Neutral Gendered Language of Hashem

I'm not really a fan of gender neutral language. I know it's the thing to do nowadays, and I've been reprimanded by the editor of New Voices magazine a few times for forgetting about it. It's not that I'm not all for being fair and making everyone feel a part of my writing. I don't think its a matter of feminism. I'm a man, and so when I think, write, or speak (especially in the non-gender neutral languages like Hebrew) I automatically go to the masculine forms. I don't think it has anything to do with society having put down women for centuries and creating a culture of masculine dominated language. Sure, that can be true in some cases, but in general I just think it's because the person that is writing thinks in their own gender. That's it.

There is one case where I do think it's important to take up gender neutral language, and that is when speaking of Hashem. I know that Hashem can be considered to have both masculine and feminine attributes, but I still don't think its appropriate to refer to Hashem as one or the other. Hashem is neither male or female, and using one of those terms is an attempt to define the undefinable. (Interesting side note though: One Rabbi once told me she believes that Hashem has to be a man because a woman could never allow all the terrible events of history to have occurred). Anyway, refusing to use a gendered term when writing creates some difficulty for a writer.

Usually I craft my words carefully, only referring to Hashem by the term Hashem, or God depending on who I'm writing for. You see it above, it's pretty much a habit of mine now. However there are cases where it just can't be done. So for awhile I played around with the most neutral of terms I could think of "It". "It" felt wrong, especially as a fan of Martin Buber who teaches that we can either objectify with "I-It", or form deep relationships through "I-Thou". (such an unfulfilling summary of one of my favorite texts).

I continued to explore, considering "Thou", which does work somewhat, but would is to close to "you", which could work and would carry an interesting theological statement that I don't think would go against Buber at all. In the end though, the term I've chosen is "The". The Hashem I believe in is both immanent and transcendant, Hashem is everything and beyond. "The" describes this perfectly I feel, and thus, when I am forced to turn Hashem into a pronoun, I choose to use "The". "The desires" and "Hashem entered the Mishkan Theself".

I don't know if this is the best term, as with any of my beliefs or practices, it isn't set in stone. I'm in pursuit of what is objectively best, but I can only do this through a subjective lens, meaning I need to be able to change my ideas if something is found to work better. I would love to hear what you have to say on this, help me find the best option.

Throwing the Dog a Bone; Observations of an Ashkenazi and Sephardi Shul

These past two Shabbats, I’ve encountered a few experiences that I’ve found both refreshing and disappointing. For the last few months, I’ve been going to a shul that could probably be considered on the Ultra-Orthodox side of the spectrum. Last weekend I was staying with a friend nearby and instead we decided to check out the local Modern Orthodox shul that I’ve been hearing about my entire life. It was exciting, I always imagined there was this tiny community of Orthodox Jews in Cherry Hill that has been hidden away from the eyes of the rest of the community. When I arrived, I was surprised to find that tiny was the last word that could be used to describe it. I didn’t even know so many Jews even lived on the west side of town. For the first two services, Kabbalat Shabbat and Shacharit, I joined in with the Ashkenazi minyan, which I’ll speak about shortly, but later found myself tied by my liver to the Sephardi minyan for Mincha and Maariv.

