This week’s stunning headline read “Affluenza Defense Lands Wealthy Teen in Rehab After He Kills 4 People in Drunk Driving Accident.”
The term “affluenza,” popularized in a 2001 a book, Affluenza, the All-Consuming Epidemic (de Graff, Wann, and Naylor) is described as “a painful, contagious, socially transmitted condition of overload, debt, anxiety, and waste resulting from the dogged pursuit of more.”
The headline for the “Affluenza defense” told a horrific story. It was the defense strategy for 16 year-old Ethan Couch, who killed four people and severely injured two more while driving his father’s pickup truck with more than three times the legal limit for alcohol in his blood, along with valium. Driving 70 miles an hour in a 40 MPH zone, the teen was behind the wheel after stealing beer from a store, then taking 7 passengers with him on a drunken ride. Despite the stolen beer, the speeding, the underage drinking, etc.—a long list of offenses—the teen was sentenced to just 10 years of probation and mandatory rehabilitation. The rehab ordered by the judge will cost $450,000 a year, in what seems more a punishment of his parents than a consequence for their killer child.
News outlets reported that a “psychologist hired as an expert by the defense testified in court that the teen was a product of affluenza and was unable to link his bad behavior with consequences due to his parents teaching him that wealth buys privilege.” An anguished man who lost his wife and daughter in the crash observed that Couch’s family’s money was able to pay for the expensive legal defense, and cover the rehab costs—and had this not been the case, the outcome surely would have been different.
They should be ashamed of themselves, all of them—everyone who defended this remorseless teenager—for defending his actions. This defense was a way of saying that he bears no blame. In fact, his facial expressions and body language all bore out an arrogant “you can’t touch me” detachment.
Should the parents be punished for raising a child with such a sense of entitlement, lacking boundaries and lessons about consequences – essentially without morals? Maybe. If only the psychologist had tried to determine the causes for this kid’s malevolent self-absorption, perhaps the parents would bear some guilt. We know that parents can’t control the outcomes of their parenting, and some who try to do their best end up disappointed. Yet, this case does cry out for examination of the parents’ role in producing this outcome.
Shouldn’t this be an opportunity to raise a cultural conversation about parenting with boundaries and consequences—teaching our kids to have a moral compass?
Even more so, the consequences for the teen should have made a different point. If this is a child who was not taught to live with boundaries and consequences, then the court did the worst possible thing by repeating that very same pattern. Ideally, he should be taught that there are painful—and sometimes disastrous—consequences of bad judgment. Perhaps he won’t learn morality at this point, but we have a responsibility to try. And if nothing more, society should make sure he can’t hurt anyone else again.
How about a lifetime ban on his obtaining a driver’s license or purchasing or leasing any motor vehicle?
We owe it to the victims and to all of our children, to do better than this.
The more I read and learn about what has been happening in Russia, the more I am afraid for its citizens. The attention that the fairly recently implemented “anti-gay propaganda” law is getting is certainly high on the list of reasons to be concerned. What begins as fines quickly becomes imprisonment. There is already more than enough evidence that creating an environment of state-sponsored discrimination against a section of the population based on an essential part of their being leads to violence against those individuals. There are numerous accounts of LGBT Russians being attacked by vigilantes and thugs.
We should all be concerned by these stories. As a Jew, and as a lesbian, I cannot help but think about Germany in the 1930s. We teach that history precisely so that we might better recognize the early signs of state-sponsored prejudice that can quickly escalate into something more. I don’t think I’m being reactionary. I’m truly and deeply concerned.
