I’m such an anti-conformist I don’t spend Christmas eating Chinese food and seeing a movie. I had coffee and a bagel with a friend this morning (the kosher bagel place was hopping, of course) and then finished my grading for the semester, napped, and watched West Wing DVDs. My mother and I had a scintillating discussion about the clearance sales starting tomorrow.
Christmas Dinner: is it a fine line, or am I overly sensitive?
But the whole thing has me wondering if there’s a really appropriate way of celebrating someone else’s holidays.

There are a lot of reasons I don’t buy into the whole Jesus thing, but that’s doesn’t mean I’ve got a thing against Christians, and I’ve got mixed feelings about whether I’d be comfortable at a Christmas dinner (kashrut aside), or a midnight mass. On the one hand, I think it’s nice to be with friends when they’re celebrating whatever it is they want to celebrate, and I do have the day off and there’s nothing open, really. But it feels like a fine line between attending someone else's celebration of Jesus's birth, and celebrating that birth myself.

This goes back to my thing against religious voyeurism and how I don’t think prayer or religion should be spectator sports. I’m all for interfaith efforts and people working for better understanding between faith communities, but the idea of non Jews coming to, say, Kol Nidre because of the pretty music, or even just because they like me and they know it’s important to me seems really bizarre.

I don’t think I would be comfortable at an Easter dinner even though it’s just a meal (though the customary ham would pose a problem), and I really can’t get into any of the Christmas hoopla, either. Does anyone know of a great way to deal with Christian holidays in a way that doesn’t feel like too much of a shout out to Jesus?

So my friend Adam sent me to this awesome blog by a chick who has insightful things to say about all kinds of things she’s learning from various Jewish texts. I really know nothing about her, but I loved this post about a playa-rabbi in Talmudic times. My favorite, though, are limericks she wrote that summarize a masechet of Talmud:
There Was An Old Man: from Pumpedita...

(2a)
All are obliged to appear
Before He-Who-Instills-In-Us-Fear
Unless you are not
Let me tell you, we've got
A long list of exceptions. Come, hear!

 

(2b)
A person half-slave and half-free
Says, "I serve both my master and me."
But he hasn't a mate
So he can't procreate
Thus says Shammai, "It simply can't be!"

 

(3a)
Can a mute learn? Well, it came to pass
Two mutes started attending a class
And when Rabi beseeched
That God heal those he'd teach
They gained speech, and their learning proved vast.

 

(3b)
Words of Torah are like cattle goads
That prevent cows from veering off roads
Thus with Torah we stay
On God's path, and don't stray,
Bringing life (not death) to our abodes.

 

(3b)
How to detect the insane?
Those who wander on dark lonely lanes,
Lie atop graveyard dirt,
Or start ripping a shirt.
Otherwise, you can trust he is sane.

 

There are a bunch more, so head over to D'yo Ilu Yamey to read them. There are also sonnets. If this chick was a guy living in Nashville I would totally date her.

            As I discussed in my last post, there is a new movement afoot aiming to re-understand biblical agricultural laws and find their application for modern day Jews living outside the land of Israel.  Some of these laws like peah (leaving the corners of your field for the poor), shichechah (leaving sheathes forgotten during the harvest for poor) and leket (leaving dropped harvest for the poor) only make sense when one has poor neighbors who can glean from one’s harvest.  Others like shmittah (every seven years renouncing all debts and letting the land lie fallow) and yovel (redistributing land to all people every forty nine years) only apply in the land of Israel.  Modern North American Jews who live in a different social reality have a choice: they can either write off these laws as meaningless, or they can interpret them to mean something different from the original law.   

            Peah is one law agricultural law that has begun to be reclaimed by some Jewish groups in America.  Jewish farmers at Adamah leave one corner of their field ceremonially un-harvested and give a portion of their harvest to a local food pantry.  Others have taken the law and applied it to their salary, taking a portion of their income each month and donating it to fight hunger.  People have similarly understood the laws of leket, shichechah, and ma’aser, donating portions of their wages to relevant charitable causes.   One of my friends has found a very interesting way to connect with the laws concerning peah.    He has decided to grow out his peyos (chassidic looking side curls on the corners of his head) as a reminder that his thoughts should be directed to G!d’s service, just as the corners of one’s field are devoted to the poor.   All of these interpretations are interesting ways to find relevance in seemingly meaningless laws.

Continue reading...

And the award: goes to....Okay, okay, so a couple of shitstorms this week. We're a discussion-ey people, these things happen. Predictably, I sat down to write a post about Benjamin E coming to Tamar's defense over the Shomer Negiah post and breaking things down into smaller units of discussion to keep the fight clean and productive, and Tamar's subsequent declaration of love to Benjamin E. Comment of the Week Gold, let me assure you.

But, I realized nobody really touched the anonymous comment that not only missed the point of the comment it was in response to, but named Conservadoxy invalid Judaism, and rather boldly marched into the territory of what movement of Judaism one feels they are a part of versus being declared unfit to be in the movement of Judaism one feels they are a part of. While there is a lot to discuss there, well, there is something not-quite-right to me about declaring an anonymous comment the comment of the week (Oh, I'll catch it right in the face for that, I'm sure).

Hang on, hear me out. I don't mean anything mean by it-- anyone has the right to post anonymously if they'd like, but I think there's something to be said for leaving your name. In a way, when I see an anonymous commenter leaving something really ballsy, I feel for them. I can't help but wonder if the commenter is able to be assertive in their real life. Unfortunately, in my experience a lot of us take anonymous comments rather lightly because somewhere, we're thinking, "Forget it. If s/he really meant that, s/he would have claimed it." It's easy to say something potentially volatile if nobody knows who you are, but some part of me questions the motive for posting anonymously. Do you not really believe in what you're saying? Are you afraid someone will be angry with you if you say what you really think? Just things I wonder about, because I can't possibly fathom the motivation for posting both aggressively and anonymously. I'm mean that. What's the worst that could happen if we all just said what we thought, you know, as ourselves? Really, I'm trying to nudge/encourage more than I am out to rag anyone.

But, I'm getting off task here. The real shocker to me, and thus, the Comment of the Week is that it was not until the eleventh comment that someone inquired about the Shomer Negiah panties. Respectful, eyes-averted, modest hat tip to Soccer.

On Monday Amy and I had coffee in Chicago, and we also met up with an old writing friend of mine who currently works for a bread company supervising the line at a factory where they make rolls. Several types of rolls are made at the factory, and among other things, the rolls are certified kosher. A rabbi stops by to check things in the factory every once in a while, and my friend shook his head while explaining that the rabbi was generally bribed with both money, and baked goods. The plant is plenty kosher, but without a hefty donation and some doughnuts, the rabbi won’t give his stamp of approval.
Not Kosher Enough?: Just add this
Part of me would like to do some research and report this particular rabbi to the kashrut organization to which he belongs. But I’m not sure anything would happen then. And I wonder if the company would lose it’s hasgacha as a result, thus rendering its products unkosher to a large community of Orthodox Jews in the area. That seems morally iffy, though of course I think the rabbi in question is on much less stable ground than I am.