For now, though, I would like to speak about the Ashkenazi minyan. If you ignore my dressing down, blue tzitzit, and tavs I’m about Ashkenazi as you can get. Having grown up Conservative and Reform, when I first started going to the Ultra Orthodox shul I was definitely a bit lost, but I’m also pretty literate, so it didn’t take me long to catch on and even be able to keep up with them. The melodies weren’t foreign to me even though I never went to Orthodox services before. Anyway, I really enjoyed davening with them, you could tell everyone there was present, and they were there hoping to connect with Hashem. It was also in a pretty small room, so you felt close up and a part of their community. So, I sort of just assumed the other shul would be similar. It wasn’t at all. The room was huge and the gap between the rabbis and the rest of the minyan felt unbreachable. Also, I’m shocked this actually bothers me as an egalitarian, but the mechitza could barely be considered one. I’m happy that women want to daven with men, and see no issue with some of the big controversies over women in Judaism that are going on nowadays. I would even say I support them. With that said, it felt dishonest to me that the mechitza at the Orthodox shul was pretty much a handrail. I couldn’t help but look over at the women, and I felt that it was more distracting than no mechitza at all. Anyway, with the gap between the minyan and the rabbis alongside terrible acoustics, the service was barely comprehensible. To make things worse, the behavior of the congregants was absolutely atrocious. They would not shut up, at all. The men in the back spent the entire service chatting and laughing as they joked around about a kiddush club. I’m well aware that they do this at the synagogues I grew up in, which was what put me off from praying in public in the first place; it felt as if people don’t come to pray they come to socialize. A part of me really hoped that at an Orthodox shul, where at least according to their belief systems prayer is important, you would find a different situation. That just didn’t seem true. I was no more inspired by the Orthodox shul than I was at the Reform shuls I’m used to. As I experienced this, I remembered how a teacher of mine at Pardes preferred davening with the Haredi despite being Da’at Leumi (National Religious/Modern Orthodox). The way he described it was, “The people I daven with are the people I don’t like to socialize with, and the people I like to socialize with aren’t the people I like to daven with.”. I completely understand at least part of that now, though I do also enjoy socializing with the people at the more traditional shul I attended.

    So, after being disappointed by the Ashkenazi minyan, and then being told the Sephardic may be more in-line with my desires for an appropriate prayer space, I was really quite willing to be roped in by the whiskey they offered me during kiddush. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. I knew the Sephardic do things a little differently, maybe an extra prayer here or there, but it was mind-blowingly different. I found myself in an unfamiliar circular room with a group of people who don’t actually look like me and what I have always stereotyped as Jewish. It took me about 5 minutes, with the help of some others to actually find the correct siddur, and when I opened that my eyes bulged. It wasn’t just all Hebrew, the font was different and the format completely foreign to me. Fortunately, after missing a prayer or two I was able to find my place and somewhat join in. I say somewhat because their melodies were completely new to me. It may be wrong to say, but it made me think of Arabic prayers almost. I was absolutely amazed by the Hazzan, the guy sang beautifully at a speed that would beat a hummingbird in a race. He was able to chant at such a speed, yet I could still understand every word, and it was absolutely amazing. I’ve seen Sephardic Torahs before, but never had the honor of carrying one, all that metal makes it quite heavy. I’ve also never seen one one open before let alone read from. It really was something else, and a great experience. The Sephardic minyan really knew how to daven, with the same passion that I looked forward to at my old local shul.

    Anyway, the experience was great, but that isn’t actually what I wanted to write about today. I wanted to discuss a problem I noticed that goes way deeper than people speaking in shul, something I’ve heard of, but never noticed or cared enough to consider a real issue. I really felt like there was a level of discrimination against the Sephardic community by the Ashkenazi. I don’t know the details of the shul, and how it runs itself, so perhaps I may be too critical, but I definitely felt a sense of discrimination. While it may be small, there is something there, and it felt like a chillul Hashem. The fact that they had to proactively rope me in to get me to join them really points to this problem. There is a huge community there, yet if the Sephardic can’t find a minyan they are forced to join the Ashkenazi. Really? There isn’t one or two people from the Ashkenazi minyan who would be willing to step out of their comfort zone to go help their Jewish fellows make a minyan they would be comfortable with? There were a ton of people talking and not praying, maybe they could go join in and get some actual prayer done so that both minyans can pray in peace. Worse than that is the way the kiddush and seudah shlishi worked out. During kiddush the Sephardic minyan had its own table and its own food. When I walked in with my friend he goes, “Oh don’t take that food, it’s for the Sephardi”. I couldn’t help but think of segregation. The excuse is that there is a 5-10 minute difference between the minyans. So one of the minyans can’t wait for the other to finish before chowing down? The seudah was even worse, when the Sephardic minyan was done, they didn’t have their own table, and there was almost no food left for them by the Ashkenazi who had already proceeded to eat everything in sight and start singing. The Sephardi were even aware of this, and complained about it to my friend. Now, I understand that it could be said that there are logistical considerations, but logistics aren’t an actual excuse for such behavior. A religious community should be working together to be warm and accepting, and it should be able to rise above such pettiness to make sure that everyone has an equally pleasurable Shabbat. That’s not how it felt there. Instead it felt like the Ashkenazi cared only about the Ashkenazi, feeling almost superior because they allowed the Sephardi a place to daven in their shul as if they were throwing them a few scraps under the table.