What does this mean for the Sochi Olympics, and beyond the events of the Olympics themselves. I admit, I find myself at a gut level drawn to the idea of boycott – of simply not watching. But I’m not convinced that this is an effective or meaningful response at this stage. I would have supported the International Olympics Committee if they had made a decision to relocate or cancel the games at an earlier juncture, and I also recognize the logistical, legal, and political complexities of making such a decision. I looked back in history to see how this debate played out at the time of the 1936 Olympic games in Germany. Initially, there was a question of boycotting the games that was perhaps most intensively considered in the USA. According to a review of those events provided by the Holocaust Encyclopedia hosted by the Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C.:
Responding to reports of the persecution of Jewish athletes in 1933, Avery Brundage, president of the American Olympic Committee (AOC), stated: “The very foundation of the modern Olympic revival will be undermined if individual countries are allowed to restrict participation by reason of class, creed, or race.”
However, Brundage then went on to assert that his investigation led him to believe that German Jewish athletes (and other Jewish athletes) would not be discriminated against at the games. He argued “…that politics had no place in sport. He fought to send a US team to the 1936 Olympics, claiming: “The Olympic Games belong to the athletes and not to the politicians.” He wrote in the AOC’s pamphlet “Fair Play for American Athletes” that American athletes should not become involved in the present “Jew-Nazi altercation.” As the Olympics controversy heated up in 1935, Brundage alleged the existence of a “Jewish-Communist conspiracy” to keep the United States out of the Games.”
With the benefit of hindsight, would we argue today that a different decision should have been made? I struggle with the answer. I know that one of the things that I most remember from what I have previously learned about the events of that time is the victory of Jesse Owens, winning four gold medals, highlighting the absurdity of Hitler’s belief in the supremacy of the “Aryan race.” Will we loudly celebrate every success of a lesbian, gay, bisexual or transgender athlete at the Sochi Games?
I hear the perspective that it is the presence of the games in Russia that is heightening media attention on the realities in that country. Attention which, I believe, these horrific laws and actions would most likely not receive to the same degree were it not for the games. I also struggle with the question of what sponsors should be doing. I would like nothing more than to learn that Russia finds itself with a huge bill at the end of these games because international corporate sponsors like Coca Cola were not propping up the games. But I’m not sure how or if this would help any of the citizens of Russia whose lives are being affected by Russian government policies. Is a pro-LGBT Coca Cola ad during the NFL Super Bowl enough to make a different kind of statement?
Ultimately, while I struggle with the question of the Olympic games in Sochi, I am much more certain about what needs to happen after Sochi. The media attention must not go away. The corporate sponsors must not stop demonstrating their explicit support for a diverse and inclusive society. And when, (and I’m sorry that I believe it is more of a when than an if) we hear that LGBT Russians are seeking asylum from prosecution and fear of death in their native land, we must ensure that they have a safe place to go and are welcomed here and in all countries who have declared their support and concern for LGBT lives in Russia while supporting the Sochi games.
Hear from more LGBTQ clergy, including Ariel Naveh, on the Keshet blog.
Reading Ariel Naveh’s two-part story on the Keshet blog about being an openly gay rabbinical student, I remembered my own experience eight years ago as I prepared for ordination from the Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies. I wondered what my life would be like as a rabbi who was gay. I stayed up late at night and worried: Would I get a job? I wondered would I find a place that would accept my partner and offer her the same benefits of an opposite-sex spouse. I wondered if I could even make it safely through rabbinical school. There were so many things to ponder I barely had time to consider what it meant to actually be a gay rabbi.
When I applied for and accepted my first pulpit in the summer of 2006, I was closeted. The senior rabbi, the head of the search committee and the president of the synagogue all were in the dark about it, and I was scared: scared of getting found out, scared of losing the many opportunities which had been laid before me. But I had no choice. At the time, and until 2007, the Conservative Movement did not allow openly gay students to be ordained, so my sexuality and the life I had built with my girlfriend at the time were hidden behind closed doors. I had a plan in mind: I would get settled, prove myself, and then come out six months into the job and share my life with the community.