I honestly don’t know who should be in charge of investigating this kind of thing, (you’d think the Chicago Jewish News would be a good place to start, but it’s about the worst Jewish paper I’ve ever read) and I can’t figure out what the potential fall out—both good and bad—would be if I made things public.

This kind of kashrut dilemma is not uncommon. Check out the great post about the kashrut business at UnOrthodox Jew, and some discussion over at Orthomom, too. There’s also A Mashgiach Speaks Out, but he sometimes gets a little too shrill for my taste.

Anyway, I’m interested to hear what you guys think I should do.

Chanukah Bird: "Naw, he's a Jewish bird, he lives in Boca Raton."Oh, man, I'm so excited to watch the Chanukah Bird video again. I love the counting in Hebrew that crumbles into Spanish. And the lyric about the list. And the one about Boca. And the... Oh, that Eric Schwartz. I hope I do something awesome/wrong enough one day to get him to bust out mad rhymes for me. (Did you ever think you'd hear me say "bust out mad rhymes"..? In reference to myself? Me neither.) Anyway, hit his other video appropriate for this week, Chocolate Coins. Equally awesome.

Chag Sameach, everyone.

The other day, I stopped into a Judaica shop for a particular book and, okay, okay, to peek at the Sukkot tzotch, and after seeing plastic pumpkins, strings of plastic apples, a string of plastic light-up gourds (okay, those were kind of cool, I must admit), I started feeling unnerved by these piles and piles of plastic, glittery, cartooney, printed and manufactured options available for Sukkot. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but something felt weird about it to me. Don't get my wrong. I think Sukkot is fan-fucking-tabulous and love a done-up sukkah just as much as the next yiddishe maideleh . But, something was so iddly about it all to me all of a sudden.

Blammo!: More nature than you can shake a stick, er, lulav at.

I kept asking myself what my stupid deal was and knew it had something to do with the fake stuff. I kept asking myself why manufactured things in a sukkah would be that big a deal and, anyway, finally, after seeing piles of sparkly, printed, plastic, factory-made, mass-produced sukkah decorations and fiberglass sukkah-in-a-box kits and sturdy PVC poles out of the corner of my eye as I looked for that book on a nearby shelf, I came to realize what my deal was. It wasn't that there was anything wrong with the decorations, by any means, but it was more about what the decorations were not. (Bear with me here for a sec. I need to sort of get to my point in a roundabout way. As I'm, you know, often doing. Ahem.)

We blow our fuses because our computers crash, our cars bump into each other, or we feel sometimes ashamed in our plainness when a friend or neighbor celebrates great material fortunes. Right? Right. But, in a Sukkah, we are all humbled and leveled to sameness. We are at the mercy of the temperature, the weather and forced to rely on more dependable, yet less concrete, things-- conversation, connection, laughter, sharing a meal. (All the things we probably thought about focusing more on during the Days of Awe.) The Sukkah reminds up that our lives aren't in our nice homes and the nice things in our nice homes, but in our doing, our living, our actions.

Nature: C'mon feel the mojo.

It is, let us not forget, a harvest festival, and try as we might with agri-chemi-pharma-whatever, the earth and seasons always win. The more we ignore and try to fight the seasons and the earth, could it be the more and more disconnect we experience from that individual light that makes us human..? Just like with a manufactured, plastic sukkah, perhaps....? (Don't get me wrong, I have had the pleasure of being in some stunning sukkot, plastic and otherwise, I'm just saying there is something to said for seeing the natural elements going on in a sukkah to really feel the earth mother mojo around you.)

Perhaps on the outside looking in, we have every reason to be happy in this country. We have choices, so many choices, every single day, and even many poor families are still better off than most inhabitants of third world countries. We seem to have happiness flowing from everywhere, don't we? So then why are we medicated to the hilt, medicating our kids, stuffing our foods with chemicals, making everything bigger, better, faster, blowing through money faster than we can make it, opting for "convenience" over "responsible" or "healthy", addicted to each other, television, computers (oy, guilty), the BlackBerry (again), multi-tasking (oy), drugs, shopping, debt, stuffing our homes with everything we can reach and, why, above all else, are we addicted to being so busy?

Because sometimes all of that crap is easier than sitting and listening to ourselves and just being. Rosh HaShanah suggests this to us and makes us turn the soils to uncover honest and human things we perhaps had forgotten in our emotional junk piles. Yom Kippur, with themes of mortality, drives this home even more so-- is it better to die having lived a righteous life filled with stunning moments?... Or... is it better to die with piles of debt and junk and "wouldda couldda shouldda" lists around us that we never looked up from? That's a no-brainer! Sukkot is abundance. But not hollow "stuff", just simple abundance of feeling, connectedness to the planet and people, pausing to dig the moments... Sukkot's celebrating isn't about bigger, better, faster, more! It is about the more... um, ethereal definition of "abundance" not the material one. And, that's key, I think.

So, in the Judaica shop, I felt a distinct need to make a conscious decision to keep Sukkot natural. It's a time for autumn fruits and vegetables to taste their best and nourish us the most. It's a time to be humble before nature, life synchronicity and the world and make a big, empowered, conscious leap... down. Not down as in lesser, but down as in slower, as in still, as in calmer. (Perhaps that is what we mean when we say "Calm down!"...?) Why buy sukkah decorations when you can make them? Why buy a sukkah when you can make that, too? It's focusing, it's empowering, it's natural. It's even, dare I say, the natural, thriving world we have lived in for thousands of years begging us to return to it, even if for just a week.

May security be found in the ethereal and may more fragility be realized in the material.

Chag Sameach, my dears.

I am always amazed when a something in life matches up so perfectly with a something in a parsha and I can't help but note a striking, sometimes eerie, similarity. Today, I heard about a truly horrifying tragedy and was simultaneously sad to hear it, in awe of how to human body can turn on itself, and heartened to see chesed in action, in the most dire of moments, especially from the person at the center of the issue.

As we take a look at the parsha this week, we see Sarah Imeinu, and just as we meet up with her again, at the end of her very long life, she dies. And, we are led to believe Sarah's life was described as a very good one. For years that seemed off to me. Good? Sure, there was a grand share of mostly positive action on her part, but still, she faced long journeys, famine, kidnapping, infertility, fear of Ishmael trying to corrupt her son, then having to banish Ishmael... um, seems like a lot. So, the reference to Sarah's life being a good one, well, it didn't make sense to me for a long time.

