This is not a post, this is an explanation of why you ahve had no posts and why you probably will not in the near future. I got into Israel yesterday and registered for my Ulpan. Talk about a nightmare- four or five straight hours of beaurocracy on absolutely no sleep. And the worst of it is that everyone tells me something different and wants something different and sends me somewhere else for something else that I need but that I can't get without waiting for seven billion bajillion hours and then of course you're not actually in the right room for it and why didn't you mention that you are an Olah and so on and so forth until you really want never ever, ever, ever to see another form in your life, but of course you will since you haven't even begun to do everything that you need to do for your real university or for half the things that the government wants and you're starting to feel a little stressed. I managed to go from starry-eyed crying as we landed in Israel to bored, harrassed, overwhelmed trucalence, full of "okay, b'seder, let's get this done already, mah pitom you are yelling at me, maybe a bit of savlanut, stop yelling at me please" in less than an hour, which I must regard as some sort of a record.
Today, however, was much better. Only two hours of beaurocracy and we actually began the ulpan classes, which are quite awesome, and also I finally made contact with the people I know in this country, which mitigated the feeling of wandering around being lost and confused and so forth. But my computer access is probably going to be limited to the lab, so expect blog posts even less frequently than when I had to wrest it from Mike.
Kol Tuv from the Holy Land.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Friday, August 04, 2006
Ritualization
Argh! I should not be posting, I should be packing, considering as how I am leaving the blinking country in less than three days and have thus far...placed some shirts in one of my suitcases. Not a very good pace, I'm afraid. But I had a blog post sparked in my head yesterday and this is the first time that I've been able to get the computer since then, so here goes:
I listened to an interesting shiur yesterday about the mitzah of keriah and how it has evolved over time. One of the most striking aspects was watching how what we do today is not only different from the original mandated way to perform the mitzah, but even diametrically opposed to the whole point. Example: In the gemara, it says that keriah that is not done in the moment of anguish is not valid. Today, however, we tear keriah not by the death bed nor when we first hear of the loss, but only after the burial, a good day or so later. Example 2: Keriah for parents is supposed to be done with one's own hands. Today, we have somebody else start the tear and then continue it. And this is not even bringing into account the strict halachot of how far to tear and from what direction and so forth (not that I, thank G-d, am in a position to be familiar with those details).
The pretty clear trend in these changes is from spontaneity, an organic expression of grief, to ritualization. Looking even in tanach, we see tearing clothes as an expression of grief, along with putting ashes on the head and so forth. It's a very human, believable gesture- in the throes of grief, you tear at your clothes, seeking... to what? To vent your rage, to express your feelings that everything is nothing, is useless, perhaps even to induce grief if you are in shock. (All of these are, by the way, the explanations for the mitzva of keriah given by the rishonim).
On the other hand, what is keriah nowadays? A carefully planned ritual. At a certain time, somebody comes over with a scissors and makes a small cut, then explains to you exactly how far and where and how to tear. The sentiment- in fact, the purpose- quietly fades away in the flurry of details.
Which is not to say that I oppose details. The halachic system largely consists of taking a general idea and transforming it into a set of specific, sometimes ridiculously detailed instructions. And it is good that it should do so. Nice ideas without details have a habit of evaporating or being transformed into vague mushy-gushiness without any anchorage in reality. Mitzvot without details become pretty hippy rituals- rather like a Tu B'Shvat Seder- full of sweetness and feeling, signifying nothing.
On the other hand, it is a pity when the original organicism of the mitzvah is lost entirely. And, to the degree than it can be avoided, I think it ought. Which brings me to the other thing that was nagging at my mind all through the lecture: I shouldn't be here.
I shouldn't be sitting on a kindergarten chair listening to an interesting halachic dissection of the laws of mourning, or a mussar shmooze about being nice to people. Nor should I be working my way through a book of kinnot, trying to say all of them with some modicum of understanding.
Tisha B'Av is a day to weep. Not to learn, not to pray, not even to become nicer people. Just to weep. If kinnot help you do that, wonderful, but I would suggest that it's more useful to find a couple that really rend your heart and say them slowly, and stop in the middle and cry.
There seems a curious inability to sit and cry on Tisha B'Av. Instead, the day gets filled with this and that, with shiurim and inspirational movies and endless mumbled kinnot. Maybe you pull out a Mo'ed Kattan or hear yet another way of slicing and dicing the Bar Kamtza story. Very nice. But it isn't Tisha B'Av.
And, I mean, I understand why this trend develops. First of all, sitting and crying is hard, not to mention depressing, especially for people who are less given to emotion. But I think that there's a more deep-seated objection. Maybe this is just in my head, but I think that people would see that as a waste of time. 'What's the point of crying? It doesn't make anything better. Go, go to a shiur or a shmooze, become a better person.'