You know what they say about the best laid plans. I started working and almost immediately quickly realized the community was one of tremendous honesty and kindness. I couldn’t keep secrets if we were to have a truly holy relationship as rabbi and community. So I came out, first to the senior rabbi and president and then very quickly to everyone else, and I mean everyone: the board, the staff, the religious school volunteer board. I had endless conversations about my sexuality. Looking back on it now, it might have been overkill, but at the time it was what everyone felt was necessary to be forthright and address whatever “issues” people had with the now openly gay rabbi.
It was, I think, the last time I spoke so much about my sexual identity. I remember when I told the then-president of the synagogue, who has since become a trusted friend and wise advisor, over lunch and without missing a beat she said, “Oh, okay – can we order the sushi now?” And that is kind of how I have always felt about this issue: Can we stop talking about this and get back to studying and teaching Torah, creating holy moments at your wedding, bar mitzvah, or when I share the journey at the end of someone’s life? Might we get back to doing the business of helping each other grow in Judaism and learning, in holiness and meaning?
Not everyone was happy with me, of course. A community member once interrupted my Talmud class to tell me I wasn’t talking enough about how hard it was to be gay, chiding me that I had a responsibility to help other gay people by being more vocal. Then there were the other folks – the ones who did not understand why my girlfriend and I held hands as we left services on Shabbat morning—why did I need to be so public? Too gay, not gay enough, either way I was always a troublemaker.
When I am teaching Torah, I am trying share sacred wisdom as a rabbi, period. When I am standing under the huppah with a couple as they join together in a holy union, I am trying to usher in Judaism sacred joy and sanctity. When I sit by a bedside as someone lays dying, I am trying to offer the tradition’s wisdom of comfort and care. I am being a rabbi – a sacred teacher of wisdom, a vessel of Divine holiness and care none of which have anything to do with being gay or straight.
Yet from a young age, I felt different. It took me almost two and a half decades to figure out why. Simply put, being gay feels to me (and has always felt to me) like being a round peg in a square hole – trying to fit in and sometimes squeezing, but never making the perfect fit. In my professional life I feel treated fairly and equally, but I live in a world where I understand what it means to not quite fit in. I know what it’s like to look around and wonder if you have an ally in the room, and what it means to be in a deep and narrow strait and not be sure if you have the strength to break forth to freedom. Perhaps this is where being a gay rabbi is really as much about my sexual identity as my profession – no one has to be able to prove to me how painful it is to be an outsider. I know it from the inside and out and as such have always tried to use this round peg to help others find their place in the wisdom and holiness of Jewish life.
I have a teacher and mentor who taught me the phrase, “it’s a Torah world.” She was trying to explain to us that in each day there is holy wisdom to be found in the world we live in, real life and everyday existence. Jewish wisdom can help people connect not only to the tradition with great sacredness but also to life’s most mundane moments in the deepest of ways. She was so right. It is a Torah world and in that world of holy seeking, being gay has nothing and everything to do with the kind of rabbi I strive to be.
How many emails have you gotten recently urging you to “take action” to get new, tougher sanctions imposed on Iran? They sound pretty convincing, right? “Keep the pressure on Iran,” as one email I received urges, resonates with our understanding that Iran, like much of the Middle East, only responds positively to pressure and cannot otherwise be trusted. We in the Jewish community see Iran as an existential threat to Israel, and Iran’s acquisition of a nuclear bomb as the most likely—and therefore most exigent—trigger of this threat. So getting “tougher” on Iran seems like a no-brainer. In fact, several national Jewish organizations, including AIPAC, the Jewish Council for Public Affairs (JCPA), the Jewish Federations of North America (JFNA), and the Anti-Defamation League (ADL) have come out in support of a recently proposed Senate Iran sanctions bill called the Nuclear Weapon Free Iran Act (S. 1881).