Updates 1/27: Drinking some Kool-Aid, and Building a Community

I've been really busy with writing, even making some money. It's like I could say I have a job almost, but not really as I get paid less than if I were working minimum wage, and I put a lot more into it. However, I think that's part of the whole writing shtick, and I'm working on some projects to make it a little more profitable. Who knows? Maybe one day I'll be able to make my monthly loan repayments.

Anyway, one of my articles on New Voices has been quite a success, over 600 views in one day, over 100 likes. It definitely feels good to suddenly be heard, I only hope that some of those people who enjoyed it will then go and check out my dvars. The link to the article is here: David's Kiruv Guide

I've also missed posting two of my New Voices dvars here. The two are very connected, isn't it all, and I think it would be wise to try and read both together if you have the patience. With Parshat Yitro, I discuss how revelation requires receptiveness from both the community and each individual. Last week, with Parshat Mishpatim, I took the community idea a step further, discussing a community's need for moral values. If you have the chance, please feel free to check all three of my articles out.

Also, if you'd like to see the other work that I am doing, I am currently working for TopSeventh, where I am writing mainly silly fun articles on a wide range of topics. A lot of them can be fun to read, but none are really that serious. It's a great experience for me, and I would recommend you check out any of my articles there, especially the one about Jean-Claude Van Damme.

Judaism and Beards

Warning: This post is a little ridiculous, but this alongside an analysis of Nietzsche's Genealogy of Morality are what I have rattling in my head. This one is a lot easier to write.

I'm obsessed with my beard. Anyone who knows me knows that I'm super proud of it, and they are aware that I have a strong belief that all men should wear a beard. I first grew my beard in 2006, when I walked out and quit my first job at Chick-fil-a. It was company policy, or health code policy, that employees weren't allowed to have facial hair, so as part of my rebellion on top of just walking out I also decided I'd grow my beard. Yesterday, I was looking at facebook pictures of me spending time with that first beard so many years ago, after which I went to check my current beard out in the mirror. This beard checking out thing is really a habit of mine, in most ways I'm not a narcissist, but I love my beard.

I'm going to get a little out there now, but I've noticed a recent change in my beard. Since I've been embracing traditional Jewish practices, my beard feels as if it's grown thicker and more awesome. Yes, I'm not shaving with a blade anymore, but I barely shaved ever anyway. I honestly think that somehow by my becoming more observant, my beard is becoming more.. epic. It's as if my face knows that I can't be a talmid hacham without a good face full of hair on you.

So, a quick discussion on beards and Judaism for all of you that are going, "What do beards have to do with Judaism and this blog." I spent a week in Lakewood, and while not every Orthodox person there, or even every Rabbi, had a beard I noticed that all the big guys, the gedolim who came to speak to us, they all had some very nice beards. One of my fellow fellows there actually asked one Rabbi Uren Reich how long he's been growing his beard. A highly inappropriate question to ask a man of his wisdom, but his answer was 35 years in case you were wondering. Anyway, beards are a thing in Judaism, but really I think its more of a thing of Jewish culture. Yes, in the old days there was a rule of "no putting a knife to your face", so awhile back you couldn't actually shave, but with modern technology around there are kosher razors that don't actually physically cut against your skin. I don't know the science. So, while there is a rule about no shaving,  the rule is bypassed.