Perhaps a good point, in general, but it's not Tisha B'Av. The whole point of Tisha B'Av is to act simply as a day of mourning, simply as a chance to weep. Not to move on. Nobody tells an that they should move on, that they shouldn't just sit around and cry all day. We don't feel like onenim on Tisha B'Av. But the point of the day is that we should.
And you can see this clearly in the halachot of the day. No torah study, except the sad bits. And personally, I think that the sad bits should be a bit sadder than a fascinating halachic chap on some muddled sugya in Mo'ed Kattan. No tehillim, even skipping bits of davening. No chiyuv, I might add, to say all those kinnot.
But the point of the mitzvah-its actual, emotional soul- has been eaten up by a focus on the details and the rituals, on avoiding what's forbidden and still ignoring the point. I'm not saying that I'm not guilty of it as well. But I do think that it's a pity.
I listened to an interesting shiur yesterday about the mitzah of keriah and how it has evolved over time. One of the most striking aspects was watching how what we do today is not only different from the original mandated way to perform the mitzah, but even diametrically opposed to the whole point. Example: In the gemara, it says that keriah that is not done in the moment of anguish is not valid. Today, however, we tear keriah not by the death bed nor when we first hear of the loss, but only after the burial, a good day or so later. Example 2: Keriah for parents is supposed to be done with one's own hands. Today, we have somebody else start the tear and then continue it. And this is not even bringing into account the strict halachot of how far to tear and from what direction and so forth (not that I, thank G-d, am in a position to be familiar with those details).
The pretty clear trend in these changes is from spontaneity, an organic expression of grief, to ritualization. Looking even in tanach, we see tearing clothes as an expression of grief, along with putting ashes on the head and so forth. It's a very human, believable gesture- in the throes of grief, you tear at your clothes, seeking... to what? To vent your rage, to express your feelings that everything is nothing, is useless, perhaps even to induce grief if you are in shock. (All of these are, by the way, the explanations for the mitzva of keriah given by the rishonim).
On the other hand, what is keriah nowadays? A carefully planned ritual. At a certain time, somebody comes over with a scissors and makes a small cut, then explains to you exactly how far and where and how to tear. The sentiment- in fact, the purpose- quietly fades away in the flurry of details.
Which is not to say that I oppose details. The halachic system largely consists of taking a general idea and transforming it into a set of specific, sometimes ridiculously detailed instructions. And it is good that it should do so. Nice ideas without details have a habit of evaporating or being transformed into vague mushy-gushiness without any anchorage in reality. Mitzvot without details become pretty hippy rituals- rather like a Tu B'Shvat Seder- full of sweetness and feeling, signifying nothing.
On the other hand, it is a pity when the original organicism of the mitzvah is lost entirely. And, to the degree than it can be avoided, I think it ought. Which brings me to the other thing that was nagging at my mind all through the lecture: I shouldn't be here.
I shouldn't be sitting on a kindergarten chair listening to an interesting halachic dissection of the laws of mourning, or a mussar shmooze about being nice to people. Nor should I be working my way through a book of kinnot, trying to say all of them with some modicum of understanding.
Tisha B'Av is a day to weep. Not to learn, not to pray, not even to become nicer people. Just to weep. If kinnot help you do that, wonderful, but I would suggest that it's more useful to find a couple that really rend your heart and say them slowly, and stop in the middle and cry.
There seems a curious inability to sit and cry on Tisha B'Av. Instead, the day gets filled with this and that, with shiurim and inspirational movies and endless mumbled kinnot. Maybe you pull out a Mo'ed Kattan or hear yet another way of slicing and dicing the Bar Kamtza story. Very nice. But it isn't Tisha B'Av.
And, I mean, I understand why this trend develops. First of all, sitting and crying is hard, not to mention depressing, especially for people who are less given to emotion. But I think that there's a more deep-seated objection. Maybe this is just in my head, but I think that people would see that as a waste of time. 'What's the point of crying? It doesn't make anything better. Go, go to a shiur or a shmooze, become a better person.'
Perhaps a good point, in general, but it's not Tisha B'Av. The whole point of Tisha B'Av is to act simply as a day of mourning, simply as a chance to weep. Not to move on. Nobody tells an that they should move on, that they shouldn't just sit around and cry all day. We don't feel like onenim on Tisha B'Av. But the point of the day is that we should.
And you can see this clearly in the halachot of the day. No torah study, except the sad bits. And personally, I think that the sad bits should be a bit sadder than a fascinating halachic chap on some muddled sugya in Mo'ed Kattan. No tehillim, even skipping bits of davening. No chiyuv, I might add, to say all those kinnot.
But the point of the mitzvah-its actual, emotional soul- has been eaten up by a focus on the details and the rituals, on avoiding what's forbidden and still ignoring the point. I'm not saying that I'm not guilty of it as well. But I do think that it's a pity.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Chicago Tehillim Gathering
A very nice Tehillim gathering this evening to pray for Israel. I am horrible at estimating crowds, but there must have been upwards of 600 people present. Things that I especially liked: having a mincha and a maariv surrounding the tehillim; the wide array of the community that attended-black hats to baseball caps; the misheberach for the IDF; saying Aveinu Malkeinu (I had thought you needed an official fast or something to do that? Apparently not).