But I am writing this blog today to argue why, from a Jewish perspective, I think this approach is wrong. I want to begin by saying that I care deeply about Israel’s security. I also blame Iran for playing a highly destabilizing role in Middle Eastern geo-politics through its direct (Republican Guard) and indirect (Hezbollah) support for violent pro-Shiite regimes. Nevertheless, I think the current effort to impose new sanctions on Iran is not only strategically flawed but, more importantly, incompatible with a traditional Jewish understanding of war and peace.
First, the strategic case (I’ll keep this brief since it gets technical very quickly; for a far more comprehensive analysis, click here):
Fact 1: the interim agreement between Iran and the P5+1 (the U.S., Russia, China, Great Britain, France, and Germany), which began to be implemented on January 12, 2014, is the first positive negotiated agreement with Iran since the Iranian Revolution took place.
Fact 2: the interim agreement explicitly states that the US “will refrain from imposing new nuclear-related sanctions.”
Fact 3: the Nuclear Weapon Free Iran Act (S. 1881) effectively calls for increased sanctions against Iran. Though technically the sanctions called for are conditional, the conditions are both vague enough and broad enough that it is virtually certain they will be triggered.
Fact 4: Iran has made clear that any additional sanctions imposed during the period of the interim agreement will terminate the agreement.
As a result, most analysts see the Senate bill as tantamount to torpedoing a nuclear deal with Iran and setting the groundwork for what will be an ugly, devastating war. In fact, the bill itself explicitly provides that the US will support Israel diplomatically, militarily, and economically, if Israel goes to war against Iran.
As Jon Stewart, my favorite foreign policy expert, points out in this clip, if the purpose of imposing sanctions was to bring Iran to the negotiating table in order to avoid armed conflict, and if Iran has now come to the table and agreed to take some positive steps towards curtailing its nuclear program, why on earth would we think the response should be more sanctions? Even self-proclaimed “Iran hawks” are opposed to the new bill.
Thus, the current Senate bill, from a strategic standpoint, is anathema to the goal of stopping Iran from acquiring a nuclear bomb without having to resort to war.
But there is a religious undercurrent to this analysis that I have found lacking in Jewish communal discussions about Iran. Judaism is not a religion that propounds warfare. Rabbinic Judaism, in particular, “sought to limit the validity and practicality of violent conflict.” Our daily prayers are filled with messages about seeking peace. Perhaps even more telling,when faced with a conflict between truth and peace, the Talmud routinely opts for peace (such as Ketubot 17a or Yevamot 65b). Why, then, are Jewish organizations and political commentators so eager to embrace a path to war? I can understand AIPAC’s perspective on this issue, since it represents Israel’s view, but why are so many other “centrist” organizations pushing the sanctions bill as well? Why are J-Street and Americans For Peace Now the only national Jewish organizations opposing additional sanctions? Why are we allowing ourselves to be led by the same Jewish neo-cons such as Paul Wolfowitz, Bill Kristol, and Charles Krauthammer who agitated for our involvement in the disastrous Iraq War?
As a rabbi, I firmly believe that the public policy positions we advocate must be grounded in Jewish values. Advocating affirmative steps towards a preemptive war with Iran, when other options remain on the table, is inconsistent with these Jewish values. In the words of Deuteronomy 20:10, “When you draw near to a city to fight against it, first proclaim peace unto it.” We have drawn near to Iran; it is my hope and prayer that we will have the moral courage and clarity to proclaim peace before rushing off to war.
Judaism is in fashion in the U.S.—and in Canada, too.
Non-Jews are happy to join Jewish families. Christian communities want to explore their Jewish roots. A television show features a Christian bar mitzvah celebration. The current U.S. President has a Jewish brother; the previous democratic president has a Jewish son-in law; the Canadian Prime Minister loves Israel.
The old-world European questions about how Jews might break in to non-Jewish society have been replaced. New questions arise: to what extent should we allow non-Jews to break into Jewish society? Should a rabbi perform an interfaith wedding? Accept a job as minister of a Unitarian church? Allow non-Jews to accept honors during the synagogue service?