But, the older I get, the more things I learn the hard way, and the more people I come to know with a marvelously good outlook, the more I think I overlooked a very obvious possibility. Maybe Sarah did have a good life because of the way she opted to look at life...?

All in how you look at it: Sometimes, stunning things happen when you least expect.

A woman I first met when I worked with her over a decade ago has really had more than her share of heartache. In the span of about eight months, her teenage son was murdered, she found his body, her daughter sustained severe head injuries in a car accident and required permanent care, her home was robbed of almost everything and her insurance company kind of gave her the runaround, then her husband was injured and went on disability, then her father died, then her best friend died. I'm not making that up.

I spoke with her often during those times to see how she was managing. She cried often, of course, and she talked about grieving and learning a lesson about overall happiness. Come again? A lesson about overall happiness in the face of all that? But she did. She said to me one day that the distinction that became clear to her was that she no longer looked at her life in terms of positive times versus negative times, but instead took her entire life for what is was, moment by moment, and didn't bother to categorize it or label any of it-- she took moments of grief for what they were, not trying to stifle them, not trying to look on the bright side, she'd just accept them as they came and "grieve hard, cry it out and get down to the bottom" in the moments, and (and this, she said was key) in doing so, in telling herself to "grieve hard, cry it out and get down to the bottom" the other side of the moment was implied. And, with an implied better moment ahead, she felt she had more space to live in feelings as they arose while also reassuring herself of a safety, a balance, an order, even when everything was uncertain. And, and, and, odd as that might seem at first, I suppose what it really boiled down to was maintaining a sense of something that fell between hope and balance. "Please! Not talking would be way worse! I refuse to let conversations become uncomfortable!" she'd say when potentially painful topics popped up and were facing being tip-toed around, and moved forward in these conversations with a wonderful sense of emotional clarity.

We're only human, of course, and often it's easier to ignore the painful things in life and immerse ourselves in denial in order to cope, sometimes even focusing on the "bright side" at the expense of processing the thoughts and feelings surrounding the upset. But she just faced things as they came, sat in the moment and whatever emotion it brought about, and experienced it so fully that she was able to process her emotions and thoughts clearly and completely and honestly, and therefore, was able to see both the painful and the delightful and appreciate and be in awe of both.

 

There’s an awesome article over at the Forward about a group of 55 African American men, women and children from Cairo, IL who just underwest conversions at a Conservative shul in Memphis:

Rural Converts Journey Into Judaism
By Jennifer Siegel

Cairo: probably not your next vacation stop

A rural community described as “far away from everywhere,” Cairo, Ill., boasts 40 churches, 40 blocks and fewer than 4,000 people — and as of earlier this month, it also has 55 brand-new Jews.

Dozens of Cairo’s residents — all African American and ranging from toddler to senior citizen — visited a mikveh in Memphis, Tenn., on December 9 and took the plunge into conversion. It was the culmination of an 18-month spiritual journey that has brought a number of Reform and Conservative Jews into common cause with a group of spiritual seekers from a town that is predominantly black and poor.

“It was incredible. Who would have thought that rabbis in St. Louis and Memphis would increase the number of Jews of color in America appreciably?” said Rabbi Micah Greenstein, who attended the conversion ceremonies and serves as the spiritual leader of Temple Israel, a Reform congregation in Memphis. “Judaism saved my life,” one of the converts told Greenstein. “That’s the first time in 100 converts that I’ve ever heard that,” the rabbi said.

The conversion odyssey, which was first reported on by Memphis’s Commercial Appeal newspaper, began in Cairo roughly four or five years ago, when a now 39-year-old computer repairman named Phillip Matthews grew disaffected with the Baptist faith in which he was raised and became interested in Judaism. Described as having a magnetic personality by several rabbis involved in the Cairo conversions, Matthews quickly found himself at the center of a study circle that involved an extended network of friends and family — including, by his estimation, 17 or 18 relatives, among them his mother, siblings, nieces and nephews — who ultimately converted to Judaism along with him.

Full Story

It’s pretty incredible on a number of levels. For one thing, that particular part of Illinois has a reputation for being both incredibly racist and incredibly Anti-Semitic. Cairo (pronounced Kay-ro) has never had a real Jewish presence before, and I’m a little concerned about possible backlash against this community. But I have to say that what made me pretty uncomfortable in this article are two quotes from Matthews, who was the one who got the ball rolling:

“By the grace of the father in heaven, we had no accidents going up and down the highway for 18 months,” Matthews said of the long journeys.

 

 

“When you read the Bible, when you read the Old Testament, and you see all the things that the ancestors of old endured, you see what it is to have endured,” Matthews said.

The thing is, “By the grace of the father, in heaven” sounds to me like Jesus talk. And Jews don’t call it the Old Testament—it’s the Bible, or Tanach.

Those are little things, and it certainly sounds like these guys are serious about what they do:

Mordecai Miller, a Conservative St. Louis rabbi who helped authorize a number of the conversations, said he was impressed by the converts’ sincerity. “Did they have a halachic consciousness?” he asked. “The truth is that they do. And sadly, there are many Jews who do not have that sense of being commanded.”

So okay, I’m glad they feel an obligation to halacha but I wonder how that plays out in a community where there aren’t really any other Jews? On the one hand it’s great that there are really 55 of them all in it together, but I hope they’re all serious about this, and as committed as they seem, because something tells me being a black Jew in Southern Illinois is not going to be the most pleasant or easy experience.

I just found this great piece at Ritual Well, but also today, I've been thinking of my general inclination to match my tzedakah with my action. That is, for example, human rights organizations on Pesach (slavery and freedom being the common themes there), water and wetland preservation efforts on Shemini Atzeret, and so on and so forth.

Best-Directed Tzedakah: Just do it, but make sure you're not giving to a shady organization, eh?

But, the thing I find to be endlessly frustrating... er, okay, one of many things I find to be endlessly frustrating is that in our time of having almost any information only a click away, there is so much information out in the world, and there are so many wonderful organizations seeming to be doing lots of good in the world, that is it hard to tell what is what, and even more difficult, at times, to figure out exactly what your money does where.

Enter, Just-Tzedakah, an organization, much like Charity Navigator, only with Jewciness in mind, giving information about various charities and links to each, and even the ability to donate and earmark right there. You can even link up your next simcha and have tzedakah all arranged. Oh snap!

It's still sometimes hard to tell which organizations best represent your values, but hopefully, this eases the way a bit and puts us a step closer. Because let us not forget, though we often mis-translate tzedakah as "charity", which includes actions like giving to the poor, suggests a sense of generosity, and delves into power structures a bit-- something the wealthy (or at least better-able) do for the needy (and thereby less-able), the word tzedakah is derived from the root meaning righteousness, justice and fairness. Giving isn't a magnanimous gesture, but an obligation to share in the responsibility of tikkun olam-- to do your part in caring for others and for repairing the world bit by bit.