The one thing that left me a bit cold- and this is typical of all of these sorts of gatherings- is the mode of saying the tehillim themselves. You know what I mean- one person leading it pasuk by pasuk in that very special cadence stretched and cut to fit the words. I mean, maybe it's just me, but I tend to totally lose my concentration (the split infinitive is hereby acknowledged and ignored) in those breaks when I'm listening to the person leading it. Tehillim is so eloquent and so personal that it feels off to stop and space out between sentences, and trying to pay attention and recapture the same sentiment for the same words twice running is like trying to recite Shakespeare with a horrible stutter. I never quite understood the whole idea of that system, as opposed to saying it all together. Is there any halacha/minhag basis?
But the most powerful feature of the gathering was an announcement that they made at the end. They cited the pretty well known statement that in the war with Midyan, each soldier had a corresponding person back home who prayed and learned for him. What was incredible was the application, which they attributed to Rav Kanievsky. They handed around slips of paper with the names of soldiers who were currently fighting or wounded, and each person took one name. Somehow, this personalization feels a lot more powerful than praying/learning/acting good for the general mass of IDF; now I have one name, of one person, one real flesh-and-blood person for whom I am 'responsible'. Telling myself "Learn for the soldiers" is, for me at least, less effective than saying "Learn for Gideon ben Yehudit." I wonder if there's some way that this could be mass-produced somehow on the J-blogosphere? I'm really not quite sure how it would be, but I think that it would an incredible idea for someone more internet-saavy to try to work out.
The one thing that left me a bit cold- and this is typical of all of these sorts of gatherings- is the mode of saying the tehillim themselves. You know what I mean- one person leading it pasuk by pasuk in that very special cadence stretched and cut to fit the words. I mean, maybe it's just me, but I tend to totally lose my concentration (the split infinitive is hereby acknowledged and ignored) in those breaks when I'm listening to the person leading it. Tehillim is so eloquent and so personal that it feels off to stop and space out between sentences, and trying to pay attention and recapture the same sentiment for the same words twice running is like trying to recite Shakespeare with a horrible stutter. I never quite understood the whole idea of that system, as opposed to saying it all together. Is there any halacha/minhag basis?
But the most powerful feature of the gathering was an announcement that they made at the end. They cited the pretty well known statement that in the war with Midyan, each soldier had a corresponding person back home who prayed and learned for him. What was incredible was the application, which they attributed to Rav Kanievsky. They handed around slips of paper with the names of soldiers who were currently fighting or wounded, and each person took one name. Somehow, this personalization feels a lot more powerful than praying/learning/acting good for the general mass of IDF; now I have one name, of one person, one real flesh-and-blood person for whom I am 'responsible'. Telling myself "Learn for the soldiers" is, for me at least, less effective than saying "Learn for Gideon ben Yehudit." I wonder if there's some way that this could be mass-produced somehow on the J-blogosphere? I'm really not quite sure how it would be, but I think that it would an incredible idea for someone more internet-saavy to try to work out.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Coincidences
Nothing, they say, is a coincidence. It's a platitude so often that it has the ring of a truism, in the beginning of speeches, in casual conversations, implicit in the inspirationalness of a good 70% of inspirational stories. You happen to meet a stranger who ends up knowing your second cousin? Katrina strikes soon after disengagement? Parsha Mattos always falls during the three weeks*? All of them represent some sort of message from Hashem, whether as a specific instruction, a source of potential inspiration, or just a general statement registering His participation in the world.
I hear this quoted so often, in fact, leading into the main gist of some speech or other, than I tend to take it as a given. On further examination, however, this doesn't really tally entirely with my vision on the world. I mean, I believe that G-d is parsimonious in His direct intervention in the world. Indirect intervention is far trickier, but I am personally inclined towards Rambam's vision of Hashgacha. The Rambam maintains that G-d largely leaves the world to its own rules and devices. Hurricanes will, for the most part, hit because of meteorological conditions. Depending on a person's greatness, G-d will intervene in his life more or less, but in general, He stays out of the picture. In other words, coincidences often happen due solely to natural explanations or random fluctuations of chance.
On the other hand, I do not really reject the idea of Divine Intervention. I believe that G-d does have some interaction and direction over the randomness, to whatever degree or however directly. Many coincidences, then, may have some important message.
The problem with this otherwise balanced theory is that I have no way of determining which coincidences are which. It would be nice if one could compose a neat algorithm, based, perhaps, on the odds against this particular confluence of events. But that's mathematically silly and theologically ridiculous. So the most logical way to decide the issue seems to be to evaluate the cost of a miss and that of a false positive and determine the best course accordingly.