Over the centuries, Jewish intellectuals developed a theological vocabulary for talking about the old issues of inclusion and exclusion. We spoke of “universalism,” Judaism’s messages for everyone, and “particularism,” Judaism’s practices designed just for Jews. Using these concepts, we asked questions and we answered them.
Medieval Biblical scholar Rabbi Abraham Ibn Ezra (1089-1167), living in Muslim-ruled Spain, asked, “What will change the damaging view of Jew as Other?” Nothing less than a theological revolution, he answered. Jew and non-Jew alike must recognize that the god Jews call by a particular name is not just a Jewish god. Rather, this God governs the universe we all share.
Modern Jewish philosopher Hermann Cohen (1842-1918) wrote in Germany as liberal democratic ideals gradually opened citizenship to Jews. He asked, “How can Jews be accepted as equals to Christians in a new, secular society?” People need to know the true history of democratic ideas, he thought. By teaching monotheism, Jews gave the world a particularly special gift. Belief in one God, who legislates a universal ethical code for all humanity, makes justice and peace possible.
And contemporary blogger, Laura Duhan Kaplan (okay, it’s me), living 15 years ago in the buckle of the U.S. Bible Belt, asked, “All around me, Christians seem to be transformed by their authentic spiritual experiences. Can I, a Jew, access genuine spirituality?”
At that time, my young children were in bed by 8:00 pm, and I looked forward to a quiet break before working in my home office. But quiet would not come. Inside my thoughts and feelings I heard a knocking. Something insistent begged for recognition. When I listened, my imagination showed me a door. On one brightly lit side, I stood in a narrow hallway; on the other, shadowy side, a hidden spiritual force waited.
After about 90 nights of this, I finally confessed to my Jewish husband, a cognitive scientist. “Someone is knocking on a door inside my mind,” I said. “What if I open it and it’s…Jesus? … If it is I’ll deal with it, but my parents won’t be happy!”
“Don’t worry,” he said, “It won’t be Jesus. Your spiritual experience will come to you in the Jewish symbols and metaphors that have shaped you.”
He was offering encouragement, not scientific truth, but it was enough to push me through the door. One universal spiritual truth, I found, underlies all experiences: God is energy, and so are we. This truth is shared through particular concepts, emotions, and actions. Jewish literature, music and rituals can be beautiful agents of this giving and receiving. My experiences through these media are authentic.
Many voices in our spiritual tradition say it clearly: Judaism is part of a larger whole. The whole is greater than any of its parts. Judaism offers a theology, a language, and many symbols that point to something greater. We are one finger pointing at the moon.
In North America right now, many serious seekers find that finger beautiful, or welcoming, or strangely familiar. They want to ride it to the moon, so to speak. Sometimes, we make it so difficult for them to get on board.
Is there a theological basis for our reluctance? If not, it is time to reexamine our gate-keeping tendencies.
Cross-posted at On Sophia Street.
For another perspective on this debate, read Rabbi Rebecca Sirbu’s post here.
Aside from the bigamy laws, I mean. (JK)
Recently, a rabbi was appointed to lead a Unitarian congregation. In a discussion about this appointment, I had mentioned that I could not lead a Unitarian congregation, or any other non-Jewish group, any more than I could officiate at the marriage of two non-Jews. I was surprised by the (small) flurry of questions about why, if there was no intermarriage, I would refrain from officiating at such a wedding.
I have many friends who are not Jews. I have attended – and even participated- and rejoiced at their weddings, as well as occasionally been asked for (and given) counsel, or attended other life events, as a friend. When I celebrate at a non-Jewish friend’s wedding, I am a guest experiencing their tradition (or lack thereof). Even if I offer a private blessing, it is the blessing of a friend, but from outside.