Then why have a beard? I think part of it's cultural because of the whole no shaving thing. For years, we had to have beards, and so saying "Jews have beards" was a perfectly valid statement. Now even though we can shave, "Jews have beards", and so I have a beard too. I also once attended a Movember panel where we learned about Judaism and beards, and one of my teachers who happened to have a beard I'm very jealous of, said "All the great rabbis had beards, so if I want to be a great rabbi I might as well have one too".

Beshalach: God Separates and Sends Us Out of the Darkness

This week's d'var is up on New Voices. Last week's d'var on Bo was by far my most popular, and definitely on my top 3 list of my d'vars so far. I'm not so sure about this one, as it's very much along the lines of the "motivational" d'vars that I keep writing. What I really like are the ones with deep spiritual meanings that really interpret the text, like last week's and my d'vars on Bereishit and Noah which can be found here.

Unfortunately, I didn't really have the time to put into this week's dvar. I've been extremely busy this week writing up a storm. First, I signed up for a website called Freelancer. I've been getting these pretty big assignments that pay terribly there, but I'm getting experience and I need the money. Then, I volunteered to write a post for the Pardes blog. I'm a huge fan of bonsai, which you'll see when you read it. On top of it all, I'm working on applying to JTS for Rabbinical School, not something I was expecting to do this year, so I'm also busy writing my admissions essays. Maybe after the whole admissions process I'll post modified versions of those essays up here for you to see. I'm pretty much writing non-stop, and I enjoy most of it except maybe the freelancer stuff.

Anyway, when I started writing this week's d'var I started on the topic of the separation between the Jewish people and other nations. I think it's an interesting topic, and the interpretation that I had was probably going to be a pretty new one. However, as I was writing it I realized it might be a little too controversial for New Voices. I wasn't saying anything along the lines of "Jews are the best", but I could see it as being very easily construed that way. If I watered it down, it became wishy-washy and not valuable. So I scrapped the idea for now and went with what you'll read.

So go read it:
 http://newvoices.org/2014/01/10/splitting-the-sea-and-other-personal-miracles/

Tefillin Vs. Tzitzit

While reading the morning Sh'ma this Shabbat I became distinctly aware that I was not wearing my tefillin because it was Shabbat. It's not something I ever questioned, I always just assumed that it was because there might be a threat of a malacha. I just looked it up, and according to Chabad that isn't at all why we don't wrap tefillin on Shabbat. The reasoning they give is interesting because it isn't too off from what I was actually thinking during Shabbat.

When we wrap tefillin it's supposed to be a happy event so long as you're not cutting off circulation. We do it to remind ourselves to love and serve Hashem. It reminds us that it was Hashem that redeemed us from Egypt, and who rewards us (and punishes but we'll ignore that for the purpose of this post). We wear the tefillin on our head and our hand, pointing to our hearts, to unify our thoughts and actions with our desire to serve Hashem. I think on this as I wrap and as I read through the Sh'ma, on what an honor and a joy that Hashem has given us this Mitzvah. And, this all comes from a simplified view of the tefillin without looking at commentaries and other ideas. It's already almost overwhelmingly beautiful. So on Shabbat, that little taste of perfection, of a messianic time period while I was reading the Sh'ma I had to ask why I wasn't wearing my tefillin.

A light-bulb popped up right then. When I wear tefillin it's to remind of how wondrous Hashem is, and how magnificent Hashem has treated the Jewish people. On Shabbat, our minds are meant to be directed away from the mundane toward the holy, and so we don't need to be reminded because observing Shabbat is essentially having our entire selves being wrapped in a metaphysical tefillin. It's a beautiful concept, even if not completely true throughout Shabbat, and I think it goes along perfectly well with the Chabad interpretation I later found.