Which gives rise to a very interesting insight: This is little to no cost to a false positive, and there may even be some benefit. Because attributing Hashgacha rarely causes anyone to do anything that they wouldn't otherwise. When faced with a coincidence, people tend to interpret events based on their prior convictions. Which is natural, and perfectly logical. So nobody who thought that disengagement was a good idea would possibly say that Katrina must have been a punishment for it. No matter how likely or unlikely they consider the similarities between the events**, it would never occur to them to draw the link. Similarly, those who find a link between the Parsha and the week's events always use them to reinforce and/or inspire towards an ideal they had already had. So "wrongly" assuming coincidence tend to inspire people towards pretty noble goals- better interpersonal relationships, improving their midot, serving Hashem better and so forth.
A miss, on the other hand, has small to large negative. At best, you fail to be inspired towards the noble goals that you would otherwise attain. At worst, G-d has to continue to send more and more harsh messages to shape up until you get the hint.
Based on this analysis, I think I would come to the more complicated conclusion, "Many things may very well be a coincidence, but it may not be morally useful to believe so." It seems, I will admit, somewhat disingenuous, but I have very little problem lying to myself, as long as I know that I'm doing it. Or, to sound moderately less split-personality, I am willing to assume everything is Hashgacha in order to get myself to become better, as long as I do not let it murk up my theology.
This may not, in fact, be the best system. Perhaps it would be better for me to totally lose the theology that alerts me to the possibility of coincidence, so that I will be more likely to fall for my own attributions and thus be more inspired. Or perhaps it is disingenuous to suck false inspiration from anything and I should just be inspired by good old fortitude. Be that as it may. I find myself unable to fool myself any more than I do and unwilling to fool myelf any less.
*If you want to call this a coincidence instead of presuming some prior planning by the calender makers or some supernatural aura/power corresponding to certain times of the year
**This example, by the way, is based off of an e-mail that went around just after Katrina explaining it as punishment for America for pushing disengagement, as proven by the fact that it struck Condaleeza Rice's home state and other uncanny similarities
I hear this quoted so often, in fact, leading into the main gist of some speech or other, than I tend to take it as a given. On further examination, however, this doesn't really tally entirely with my vision on the world. I mean, I believe that G-d is parsimonious in His direct intervention in the world. Indirect intervention is far trickier, but I am personally inclined towards Rambam's vision of Hashgacha. The Rambam maintains that G-d largely leaves the world to its own rules and devices. Hurricanes will, for the most part, hit because of meteorological conditions. Depending on a person's greatness, G-d will intervene in his life more or less, but in general, He stays out of the picture. In other words, coincidences often happen due solely to natural explanations or random fluctuations of chance.
On the other hand, I do not really reject the idea of Divine Intervention. I believe that G-d does have some interaction and direction over the randomness, to whatever degree or however directly. Many coincidences, then, may have some important message.
The problem with this otherwise balanced theory is that I have no way of determining which coincidences are which. It would be nice if one could compose a neat algorithm, based, perhaps, on the odds against this particular confluence of events. But that's mathematically silly and theologically ridiculous. So the most logical way to decide the issue seems to be to evaluate the cost of a miss and that of a false positive and determine the best course accordingly.
Which gives rise to a very interesting insight: This is little to no cost to a false positive, and there may even be some benefit. Because attributing Hashgacha rarely causes anyone to do anything that they wouldn't otherwise. When faced with a coincidence, people tend to interpret events based on their prior convictions. Which is natural, and perfectly logical. So nobody who thought that disengagement was a good idea would possibly say that Katrina must have been a punishment for it. No matter how likely or unlikely they consider the similarities between the events**, it would never occur to them to draw the link. Similarly, those who find a link between the Parsha and the week's events always use them to reinforce and/or inspire towards an ideal they had already had. So "wrongly" assuming coincidence tend to inspire people towards pretty noble goals- better interpersonal relationships, improving their midot, serving Hashem better and so forth.
A miss, on the other hand, has small to large negative. At best, you fail to be inspired towards the noble goals that you would otherwise attain. At worst, G-d has to continue to send more and more harsh messages to shape up until you get the hint.
Based on this analysis, I think I would come to the more complicated conclusion, "Many things may very well be a coincidence, but it may not be morally useful to believe so." It seems, I will admit, somewhat disingenuous, but I have very little problem lying to myself, as long as I know that I'm doing it. Or, to sound moderately less split-personality, I am willing to assume everything is Hashgacha in order to get myself to become better, as long as I do not let it murk up my theology.
This may not, in fact, be the best system. Perhaps it would be better for me to totally lose the theology that alerts me to the possibility of coincidence, so that I will be more likely to fall for my own attributions and thus be more inspired. Or perhaps it is disingenuous to suck false inspiration from anything and I should just be inspired by good old fortitude. Be that as it may. I find myself unable to fool myself any more than I do and unwilling to fool myelf any less.