As I walked into the kitchen yesterday, my aunt was chopping beets for dinner. Laying off to the side were a pile of the greens about to be tossed in the garbage. I asked her if she usually uses beet greens and with a shrug she told me that she didn't even know they were edible. "Not edible!!" I laughed, "Beets greens are so scrumptious." I quickly washed them and cooked them with some tofu for lunch.

Two years ago, I couldn't tell the difference between a beet and a rutabaga. I grew up as a typical city boy on the fifteenth floor of my apartment building and commuting to high school everyday on a subway. With the exception of summers at Eisner camp in the Berkshires, the only green space I had growing up was Central Park. I knew that my food came from supermarkets and restaurants, but had never stepped foot on a farm.

In the summer of ‘06, I spent three months as a Jewish organic farmer at the Adamah program in south western Connecticut. I lived, with a dozen others, in tents in the woods and "commuted" by bike to a nearby farm. The only car we had was a big old pickup truck that we ran on bio-diesel that we brewed ourselves. Together we farmed four acres and grew thousands of pounds of organic vegetables.

Before that summer, I had never done anything like growing my own food. It was amazing to find that by simply performing manual tasks like planting, weeding, watering and harvesting, I was able to grow significant amounts of food. A quarter of a potato can yield almost a dozen new potatoes. A carrot seed the size of a point of a pin can grow into a foot long carrot. I know that science can explain plant growth, but there is also an incredible wondering in farming that feelings like I am partnering with G!d. Every morning Jews around the world say the prayer Ahavah Rabah, which stresses how much G!d loves us. I had mumbled it hundreds of times, but before grew my own produce, I don't think I ever felt that love. The psalmist wrote, "you open your hand and satiate all living things according to your will" (145:16), but I never understood it before staring at the beauty of a squash blossom that I myself had grown.

Continue reading...

Challah for Hunger: Creative loafing.Tonight, I was hanging out with a couple of friends, talking about this and that and a conversation about poaching pears turned into a conversation about baking which turned into a conversation about a particular challah recipe, which turned into the discovery that only a couple of degrees of separation stood between me and this organization: Challah for Hunger. I headed home, Googled it up, and, well, that pretty much brings us up to right now.

In an incredible stroke of luck, it being Social Justice Tuesday and all, the very first sentence seen upon entering the site is: "Challah for Hunger is a national organization centered around activism and social justice." Blammo. It continues, "With our weekly challah sales, we raise money and awareness for the victims of the genocide in the Sudan. Challah for Hunger has sent more than $20,000 to relief organizations and thousands of letters to Washington, urging elected officials to take action. We also work to inspire others, both on our campuses and around the world, to take a stand against genocide."

At the moment, there aren't too many chapters of this organization, but the site provides tons of information for starting your very own chapter. You can of course support their efforts by purchasing your challah from a chapter near you, as well, and if you take a little time and write a letter to an elected official or media outlet about Darfur, they'll give you a discount. Looking for inspiration? They have a sample letter available and links that point you to places to get a little more information or to find other ways to help the crisis in Darfur.

 

Check this out. Some kids at Cornell are putting a little eco-kasher in their Shabbes, which I've always thought was a splendid idea. It's not a new idea, by any means, as Hillels and other groups have been hosting things like this for years. And, of course, lots of people are thinking along the same lines because, well, it's a vital aspect of Tikkun Olam and especially this year, the Shemitah, the year to let the land rest, there's certainly a lot of discussion about going greener.

Coalition for the Environment and Jewish Life made this cool list of conservation tips called Lo-Watt Shabbat, and while you're there, check out their list of tips for greening up several holidays.

Uh: It takes more than a green kippot to go green for Shabbes.

Sometimes, it can be overwhelming to go-green all at once, so what if we all just started with Shabbes? What things could be done to make Shabbes, specifically, more eco-friendly? Perhaps baking our own challah? I know, I know, easy for me to say. I cook. Okay, how about at least buying it locally? Right? Sure. In fact, maybe buying local/oranic produce for our Shabbes meals would be a nice thing, too. Or maybe trying out an "eco-veg" vegetarian Shabbes meal if you aren't vegetarian full-time? Add a little organic kosher wine, perhaps? That's not too difficult, right?

These recycled glasses could be a nice gift or addition to a Shabbes table. (However, although they'd have to be re-heated and such to be reshaped, I still wonder about the kashrut issues surrounding recycled glassware...? Know what I mean? The "previously used" aspect makes me want to say not kosher, the recycled part and the high-temperature part makes me want to say kosher. Discuss.) ChosenThings has a little post up about a cool idea for making a very naturey set of shabbes candleholders (might be very cute and thematic for Rosh HsShanaha or, as they suggest, Sukkot, no?) And, on the topic of candles, here is some interesting reading about selecting the healthiest Shabbes candles.

What about looking for a challah board made from a sustainable/renewable wood like bamboo? All sorts of ideas, folks, and every little bit counts. What eco-friendly things can you think of for a greener Shabbes? Hmmm?

Shabbat Shalom.

This Chanukah: Hook a soldier up.Connections Israel started nearly a decade ago to aid Jewish communities and schools worldwide in their support for Israel. Mostly, they focus on implementing educational programs to help support IDF soldiers with gift baskets and a sort of pen pal link-up. Mostly. But not entirely, by any means.

This Chanukah, for as little as $10, or as much as $120, you can help. Ten bucks gives a IDF soldier a gift basket, $36 donates a gift basket to either a Sderot family or a family victimized by terror and $120 sponsors an educational program for thirty students. Or, you can donate any amount and earmark if for any of Connections Israel's specific causes.

While you're hooking up our friends in the IDF, hit Pizza IDF, a website that allows you to donate anything from sufganyiot, pizza or burgers and sodas or hearty soups to soldiers from as little as three bucks! Or, check Dash Cham, an Israeli candymaker who will deliver treats to soldiers for ten bucks. Easy ways to bring a little light.

 

It's almost Sukkot, gang. Are you so excited? Personally, despite living in an apartment building with a balcony I share with my neighbor that would be impossible to build a Sukkah on, I'm a fan. It's a lovely reminder of the fragility of our lives, at the mercy of elements, and, probably my favorite theme is the reminder that our "homes" aren't in the buildings we construct, or in the things we buy, but in ourselves and the people we surround ourselves with. (Among other things. I mean, hello, I could sit and write explaining the particulars of Sukkot for days, but that's not what we're here to dig up in this post. Although, this is a nice explanation of some particulars here.)