A rabbi, even by the broadest definition, is one who is a rav, a master, of Jewish tradition, whose role is to teach Jewish tradition, and model a Jewish life. I am expected to be a kli kodesh – a holy vessel, at least to the best of my ability, and to do so means to have a particular way of being in the world. My permission to teach and to lead comes from being invested in that tradition, it comes from the people of Israel, and from the Torah of Israel. Even though I share some, and often many, values with people in other traditions, we each have different ways of expressing those values, and of understanding them – and they are not interchangeable.
When I officiate at a wedding, I do so as one who has a particular view of what it means to get married, what the marriage means in terms of future Jewish life and aspirations, of particular spiritual valences as part of a whole Jewish life, joined to a Jewish community that is both horizontal – with other currently living Jews, vertical – with Jews who have passed on and have yet to be born, and of course, in a particular relationship with God.
When I officiate at the wedding of two Jews, I am seeing that they are joining themselves to one another according to the laws of Moses and Israel. Since the laws of Moses and Israel do not apply to non-Jews, I am unqualified to officiate.
In the Polish schools of Hassidut, several of the rebbes teach that to reach God, each individual has a personal spiritual task that they must complete. This is true for religions as well as individuals. There are many values in the world, and in different traditions, we are called to serve and fulfill a mission. And it is not the same mission. That mission is not for ourselves, but for God and for the world. If we don’t immerse ourselves deeply in our own tradition – and each of these traditions are deep in their own way- then we are not really going to be able to understand them, their goals, their values, their expressions. And we will not be able to carry out our purpose.
I can’t marry Christians (or Hindus, or Buddhists, or Muslims, etc) to one another, because to do so would be to assert that marriage means the same thing in all of our traditions – and it does not, and should not.
Back in 2006 Justin Timberlake promised that he was “bringing sexy back”, but I guess he never got around to it because this past week we found out the profound function of last year’s most exciting invention, Google Glass. There is now an app. for having sex with your Google Glasses on so that you can see an image in your glasses lens of you having sex, but from the perspective of your partner’s link of his/her pair of web-enabled camera glasses. Do I really want to see myself having sex – while I’m having sex? Jon Stewart pointed out that this takes “Go F’ yourself” to a whole new, more literal level. It’s not just Google that is helping to drive away the sexy, apparently there is an Facebook app. to see which of your friends is “down” for a hook-up. Back in July, the New York Times reported in an article “Sex on Campus: She Can Play That Game, too) that casual sex just seems to work for some college women (presumably, just as it has for men) who just don’t have time for a relationship – they feel it would take them off track with their studies and their career path. Regardless of which gender, I hope I’m not alone in finding this trend as incredibly ‘unsexy’.
I mention Justin Timberlake and his song SexyBack because I’m a romantic and I worry about humanity loosing it’s sexy. Sex, in the hook-up culture that we have developed seems like a commodity, something to gain, to acquire, instead of something to share. If only JT was successful – surely we rabbis have done nothing to bring the sexy back.
There is a classic joke about the man who, before his wedding, goes and asks the rabbis just what is permissible between he and his soon-to-be wife.
“Go ahead, ask, ask,” the rabbi said.
The man asked question upon question, about whether one position or another was okay. To each inquiry the rabbis responded, “Yes, that is fine, between a man and his wife, its all fine.”
The man was relieved and so he asked about more and more erotic things; about each, the rabbi said it was fine. It was all fine until the man mentioned one last thing that he assumed would be fine like all the previous questions he asked.
“Tell me, rabbi, why is this last thing not permissible if all the other things were?”
The rabbi replied, “That last one is no good. It could lead to mixed dancing!”
Serious Question: Can rabbis help us bring sexy back?
My colleague and friends, Rabbi Elliott Dorff, wrote about the values of Jewish sexual decision-making. He articulated 8 sensibilities that would apply in marital or even (gasp) non-marital sex:
1) Seeing oneself and one’s partner as the creations of God
2) Respect for the other
6) Health and safety (including emotional safety)
7) The possibility of a child
8) The Jewish quality of a relationship
It’s a beautiful list, I agree with each value, but it’s not sexy.