*If you want to call this a coincidence instead of presuming some prior planning by the calender makers or some supernatural aura/power corresponding to certain times of the year
**This example, by the way, is based off of an e-mail that went around just after Katrina explaining it as punishment for America for pushing disengagement, as proven by the fact that it struck Condaleeza Rice's home state and other uncanny similarities
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
This Time, Last Year
Israel sure finds a way to keep us busy during the Three Weeks, doesn't she? This time last year, I was listening to speeches analyzing the halachic status of the disengagement, explaining my refusal to wear any sort of wristband, and praying that Israel wouldn't have her first civil war. This year, we are all kept busy tracking Israel through the first real war in over a decade and trying to decide whether or not we would prefer it to erupt into a region-wide conflict.
Bit of a microcosm of there, the two extremes of a nation's troubles- civil war on one hand, violent conflict on the other- and at the same time, the two faces of Israel's foreign policy- concessions to win peace and war to fend off those who ignore concessions.
I suppose that could be a lovely transition into a post attacking disengagement, but I was never really into antidisengagementarianism. What strikes me about the two periods is the contrast in attitude.
Last year, I can remember only a deep sick sort of fear in my stomach. I was actually and truly terrified that this was a defining moment in Jewish history, a literal second chance at the whole sinat chinam/feuding factions thing, and I thought that we just might fail it. Hearing the news made me nauseous, to say nothing of the nastier sort of rumors and vitriol (Sharon starting the disengagement to avoid being indicted and so forth). And to make matters worse, I didn't know how I stood on the whole matter. I saw a lot with which I sympathized on both sides, and a lot that really appalled me.
Compared to that, this year is a psychological cakewalk. Good old-fashioned war, with all its clarity. No guilt, no indecision, no moral qualms. It's very odd. Last year's crisis did not end up involving any deaths, but it somehow terrified me much more than a barrage of missiles. I mean, maybe it's just because I don't actually live there, don't have to face the consequences of real war, while the moral conflict reached its fingers into my friends and community. But I think it's more than that. I have a strong, perhaps irrational, faith in Israel's ability to handle any war. Give us a target, give us something tangible to shoot at, and I'm not worried about Israel's future. Internal strife is more frightening, more elusive, something we have to fight with the less sturdy tools of propoganda, philosophy, and maturity. A war is just a war, an almost welcome chance to sort things out, while a huge protest movement is, well, a mess. It seems silly to be grateful for a war, but this year's crisis is something that I know that our nations, strong in its unity, having survived her most terrible danger, is well equipped to face.
Bit of a microcosm of there, the two extremes of a nation's troubles- civil war on one hand, violent conflict on the other- and at the same time, the two faces of Israel's foreign policy- concessions to win peace and war to fend off those who ignore concessions.
I suppose that could be a lovely transition into a post attacking disengagement, but I was never really into antidisengagementarianism. What strikes me about the two periods is the contrast in attitude.
Last year, I can remember only a deep sick sort of fear in my stomach. I was actually and truly terrified that this was a defining moment in Jewish history, a literal second chance at the whole sinat chinam/feuding factions thing, and I thought that we just might fail it. Hearing the news made me nauseous, to say nothing of the nastier sort of rumors and vitriol (Sharon starting the disengagement to avoid being indicted and so forth). And to make matters worse, I didn't know how I stood on the whole matter. I saw a lot with which I sympathized on both sides, and a lot that really appalled me.
Compared to that, this year is a psychological cakewalk. Good old-fashioned war, with all its clarity. No guilt, no indecision, no moral qualms. It's very odd. Last year's crisis did not end up involving any deaths, but it somehow terrified me much more than a barrage of missiles. I mean, maybe it's just because I don't actually live there, don't have to face the consequences of real war, while the moral conflict reached its fingers into my friends and community. But I think it's more than that. I have a strong, perhaps irrational, faith in Israel's ability to handle any war. Give us a target, give us something tangible to shoot at, and I'm not worried about Israel's future. Internal strife is more frightening, more elusive, something we have to fight with the less sturdy tools of propoganda, philosophy, and maturity. A war is just a war, an almost welcome chance to sort things out, while a huge protest movement is, well, a mess. It seems silly to be grateful for a war, but this year's crisis is something that I know that our nations, strong in its unity, having survived her most terrible danger, is well equipped to face.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Top Ten Reasons I am Making Aliyah
I am sick of my own unbelievable mushiness when it comes to aliya. So...these are the real reasons for the decision, aided and abetted by Mike, who is not making aliya, really.
10)Funny colored money- it feels so fake that it's fun to over-spend.
9) I heard that there are people who are going to give free drives to the Mediterranean? And I love going to the beach!
8) America is being run by a cabal of Jewish conspirators.
7) Everybody speaks English.
6) Being overdrawn isn't an embarressment, it's a national pasttime.
5) Jordanian TV
4) Well, Israel certainly needs another lawyer.
3) So much closer to the culture, excitement, and beauty of the Paris of the Middle East.