Anyway. SukkahSoul is, apparently, all the rage this year. I have to admit, that's pretty nice-looking Sukkah. (Maybe not quite as awesome as last year's Sukkot Shake, or the Grease-inspired Sukkah Building, but eh. We do what we can.) Last year, Sukkahless, I grabbed some friends, and we slapped together tiny Sukkot with kosher graham crackers, lemon icing with etrog liquer, and rosemary branches for the roof. Sure, half the fun was probably the number of "etrogitos" we put away while indulging my inner-children, but hey. Whatever. There are ton of resources for building your own sukkah, but I like this one, only for the mention at the end of Jewcy jack-o-lanterns, which I am a big fan of.

There are all sorts of sukkah-building kits like this, of course, or like this, too.

Pimp My Sukkah: Any way you trick your sukkah out, it's all good.

Here sister is doin' it herself, and here is an interesting piece from Project Chana about using empty ushpizin chairs in support of domestic violence victims, and on that sort of note about helping women out, there is, apparently, a proposed boycott this year of a particular Sukkah-dealer's goods, as he is not forking over a get for his wife, though they did obtain a civil divorce almost a decade ago, so groups are calling for a boycott of his sukkot for his recalcitrance. And, speaking of boycotts, the Jerusalem Post is reporting today about a potential educators' strike after Sukkot.

Of course, there are a variety of things to do with your etrog post-Sukkot, ranging from the green-thumbed, to the recycled mitzvot to the delicious. As a side note, I have never seen an etrog this big in my life. Look at it! (Sorry about the lame music.)

Does anyone have any perhaps unusual or outside-the-box Sukkot traditions they want to share with the rest of the class? Hmm?

It's almost Shabbes. My house is clean, my dinner is ready, my cat and I are all ready to get our nefesh on. I love Shabbes. I love the idea of it, I love the practice of it, and I'm both okay with and in love with the many ways people find Shabbes for themselves. Or how people and Shabbes find each other at various life-stages, as a Rabbi I know likes to say.

Shabbat: How do you make it your own? Some are completely Shomer Shabbes. Some stay in and light Shabbat candles and have a family meal. Some have a family meal, light the candles then all go their different weekend directions. Some people light candles and hang around the house and rest for the week ahead. Some go to shul. Some keep Shabbes unless there is a special circumstance or event. Some take a small time out. Some take the full 25 hours. And sure, some don't mess with any of it.

And, in my book, that's all okay because maybe what makes Shabbes the time of re-nefesh (my English tag word for "re-ensoulment") is a matter of doing your heart's desire. It's perfectly okay to keep shomer Shabbes, and it's perfectly okay to not observe Shabbes at all and whatever lies between, if your kavanah and action-ideas don't, can't or won't line up. Don't get me wrong. I think Shabes is a good idea, I do. I've done Shabbes just about every way there is to do Shabbes and I've found meaning each time. I try, really try, not to get caught up in too many have-to's and just let my Shabbes evolve with what feels right year after year. (Which is not to say I don't do many of the activities traditional of Shabbes, just that I really feel my way through Shabbes and check-in with myself to do what feels honest and right to me. Because, though I see the value and stability of rote, I can't help but feel like a fraud when I find myself in rote mode. Another post for another day. I digress.) I keep Shabbes, and small rituals I have ebb and flow and change and evolve over time and I like that. I like feeling like there is room to evolve, I like putting activities on the Does-this seem-Shabbesey?-Is-My-Heart-in-It? Scale as a sort of finer filter on what I do and don't do on Shabbes.

For example, officially there is a prohibition from sewing on Shabbes. Well, there is the work prohibition, and once upon a time, and still to some now, sewing is a means of making a living. So, sure, yes, best to take the day of rest off from sewing! But, what about to the busy professional with little personal time who loves to sew? What if sewing is a family tradition, passed from one generation to the next? Wouldn't sewing on Shabbes make someone, then, think of fond memories and be refreshed with an activity that s/he takes the time to savor? Wouldn't, then, sewing be feeding the very soul we're allowing to glow on Shabbes by feeding it something with such deep, personal meaning? Isn't that more meaningful than not sewing in that case? (This very issue is addressed far more in-depth in one of my favorite books, Jewish With Feeling by Rabbi Zalman Schachter.)

How does he get his nefesh on?: Holmes doesn't roll on Shabbos.Part of Shabbes is re-ensoulment. A large part. Reconnecting to yourself to be the best you that you are capable of being so you are fueled to make the world as good of a place as you are capable of making it. Isn't there some sacredness in that?

I found a few of these quotes that I thought were interesting, all collected on RitualWell (read the whole collection there, if you like, they're really lovely), and collected from various female leaders within the Jewish community that seem to be in the same vein of what I'm getting at, but this one in particular, I really liked:

"As someone who is committed to social justice, to ending oppression, I often feel that there is too much to do, too little time to fix it all, that I can't stop yet...And then Shabbat comes and with its arrival twenty-five hours in which I get to notice how beautiful the world is, how perfect it is, and that there is nothing that I need to do in that moment to change it. I am reminded that it is crucial for me to stop, to rest, to celebrate the beauty of the world, the richness of my relationships with family, friends and G-d. A time of noticing what is already right and whole and good rather than what isn't. And with that deep knowing, that inner quiet, I can go back out for the rest of the week and fight like hell."

And, speaking of Shabbes. It's upon us and I have candles to light. Shabbat Shalom. Peace of re-ensoulment, however you find it.

The Sages recommend visiting the graves of the righteous -- not so much a matter of vacation, but, you know, to hang out with your elders. And, following in the wake of online mail, online auctions, and cybersex, you can now perform this time-honored ritual online.

This is the grave of the Kli Yakar, who wrote one of the most amazing commentaries on the Torah. Legend says that, just as the Maharal was going to die, he told the Prague Jewish Community to go look for this man and make him their new rabbi. Nobody had ever heard of him, and no one was quite sure how the Maharal found him, but they did as requested. A few hundred years later, he's still in Prague. But now he's online, too -- just like Cthulhu and the Bush Twins.

Visit your favorite tzaddik, too, at findagrave.com.

Before and After: A.J. Jacobs, Bronze Age and Now Hello. Welcome to my guest-blogging stint.

I'm going to be blogging about my Judaism-heavy new book The Year of Living Biblically.

I wrote up an official introduction and everything. Which I'm pasting here:

For a long time, I thought that religion, for all the good it does, seemed too risky for our modern world. The potential for abuse too high. I figured it would slowly fade away like other archaic things. Science was on the march. Someday soon we’d all be living in a neo-Enlightenment paradise where every decision was made with steely, Spock-like logic.

As you might have noticed, I was spectacularly mistaken. The influence of the Bible -- and religion as a whole – remains a mighty force, perhaps even stronger than it was when I was a kid. So in the last few years, religion has become my fixation. Is half of the world suffering from a massive delusion, as Richard Dawkins and his posse say? Or is my blindness to spirituality a huge defect in my personality? What if I’m missing out on part of being human, like a guy who goes through life without ever hearing Beethoven or falling in love? And most important, I now have a young son – if my lack of religion is a flaw, I don’t want to pass it onto him.