So Jewishly, where does that leave us regarding “sexy”?
Until modern Judaism becomes more adept, and willing, to talk about the value and beauty of sex in a relationship rather than some variable of self-gratification which is how I understand the current trend, we’re left with only some biblical verses that are only vaguely sexy, and only if you read them with the proper wink and nod:
“And he knew her.” (oooooo)
“And he took’ Sarah.” (oooooh)
“I have compared thee, O my love, to a steed in Pharaoh’s chariots.” (Steamy!)
Regarding Google Glass in bed: I suppose I can call it kosher under two conditions: 1) people keep from posting these things on the web, and 2) it doesn’t lead to mixed dancing.
Recently my email inbox has been filled with updates from three friends who are sick and using Caringbridge.com to update everyone on their status. For those who have never used the site, it is an amazingly helpful way to keep friends and family informed about your own or a loved one’s illness, organize visitors, meals, and help of all kinds. It is one of the wonders of the internet, that though I am geographically far from two of these friends, I can get daily updates about their progress, and leave them short notes and prayers in return.
It is not always easy to know how to interact with a friend or family member who is seriously sick. When so you ask questions about their illness? When do you bring a meal? When do you leave them alone? the New York Times op Ed columnist David Brooks addressed someone these questions last week in his column The Art of Presence. His basic message is: Just be present for those who need you.
This advice is ancient. The Talmud teaches that when you visit someone who is ill you take away 1/60th of their illness, just by visiting and being present. It is not about curing them, but about helping them heal in some small way.
Being present is not as easy as it sounds. If it were, we would not need to be reminded to do it by sources ancient and modern. Seeing a loved one suffer is painful. It is natural to want to run as far away as possible. Self-doubt easily creeps in, I wonder if I am saying the right thing, am I here are the right time, should I have brought food, something to read, should I tell a joke or be serious?
The answers to these questions, of course, depend on the person you are seeing the situation they are in. One friend has made it clear she wants prayers from friends and family. While another wants to keep things lighthearted and humorous. I have to take my cues from them about what to write and what to say. I also have to learn to put aside my anxieties. Better for me to say the wrong thing at a particular moment and apologize when I realize my mistake, then not to have been there at all.
So if you are struggling like I am with what to do or say, here are some tips on how to be present:
• Take time to really listen to the other person.
• Drop your expectations of what you are going to do or say.
• Be here now. Allow yourself not to be distracted.
• Be natural.
• Be patient.
• Try to listen with an open heart. Do not judge the other person.
• Try to sit in that other person’s place. Where is he? What is she feeling?
• Use your empathy and your compassion.
Now, just do it! Make some soup, send a card, pick up the phone. You can alleviate a bit of someone’s suffering just be letting them know you care. Be present for them.
I was a stickler, emphasis on past tense. I complained about it a lot – why was everyone always late to everything? From social events to work commitments I found it rude and irritating – truth be told still do. It was, maybe even still is my biggest pet peeve, it drives me crazy.
Today the only difference is I am in violation, I am late…often. Usually, it is only a couple of minutes but still, someone’s time is their time. I asked a dear old friend today (when I was late meeting her for our weekly study session) “when did I become a late person?” She said, without missing a beat, “when you had kids.” I smiled and thought can I really blame them?
As a relatively new parent I still feel like a rookie but what I have learned is as a parent no matter what you do it never feels like enough. I try and beat them to the morning punch and prepare the night before, ahead of the game I think. Until the early morning comes and the hectic nature of those wee hours get the better of me. It might be the syrup someone purposely spilled because it seemed fun or simply a need for more time with being held. No matter the reason the minutes seem to tick away from me at a rapid pace—I have to be out the door at 7:45 at the latest and inevitably I am holding a teary eyed toddler at the door handing him off to the babysitter at 7:50 and I don’t even work full time, just a few part time gigs.