2) No extradition treaties and no death penalty (heh, heh)
1) Well, I've heard that once all the Jews get there, they can all be wiped out and Messiah can come. And who doesn't want Messiah to come? Again.
10)Funny colored money- it feels so fake that it's fun to over-spend.
9) I heard that there are people who are going to give free drives to the Mediterranean? And I love going to the beach!
8) America is being run by a cabal of Jewish conspirators.
7) Everybody speaks English.
6) Being overdrawn isn't an embarressment, it's a national pasttime.
5) Jordanian TV
4) Well, Israel certainly needs another lawyer.
3) So much closer to the culture, excitement, and beauty of the Paris of the Middle East.
2) No extradition treaties and no death penalty (heh, heh)
1) Well, I've heard that once all the Jews get there, they can all be wiped out and Messiah can come. And who doesn't want Messiah to come? Again.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
What's our Edge?
Throughout my Western Civ class the past year- which is really a "History of Christianity" class in essence- and throughout the current ongoing war with crazy Islamists, I have been struck by the following question: "How was Judaism able to escape all this mess?" Judaism, for all of its flaws, has never really been guilty of anything approaching Jihad or Crusades, never, for all of its fundamentalism, lapsed into the hard-core evilness that seems to haunt most religions. I have actually pondered the question for a couple of days now and have attempted to compile a list of every possible answer of which I can think, in no particular order.
1) The Blessing of Weakness- Judaism has never been a dominant power, never had a chance to enforce their rule with steel. There are few things more conducive to favoring the weak than being the weak, and few things more likely to discourage oppression than inability to oppress. In fact, this could in some way be the point of Galut- keeping us from the corruption of power until we have figured out basically how to be civilized, with the advantage of being able to learn from everyone else's struggles.
2) Been there, done that- My question excludes the earliest part of Jewish history, which is pretty rife with wars and killing, because I tend to think that everyone in that time was just as bad and one could hardly expect one tribe to suddenly jump to some sort of 21st century Western morality. It would have been as impossible as it would be suicidal. But it's possible that our religion got such an early start that we got over that stage before anyone knew better. I don't particularly like this answer, but I can't articulate an exact objection.
3) Stupid Question- The question itself is based on a false premise, ignoring evils that Judaism has committed or looking at only a small slice of all of history. Of course, I don't think that this is true, but then, the objection is based on my own ignorance and is thus going to be circular and so forth.
3a)Define Evil- Or else Judaism has the advantage of defining what is "evil". Perhaps Judaism has never lapsed into evil because they get to pick what evil is. I don't buy this one either. Firstly, Judaism doesn't define evil in the Western world. Christianity does, and Christianity has done plenty of things that they and others will freely label as evil. Secondly, I think that the definitions of evil that I am using- wanton murder of innocents, for example- are pretty well acknowledged among the general population. But of course, I would be fooled by my own indoctrination, so I can't evaluate this one either.
4)Inherent Advantage- It may not be PC, but there's a definite possibility that our religion turns out less evil results because it's better. I don't think that's a complete explanation, because no religion can be so wonderful as to preclude misinterpretation, because that would eliminate free will. And, objectively, I can see tons and tons of things in the Torah and later sources that would have been excellent fuel for Jihadists, from Amalek to some of the more interesting civil wars. Thank G-d, we have never really been swept up by people pushing these interpretations, but that doesn't mean that the fuel isn't there.
5) The Jews- My brother's- Jews are "a stiff-necked nation." It would be physically impossible to get them to unite around any one goal, except for self-defense. The Jewish nation, as a united whole, lasted for 80 years (with three rebellions)- hardly enough time to start any sort of crusade.
6) Flexible Interpretation- My pet theory. A talk radio host was bullying a Muslem caller into admitting that if he was convinced that his religion really did call for killing people, he would do it. I wondered out-loud whether I wouldn't have to say the same, and then came to the conclusion that "If Jews were ever really convinced that the Torah really did call for doing something that immoral, we would find another way to interpret it." Intellectually dishonest on the surface, but it may just be the soul of Judaism. The halachic system, as it was formed or as it evolved, makes us partners in creating our moral code, which gives us the liberty to use conscience as an interpretative tool. Again, it may be cheating, but then again, I look at it this way: My moral sense and legal code are both Divine. If there seems to be a contradiction, then one or the other has to be tweaked so that they can match, just as I'd try to resolve an apparent contradiction between two p'sukim. And the law is usually a lot easier to tweak.
The reason I love the last theory so much is that I think that the halachic process and its human-centricness is the most awesomely cool thing about Judaism and I would very much like it to be our saving grace as well. But I am open for other explanations, or better arguments for any of the above.
1) The Blessing of Weakness- Judaism has never been a dominant power, never had a chance to enforce their rule with steel. There are few things more conducive to favoring the weak than being the weak, and few things more likely to discourage oppression than inability to oppress. In fact, this could in some way be the point of Galut- keeping us from the corruption of power until we have figured out basically how to be civilized, with the advantage of being able to learn from everyone else's struggles.