Which is why I decided to dive in headfirst and try to understand the Bible from the inside. To try to follow every rule in the Bible. From the famous ones like the Ten Commandments and Love thy neighbor, right on down to the lesser-known ones – don’t shave your beard, don’t wear mixed fibers and, yes, stone adulterers. All 613 commandments (plus a handful of regulations from other parts of the Bible, such as the Proverbs and Psalms). I wanted to see how living by the biblical laws would change my life.

I chronicled my journey in my new book The Year of Living Biblically: One Man’s Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally As Possible. It was an amazing year – life-altering, fascinating and very strange.

I found myself moved by the Prophets’ message of social justice, loving Shabbat, and, oddest of all for a lifelong agnostic, enjoying prayer. I also found myself wearing sandals, herding sheep and eating the occasional cricket.

I had a spiritual advisory board made up of rabbis of all varieties. They gave me a crash course in the oral law, and how it intertwines with the Bible itself. I did some mitzvahs in the traditional way – wrapping tefillin with the Orthodox, for instance. I embedded myself with groups ranging from Hasidic Jews to Israeli Samaritans. But there was also a big DIY element to my quest.

In addition to a spiritual journey, book is also an argument against fundamentalism. I became the ultimate fundamentalist to show the error of that approach. I hoped to show that fundamentalism and extreme literalism is necessarily selective, though fundamentalists won’t admit it.

In any case, every day for the next two weeks, I’m going to post something I learned on my odd and enlightening year. I’d love any feedback, of course. Here, the first installment:

Saying 'mazel tov' could, conceivably, get you executed.

I met with a leader of an ultra-literal branch of Judaism called Karaites. The movement was huge in the middle ages, but has now dwindled to 30,000 followers split between Israel and, weirdly enough, Daly City California. I told the Karaite "Mazel tov" on the completion of his doctorate. He shook his head. "Mazel tov means good constellation," he told me. And astrology is banned in the Bible (Leviticus 19:26). The punishment? Execution.

This week on FaithHacker we're excited to welcome guest blogger Getzel Davis.  Getzel is, among other things, an environmental rock star, a former ADAMAH fellow, and pretty much the nicest guy I know.  To start things off I sent him some tough questions, and to no one's surprised, he totally rocked them. -TF

What kind of work are you doing now, and how does it fit into your spiritual journey?

I work for the Teva Learning Center as a Jewish environmental educator. Every week I get a new batch of 6th grade day school students to try to inspire. We go off into the woods every day and practice feeling radical amazement in nature. After a week of group bonding and ecology lessons, I get to sit down with each child and school to help them brainstorm ways to make the world a healthier and happier place.

What's your favorite spiritual practice? Why?

My favorite spiritual practice at the moment is mikvah. It sounds a hokey, but time I get out of a mikvah, I physically feel spiritually cleansed (even if I am covered in muck from the lake). This year, to prepare for Yom Kippur, I dunked forty-nine times for the forty nine levels of spiritual impurity that people of capable of. When I got out, it felt like I was already at Neilah, the last service of Yom Kippur, when we are finally forgiven of our sins. I went through all the motions of Yom Kippur already knowing that I had been forgiven. It was incredibly powerful.

What's a Jewish ritual that really doesn't speak to you? Why?

Stoning gay people. I can’t imagine a compassionate G!d really wanted us to stone two consenting adults who love each other.

What's your favorite Jewish text to study and why?

My favorite text is the Mei Hashiloach by the Izbitzer Rebbe. Despite the fact that the Izbitzer was a leader of a chassidic ultra-orthodox Jews, half of his discourses are about the flawed nature of Jewish law. His radical theology allows for certain people at certain times to do perform acts contrary to normative Jewish law. This book is a great tool for anyone struggling personally with questions of halachic obligation.

What's a social justice issue that's really important to you and why?

I believe that the greatest issue facing humanity is global warming. Rising oceans and desertification of the land scare the shit of me. The solutions are not going to be easy things like recycling or buying hybrid cars (although both are great). The only way humanity will be able to avoid an incredibly ominous future is by radically changing how we consume things. We need to start holding producers responsible not only for the safety of a product while we own it, but also the impacts of its creation what happens to it after it has been thrown “away.”

Continue reading...

If you think that a mitzvah is a good deed then you've come to the right blog.

Let's start by addressing common misconceptions:

• A mitzvah is not a good deed.
• A mitzvah is not a commandment.
• A mitzvah is not helping someone.
• There are not 613 mitzvahs or mitzvot.

I'm not saying that a mitzvah isn't related to good deeds, but they are not the same.

So what is it already? A mitzvah is a certain type of transcendent connection that you create when you do some actions (such as good deeds) with the right frame of mind.

Let's take the most basic example:

You're walking outside and a stranger asks you for a handout. You give him a dollar. Did you do a mitzvah? Let's say for the sake of discussion that he uses the money to buy food to stay alive.

Survey says: You definitely did a good deed. But you didn't do a mitzvah!

It's not a mitzvah until you have in mind as you had him the dollar that you're doing a holy act that unites heaven and earth and imitates God as it were.

A person can spend their entire life helping others and never do a mitzvah. If you are doing good things without knowing it, without consciously choosing, it means that you had parents who gave you good habits. It doesn't make you a spiritually-oriented person.

Judaism says that you were put on this planet for a purpose. Actually, you have two purposes, your meta-purpose and your specific purpose. Your meta-purpose is the same as mine, it is the general purpose of human existence. Your specific purpose is the details of how you are going to realize that meta-purpose.

Our meta-purpose is to transcend the auto-pilot and perceive the hand of God in every transaction of Nature and of Man. What makes this constant awareness so hard is that we have these bodies that have physical cravings and distract us from the spiritual awareness. One solution to this problem is to unite body and mind by focusing like a laser on the transcendence of the body's action.

To put it simply, when I do a mitzvah with the proper focus - called kavanah - I am fulfilling my purpose in this life (in at least the general sense).

Now, how many mitzvahs are there? As I mentioned above, if you say 613, then you've come to the right blog to get your head fixed. Before I tell you the actual number, let's clarify one point: regardless of the number, the fact that there are a set number of mitzvahs means that there are x number of channels through which you can connect your physical existence to the Source in order that your existence be meaningful and not a pointless sham.

Each one of those channels is a unique opportunity to give your life transcendent meaning. So, for instance, giving tzeddakah gives you a different connection than not eating meat and cheese together.