So, I was content, even excited, for about a paragraph after realizing this. Then... I found myself reading about tzitzit, and I was wearing mine. Why, if Shabbat is so holy that we are enveloped by our love with Hashem, do we then need to wear tzitzit. The answer is right there in the paragraph, tzitzit aren't there to bring up any emotions, except maybe guilt. We wear tzitzit not to remind ourselves to love Hashem, or vice-versa, we wear tzitzit to remind ourselves not to sin to not do bad things and to stay on the path. While we may think that being in a higher spiritual state on Shabbat would prevent us from being bad, we all know this isn't true. In order for us to enter that higher spiritual state of Shabbat, or on a grander scheme in the World to Come, we must buttress ourselves from falling to our desires. Hashem, or the Rabbis who decided no tefillin on Shabbat, are trying to actually teaching us something very important. Even when you think you're at your most holiest, even if your completely enveloped in Hashem's love, you can do wrong you can fall. We see this with the characters of the Torah, even King David, Hashem's anointed one, full of wisdom and piety fell victim to his desires.

I'm reminded of the Hassidic tale of the two pieces of paper, one that says "You are created from dust," and the other, "For your sake was the world created.". When you start to feel a little too proud, a little egotistical look down at those strings and remember, "Even I make mistakes", and when the opposite happens, when you feel hopelessness or worthless pick up those strings and think to yourself, "Even King David made mistakes.".  We place tefillin on weekday morning to add holiness to our mundane daily lives and to give ourselves a fresh start each morning, and each day we wear the tzitzit to help keep us in balance with that holiness throughout the rest of the day.

Nefesh Kol Chai: Do Pets Have Souls?

I have a lot of pets, I've had a lot of pets. When giving my little 15 minutes to talk about myself at Pardes, I spent 10 minutes talking about all the pets I've had. I think its at 10 cats, 7 dogs, 2 toads, 2 gerbils, 1 guinea pig, and innumerable fish. I'm not one of those crazy cat people, I also live with humans. Maybe my mom is the crazy cat person. Anyway, when you grow up surrounded by pets, you can't help but develop a certain level of love for animals, and you also can't escape the inevitable passing away of those animals.
 
Two years ago, I crawled up to my room in the morning after a night out in Philly to discover my favorite cat, Dandelion, had died on my bed. I was quite devastated by it. Last weekend I came home from being away for a week to find out my favorite dog had been passed away earlier that day. Right now I'm still working on a theory that my favorite pets dies whenever my friend with the full sleeve tattoo of Noah's Ark visits from the navy... Not to be insensitive, but while it is definitely tough, you do sort of get used to the idea of pets passing on after you've had so many of them. We have a macabre little assembly of wooden boxes filled with animal ashes, and my family tends to fill the void with a new pet pretty quickly, like within a week or two. Anyway, something I need to ask myself every time one of them goes is whether or not pets have souls.

My answer doesn't particularly comfort me, as it's no they don't. It makes it a little worse, knowing that my little Dandy isn't going to be waiting for me up in some form of Jewish heaven, and that once they're gone they're gone. However, from what I've gleaned from the opening chapter of the Torah, humans and animals are different in that humans actually have this spiritual essence, an eternal soul. While animals have a nefesh (some sort of soul) it's no neshama (a different higher sort of soul). The way I was taught it is that a nefesh is really just willful movements, not something necessarily spiritual, and that's the way I've poskened for years. Doesn't mean I don't love my animals, or that I don't have a deep connection with some of them, but I do fully believe that humans are a higher life form.

I want to believe their nefesh is a little more than just the ability to decide whether they get up and go left or right, that animal souls have a basis in a higher realm and continue to exist after death, but I can't find any religious evidence for this, So I can't honestly believe this, and as per my earlier d'var on absolute good and truth, just because we want something to be true doesn't mean Hashem agrees. In this regards, I'm put in a situation where my beliefs and my desires are completely against one another, and belief wins out. Of course, I hope I'm wrong, which is part of why I'm writing this; I'm hoping someone can prove me wrong, but by doing so in a rational logical manner based on Torah not emotionally based off their desire to see animals as having a soul too.