2) Been there, done that- My question excludes the earliest part of Jewish history, which is pretty rife with wars and killing, because I tend to think that everyone in that time was just as bad and one could hardly expect one tribe to suddenly jump to some sort of 21st century Western morality. It would have been as impossible as it would be suicidal. But it's possible that our religion got such an early start that we got over that stage before anyone knew better. I don't particularly like this answer, but I can't articulate an exact objection.
3) Stupid Question- The question itself is based on a false premise, ignoring evils that Judaism has committed or looking at only a small slice of all of history. Of course, I don't think that this is true, but then, the objection is based on my own ignorance and is thus going to be circular and so forth.
3a)Define Evil- Or else Judaism has the advantage of defining what is "evil". Perhaps Judaism has never lapsed into evil because they get to pick what evil is. I don't buy this one either. Firstly, Judaism doesn't define evil in the Western world. Christianity does, and Christianity has done plenty of things that they and others will freely label as evil. Secondly, I think that the definitions of evil that I am using- wanton murder of innocents, for example- are pretty well acknowledged among the general population. But of course, I would be fooled by my own indoctrination, so I can't evaluate this one either.
4)Inherent Advantage- It may not be PC, but there's a definite possibility that our religion turns out less evil results because it's better. I don't think that's a complete explanation, because no religion can be so wonderful as to preclude misinterpretation, because that would eliminate free will. And, objectively, I can see tons and tons of things in the Torah and later sources that would have been excellent fuel for Jihadists, from Amalek to some of the more interesting civil wars. Thank G-d, we have never really been swept up by people pushing these interpretations, but that doesn't mean that the fuel isn't there.
5) The Jews- My brother's- Jews are "a stiff-necked nation." It would be physically impossible to get them to unite around any one goal, except for self-defense. The Jewish nation, as a united whole, lasted for 80 years (with three rebellions)- hardly enough time to start any sort of crusade.
6) Flexible Interpretation- My pet theory. A talk radio host was bullying a Muslem caller into admitting that if he was convinced that his religion really did call for killing people, he would do it. I wondered out-loud whether I wouldn't have to say the same, and then came to the conclusion that "If Jews were ever really convinced that the Torah really did call for doing something that immoral, we would find another way to interpret it." Intellectually dishonest on the surface, but it may just be the soul of Judaism. The halachic system, as it was formed or as it evolved, makes us partners in creating our moral code, which gives us the liberty to use conscience as an interpretative tool. Again, it may be cheating, but then again, I look at it this way: My moral sense and legal code are both Divine. If there seems to be a contradiction, then one or the other has to be tweaked so that they can match, just as I'd try to resolve an apparent contradiction between two p'sukim. And the law is usually a lot easier to tweak.
The reason I love the last theory so much is that I think that the halachic process and its human-centricness is the most awesomely cool thing about Judaism and I would very much like it to be our saving grace as well. But I am open for other explanations, or better arguments for any of the above.
Third Time's the Charm?
My brother has risen once more from the dead, just as we were all starting to ask ourselves whether those dry bones could ever live again. I must say, this one is definitely my favorite so far, with one excellent post already and absolutely no mention of baseball. And I feel obliged to offer it all of my best wishes since I was an instrumental part in killing his last one, by agreeing to guest post while he was in Israel and then failing to do so.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
A Short, Uncharitable Rant
First of all, let me apologize for the previous post. The sappiness of it overwhelmed almost before I had finished posting it, but I can't afford to delete anything that I spent precious computer time writing.
And on to the rant of the evening. I just got back from a shiur for alumnae of my high school. It was a wonderful shiur, it really was. Not boring at all, and very full of lovely, surprising pro-Israel sentiment. Trotting out all of the traditional lines- "He who lives outside of Israel, it is as if he serves idols", "Ramban says it's a mitzvah d'orayta to live in Israel", roundly criticizing Reuven and Gad for choosing wealth over living in Israel, and so on and so forth. Really, it was wonderful.
But it still rubbed me just a bit the wrong way. I'm afraid that I am sick and tired of hearing my American teachers and rabbis lecture about the holiness and necessity of living in Israel. "Yes, inspiring, wonderful, great idea. Why don't you go for it?"
Or all the people who go up to me and congratulate me on my aliya. "You're so lucky," they say. "Take me with you," they say. "I wish I could join you," they say. Well, you know what? There's no immigration quota. You want, you can spend a couple of weeks filling out paperwork and you can go too.
And yes, I know that I am being smug and unfair and self-righteous. I know that making aliya is not simple or fun, and for many it may well be unwise or impossible. I know that I spent seminary being annoyed at the people who thought that every Zionist in American was a hypocrite for not moving there. I know that there are plenty of good reasons for staying here. I know that I am only making it due to a tremendously large amount of good fortune and help from above.