But the uniqueness of a mitzvah compared to another mitzvah is only one facet. Another facet is the way you give tzedakah (or any other mitzvah). Your way is different from the way in which I do it. In order for us to bring the world into harmony, the world needs both your expression and mine of that mitzvah. If either of us fails to do a mitzvah, then our collective karma is lacking one connection that it would have otherwise had.

Therefore the true number of mitzvahs is really 613 times the number of Jewish people. Your mitzvahs affect me and mine affect you.

A mitzvah to the soul is like food to the body: it's good for you to do, but how you do it is just as important as what you do.

Below are three videos to compare and contrast. The first is a player piano recording of Scott Joplin himself playing "Maple Leaf Rag". It's undoubtedly a work of genius.

The second is a human being playing the same song. Which is more enjoyable for you to watch?

The third is a different human playing a different fast song.

What do you think? It seems to me that the contrast between these performances compares to doing a mitzvah on auto-pilot versus with all your heart and soul. You can test this: In the next 30 minutes, try to find a mitzvah to do, and do it with the awareness that you are creating a transcendental connection while you do it. Then let us know below on how it went.

A few years ago I dated this guy, and together we were the couple who fought. We bickered endlessly, and alone in his apartment we had huge screaming fits that often involved the slamming of doors, and the long cold silences we gave each other between rounds. I loved him, but somehow loving him largely consisted of meeting up and arguing for hours on end. Politics, religion, race relations, the economy, music, movies, poetry…Whenever we hung out with friends they were always pulling us aside and telling us to either break up or get married already.

Fighting can be scary, and frustrating, and sad. It can also be funny, and cute, and silly. It can be a weapon, or it can heal.
You Gotta Fight For Your Right: To fight
One of my favorite things about Judaism is that unlike Christianity with its turn-the-other-cheek anti-conflict theology, Jewish texts have always valued fights and conflicts. The Midrash is known for taking various statements about war and warfare from the Torah, and explaining them as metaphors for life in the beit midrash. Rarely is an issue presented without the disclaimer that the rabbis disagreed on how the law should be decided. As one of my high school halacha teachers was fond of saying, the right answer is always that there’s a disagreement.

Disagreeing and maintaining respect is difficult, but it’s the basis for much of Jewish law. In fact, presenting a dissenting opinion is considered to be a helpful and good thing, because the discussion is said to increase the understanding and value of the Torah.

One of my favorite examples of this idea comes in Bava Metzia 24a, in the story of Rabbi Yochanan and his student Resh Lakish. When Resh Lakish died (because of an argument he had with Rabbi Yochanan) Rabbi Yochanan was so depressed that the other rabbis sought out a new student to delight him. They chose Rabbi Eleazar ben Pedat, who was known for this exhaustive knowledge of past traditions. For every comment that Rabbi Yochanan brought forth Eleazar ben Pedat was able to find a supporting statement in tradition. What was Rabbi Yochanan’s response?

‘Are you as the son of Lakish?' he complained: 'when I stated a law, the son of Lakish used to raise twenty-four objections, to which I gave twenty-four answers, which consequently led to a fuller comprehension of the law; whilst you say, "A Baraitha has been taught which supports you:" do I not know myself that my dicta are right?' Thus he went on rending his garments and weeping, 'Where are you, O son of Lakish, where are you, O son of Lakish;' and he cried thus until his mind was turned. Thereupon the Rabbis prayed for him, and he died.

See the complete text

Basically, Rabbi Yochanan died because he didn’t have a good person to fight with.

Of course, choosing our battles, and remembering always to respect the humanity of our partners is integral to fighting well. But fighting is a integral part of how Judaism is meant to function. Today, try picking a constructive fight with someone you respect and love. Listen, respond, and remember how much of our tradition is beauty that has come from conflict.

PS- If you know someone in a relationship that is full of conflict but void of respect, or if you suspect mental or physical abuse, contact Shalva.

On Monday I received pretty much the worst insult of my life. Ironically, it was my dry cleaner who said it to me, and he seems to have meant it as a compliment, though that’s confusing, because no part of the statement was even remotely complimentary, and it in fact synthesized almost every insecurity I’ve ever had into one sentence. It would be impressively elegant if it hadn’t caused me great emotional trauma. Anyway, as a result of my horrific moment with the dry cleaner, I’ve been thinking a lot about what the appropriate response is to an insult.
Here's My Other Cheek: But if you touch it, I will beat your ass
Jewish law comes down really heavily against both gossip (i.e. talking about someone behind her back) and embarrassing someone in public. Embarrassing someone in public is, according to the Talmud, akin to murdering him. One should commit adultery, or even throw himself into a fiery pit before he publicly shames his friend. (For an extended and very well documented discussion of this idea, click here). But what happens when you’ve been publicly embarrassed? What happens when the deed has been done and the victim is left shamefaced? Is there something we’re supposed to say, or even allowed to say when we’ve been put through the wringer ourselves? Are we meant to simply turn the other cheek?

Halacha doesn’t have a clear stance on this issue. I asked four rabbis about this today, and the only thing they could really come up with is a statement in Maimonides’ Hilchot De’ot (Laws of Bearing Witness) (6:6) that commands you to ask the person who hurt you why they hurt you. In fact, Maimonides says that before Yom Kippur one of the ways we should do teshuva, repentance, is by telling the people who have harmed us what they’ve done so that they have an opportunity to ask repentance.

But what about cases where that’s not really applicable? The person who passes you on the street and calls you a jackass, or who is behind you in line at the grocery store and says into his phone that the person in front of him is “a fat cow holding up the line”-- it’s hard to imagine that asking that person why they’ve insulted you is going to lead to anything particularly constructive and emotionally sound. Most of the time, lengthening the encounter is not something any of us are anxious to do.

So where does that lead us? I’ve been thinking about it all week, and I don’t really know. I can’t imagine that interacting with my disaster of a dry cleaner ever again is something that I’m prepared to do, knowing what he thinks about me. Though given multiple opportunities to apologize, he hasn’t done so, and now I’m left in a strange sort of limbo. Do I get to just resent him and hold it against him forever? Am I obligated to forgive him despite his inability to apologize? Is simply choosing a different place to do laundry an option for me?

I think in situations like this--where one is still sensitive to the humiliation, and can no longer feel comfortable around the other party--halacha would seem to direct us to avoid any future conflicts. We have an obligation to ourselves, to respect and protect ourselves. I wish I could find a source that instructed me to kick this guy in the balls, or to make some kind of cruel and equally mortifying comment to him, but the sources recognize that psychological vengeance is almost never as satisfying as we expect it to be, and that it’s most likely to perpetuate the problem. I’m still feeling my way around the issue, and I keep wishing for the crutch of sarcasm, but some days it’s just not a helpful option.

It really is too bad—I could totally take this guy.

