's not valid in whatever religion we're talking about - it's heresy. It's a new, convenient way to think that has nothing to do with this ancient tradition. But, there are at least two very important responses to that. First of all, it's not new. People of (nearly?) all religions have been thinking this way for centuries:

Go read the Nicene Creed. Then try to understand it. You can do so with a nineteenth century literalism; or you can do so in manifold ways that have varied throughout the centuries. They are flawed human words trying to express the inexpressible; language to convey the ineffable.

But, maybe more importantly, we have the second response: so what? So what if it's heresy.

Look, I love Judaism, and I think that our tradition is an inexhaustible source of mening and inspiration. But, just because something is Jewish, or is old, doesn't make it true. My goal in a religious life is to uncover truth. If that truth comes from tradition, then that's wonderful - there are many advantages to finding truth in tradition. But, if that truth is novel, then so be it. Truth is truth.

Seeking God is seeking truth. That much, I believe, has always been true.