The kicker is really it is not enough. Not enough stories, not enough silliness on the floor, not enough patience for their antics or their challenging boundary pushing. There is not enough time in the world to give them what we want to give them or what we want to give our spouses let alone ourselves. The nature of our lives during these heady and overwhelming days of raising kids means falling short over and over again. And really this isn’t only a problem of parenting but of life and relationships, we Jews say “Dayeinu”— ”it would have been enough,” it should be enough but in this way life sometimes it is the reverse—”Lo Dayeinu” (it is not enough); not enough quality time, not enough energy spent on our relationships, not enough patience and growth.
So we are late for meetings, impatient with our children and tired with our spouses. If we try and create a spiritual practice out of our lives, out of parenting what are we to do if we want to elevate these very mundane challenges?
The rabbis teach that within the ark containing the tablets given to Moses containing the Ten Commandments was also the set Moses broke when he came down the mountain to find the people worshiping the golden calf. Why? Perhaps it is because the rabbis understand the nature of family life – we always carry with us the inevitable failures, the fallings short, the moments when we give in to our own pet peeves because we have no choice. We carry those with us alongside the triumphs.
In the end I will probably be late again tomorrow but I am hopeful even while carrying my broken tablets alongside my successes. In the meantime I carry the words of the Irish poet Samuel Beckett once wrote, “Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better” – tomorrow this Ima and Rabbi will try to fall again better.
What’s the purpose of having a home? While that question might seem obvious, in fact, it raises some fascinating questions about human biology and archaeology.
In an article entitled “In Search of the First Human Home,” curator emeritus of the American Museum of Natural History Ian Tattersall asks a fascinating question: what distinguishes a “home” that human beings create from a “shelter” that all animals seek?
Some scholars think that the sense of “home” began to arise not from a need for shelter, but a need for community. We humans evolved as nomadic hunter-gatherers, but around 12,000 years ago, at the end of the last Ice Age, we began to root ourselves in specific locations. As Tattersall notes, “The decision to stay in one place, at least part of the year, entailed a transfer of individual loyalty from the mobile social group to a particular place.”
“Home,” in other words, is more than just a space—as we evolved as humans, “home” became a place with deep emotional significance. And in Judaism, a “home” is more than just four walls; it, too, is supposed to be a place with a strong sense of holiness.
When I work with wedding couples, I do one session with them where they reflect on the homes in which they grew up. What did they see in their parents’ relationship? What do they want to bring in from their past into this new family they are creating? What do they want to leave behind?
Then, we start to think about the future, and the Jewish home they will be creating together. I then share with them just how important the home is within Jewish thought.
For close to 1000 years, God’s dwelling-place was thought to be the Temple in Jerusalem (in Hebrew, the location of the Temple Mount was Har ha-Bayit, or “The Mountain of the House”). But in the year 70, the Romans came and destroyed the Temple, leading to a huge question facing the Jewish community — will God still be with us if the Temple no longer existed?
The Rabbis answered with a resounding “yes”…although God would have to move into two new primary locations. The first, and less important one, would be the synagogue. The second, more important location where God would live would be the home. Jews were to make their home a “mikdash me’at,” a Temple in miniature, or as it’s often phrased, “a small sanctuary.”
“So,” I then turn to the wedding couple, “how will you make your home a mikdash me’at—a small sanctuary?“
With this framing, they start to think about their apartment our house in a new way. Words like “safe,” “joyous,” or “ours” often arise. Their sense of “home” shifts from a simple place where they keep their stuff to a place where holiness, connectedness and spirituality emanate.
As human beings, we are wired with a a desire to explore. But as the search for the first human home reminds us, we are also wired to feel a sense of rootedness and safety. We need more than a house — we need a home.
So perhaps, if we truly work on it, we can even transform our home into a true sanctuary—a place where we can find God’s dwelling-place in our midst.