On Monday night I read an awesome piece over at SOMA Review about how hard it is to find a good Jewish deli outside of a big metropolis. It’s a fun, interesting article by a woman named Mary Beth Crain who’s had to move to the small town of Hart, Mich. to be with family, and who has an interesting way of prioritizing:

I soon discovered that being a Jew in Hart is a far different experience from being a Jew in L.A., or New York, or Flatbush. There’s no synagogue, and no Jewish community, but far more important—there’s no Jewish deli.

Yes, if you ask me, the deli—and by deli I do not mean those pathetic packaged sandwich sections in the supermarkets and 7-11’s—is the real place of Jewish worship. A genuine Jewish deli is not simply a wondrous locale, it’s a wondrous experience.

Full Story
Schmaltz and Co deli in Naperville, IL: Kosher style, and Jewish, but not kosher
Crain goes on to list, at length, her favorite things about various delis in LA, where she lived before the move to Michigan. And I have to admit, her descriptions are fantastic, and totally make me want to visit those delis the next time I’m in LA. Except for one thing: they’re not kosher, and I’m a vegetarian.

The whole phenomenon of Jewish delis irritates me, to be honest. I get annoyed because in my mind, Jewish should mean kosher, but in fact, the prototypical Jewish delis—the Carnegie deli in New York, Manny’s Deli in Chicago, and Zingerman’s in Ann Arbor are pretty thoroughly treyf these days.

The only thing that gets my eyes rolling faster than Jewish delis is anything that’s “kosher-style.” Does anyone know what that means? Is there anyone out there that eats only at kosher and “kosher-style” restaurants? I doubt it.

I love food, and I especially love traditionally Jewish foods. I make a mean Jerusalem kugel, and I think even vegetarian matzah ball soup has mystical medicinal powers (but I outright refuse to spell it matzo). The only thing that I love more than traditionally ashkenazic foods like kugel are traditionally Sephardic foods, like dolmades. And I’ve said before that whenever my faith in God wanes, I eat hummus and my faith is restored. But somehow a Jewish deli just doesn’t do it for me, and I think that’s because it makes me uncomfortable to sit in a place that’s openly proclaiming itself as Jewish, and that also openly serves a corned beef and Swiss sandwich.

Earlier this week I wrote about ahavat Israel, and I truly intend to make ahavat Israel a bigger part of my life this year, so I don’t want to come down hard on Jewish delis. I just wonder what makes a deli Jewish? A sign that says shalom? A Reuben on the menu? Homemade pickles?

When did Jewish come to mean quality meat (wow, SO many jokes to be made here), as Mary Beth Crain seems to imply? Why do we insist on making the deli part of our religious dialogue, when it seems to belong more in our cultural myth?

Frankly, when something is labeled Jewish, I have certain ethical standards that I hold it to, and I don’t really want to care about the ethics of some guys running a deli on the South Side of Chicago. But when they call it Jewish, I feel a sense of obligation.

You can call language Jewish (Yiddish) and you can call a piece of art of an artist Jewish (Chagall) because those aren’t things governed by Jewish law. So, if they act in a way that’s specifically non-Jewish, it’s less problematic. But I get edgy around foods and countries that label themselves Jewish, and then don’t live up to their own labels. But I don’t know. Maybe I’d feel different if I ate corned beef.

Growing up I was part of a very social community. The families involved in the minyan I went to in Chicago were possibly a little OCD about inviting each other over for meals, hosting parties and welcoming new people into the community. It was an extremely rare Shabbat growing up that my family didn’t have guests for either Friday night dinner or Saturday lunch. I didn’t realize this wasn’t normal until I was out of high school and spending my first few weeks at the Univeristy of Iowa. Even after attending services at the shul in Iowa City every Saturday, no one invited me to a meal, no one offered to show me around town or asked how I was settling into college life. I was secretly appalled. I told my friends the people were unfriendly, and didn’t know the first thing about being good hosts.
Clean Feet: are holy feet
I had always been taught that being a good hostess (or host) is a mitzvah. And not just any old mitzvah-- one of the biggies, one of the first mitzvot we see demonstrated by Abraham when he welcomes the three angels into his home shortly after he’s been circumcised. He’s an old man, he’s just had some pretty serious self-inflicted penis surgery, and when he sees guests he gets right up, runs to them (OUCH) and asks them to come in, eat, drink, and have their feet washed. The text never says that they approached him, and then stood around awkwardly while he tried to decide if he had time to cook a big dinner, and if they would be good guests. Abraham just gets right up and invites them in, even before he asks his wife to start making the food, and before he has slaughtered the meat he’s going to serve them.

This was pretty much the philosophy I had grown up with. Constantly invite people, and you’ll figure out precisely how you’re going to feed them later on (I once invited a family for lunch without consulting with my mom beforehand. To no one’s surprise, she was able to feed six more people with no advance notice, and there were still leftovers). For the most part I think that’s a good philosophy, but I think are other possibly less time consuming ways to host and welcome guests. If you’re good in the kitchen that’s fantastic, but if cooking isn’t your thing, inviting people over to watch a movie or a football game can be equally nice.

I think the key to welcoming guests is to do it before they ask. When people see that they’re welcome somewhere they’re much more likely to put down roots, to stay and help out and become engaged with the community. Waiting for someone to offer something to you, and then having to ask for it is incredibly embarrassing, and it’s hardly the way to gain strength and reputation in our community.

I was thinking about this whole concept recently in regards to an article in the Times about various universities installing footbaths in their bathrooms so Muslim students could wash their feet befor praying.

Nationwide, more than a dozen universities have footbaths, many installed in new buildings. On some campuses, like George Mason University in Virginia, and Eastern Michigan University in Ypsilanti, Mich., there was no outcry. At Eastern Michigan, even some Muslim students were surprised by the appearance of the footbath — a single spigot delivering 45 seconds of water — in a partitioned corner of the restroom in the new student union.

“My sister told me about it, and I didn’t believe it,” said Najla Malaibari, a graduate student at Eastern Michigan. “I was, ‘No way,’ and she said, ‘Yeah, go crazy.’ It really is convenient.”

Full Story

The footbaths have caused something of a controversy. Lots of people aren’t happy about state taxes going to install footbath, and there are suits pending that say it’s a violation of the separation of church and state. But my reaction was much simpler. I was impressed that at a place like Eastern Michigan University the administration saw that it was something that would be really useful for Muslim students, and without even making a big fuss they just went out and installed one. To me, this is a great example of what welcoming guests should be like. I never thought I’d say this, but way to go Eastern Michigan University.

This week's haftorah is one of seven "Haftarot of Consolation", starting on Tisha B'Av and going until Rosh HaShanah. Yes. Right. I've thinking about consolation a little lately, because let's face it, life happens (as I'm fond of saying) and presents moments for us to consider pretty often, if not, you know, constantly. So, bear with me as I stretch this a little for a sec.

We all have good days an