But still. I mean, still. One of the main reasons that I decided to go for it was that I didn't want to spend the rest of my life being one of those people. That I would have always felt like a bit of a failure if I never made it to fulfilling something that I believe is so important. That I would not be able to stand becoming one of those people who lecture others about the paramount importance of something that you can't do. Or forever being jealous of others for being able to do something that I just could never manage.
I don't address this mainly to the people with families and untransferable jobs or anything, I mean my peers who are just starting to plan out their lives and just say that "someday they hope to make it to Israel." Someday often never happens. And I know that this is hypocritical, because until six months ago, I was saying the exact same thing- "someday", "after college", "definitely in my plans". But- if you really mean it, if you want it to happen, then you have to do it. Just go for it. Not someday, not 'I wish'. And certainly not 'It is morally mandatory. For all of you."
And on to the rant of the evening. I just got back from a shiur for alumnae of my high school. It was a wonderful shiur, it really was. Not boring at all, and very full of lovely, surprising pro-Israel sentiment. Trotting out all of the traditional lines- "He who lives outside of Israel, it is as if he serves idols", "Ramban says it's a mitzvah d'orayta to live in Israel", roundly criticizing Reuven and Gad for choosing wealth over living in Israel, and so on and so forth. Really, it was wonderful.
But it still rubbed me just a bit the wrong way. I'm afraid that I am sick and tired of hearing my American teachers and rabbis lecture about the holiness and necessity of living in Israel. "Yes, inspiring, wonderful, great idea. Why don't you go for it?"
Or all the people who go up to me and congratulate me on my aliya. "You're so lucky," they say. "Take me with you," they say. "I wish I could join you," they say. Well, you know what? There's no immigration quota. You want, you can spend a couple of weeks filling out paperwork and you can go too.
And yes, I know that I am being smug and unfair and self-righteous. I know that making aliya is not simple or fun, and for many it may well be unwise or impossible. I know that I spent seminary being annoyed at the people who thought that every Zionist in American was a hypocrite for not moving there. I know that there are plenty of good reasons for staying here. I know that I am only making it due to a tremendously large amount of good fortune and help from above.
But still. I mean, still. One of the main reasons that I decided to go for it was that I didn't want to spend the rest of my life being one of those people. That I would have always felt like a bit of a failure if I never made it to fulfilling something that I believe is so important. That I would not be able to stand becoming one of those people who lecture others about the paramount importance of something that you can't do. Or forever being jealous of others for being able to do something that I just could never manage.
I don't address this mainly to the people with families and untransferable jobs or anything, I mean my peers who are just starting to plan out their lives and just say that "someday they hope to make it to Israel." Someday often never happens. And I know that this is hypocritical, because until six months ago, I was saying the exact same thing- "someday", "after college", "definitely in my plans". But- if you really mean it, if you want it to happen, then you have to do it. Just go for it. Not someday, not 'I wish'. And certainly not 'It is morally mandatory. For all of you."
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
I was sitting on the train yesterday, feeling rather smug. And for good reason. There are few things more conducive to smugness than going from a pro-Israel rally to the Israeli consulate to submit your application for an Oleh's visa- a feeling that you alone, of all the people around you, are really supportive of Israel- you alone are really brave and idealistic and all that sort of junk. And most of all, the feeling that you alone doing something for the country- giving her the rest of your life, and so forth.
Anyway, just about the time that the wry internal editor was starting to get sardonic on the whole smugness thing, the woman behind me, who had been holding a deafening cell phone conversation behind me, shouted "It's not me that owes you! It's you that owes me!"
Thank you, Hashem. Sometimes it does not pay to be subtle, eh?
Well, but nonetheless, it's true. How dare I feel smug for moving to Israel? Do I honestly think that Israel is breathing a sigh of relief and saying, "Well, now all of our troubles are over. Tobie is on her way." Or even if we will allow that my presence may make some small positive difference to Israel, how can I imagine that this comes close to the good that Israel is doing for me?
I am not doing Israel any favors. Quite the contrary. I am giving Israel what? Some tax money, a couple of more figures for her demographics? And she is giving me...everything.
But the point of this post is not merely to act as a forum for my uninteresting personal revelations. I think that, in some sense, many of us may secretly be feeling the same smugness- attending our rallies, saying our prayers, calling our congressman. "Israel, don't worry, here we are." And our actions are, of course, commendable, and I suppose we have the right to feel good about doing them. But let's not forget for a second that Israel gives us more than we could ever give her.
As Americans, she is a friend in a truly messed-up region, one of our only real allies, and a useful canary in the mineshaft. As Jews, she is our heart, our hopes, our inspiration. She doesn't owe us anything; it's we who owe her.
Anyway, just about the time that the wry internal editor was starting to get sardonic on the whole smugness thing, the woman behind me, who had been holding a deafening cell phone conversation behind me, shouted "It's not me that owes you! It's you that owes me!"
Thank you, Hashem. Sometimes it does not pay to be subtle, eh?
Well, but nonetheless, it's true. How dare I feel smug for moving to Israel? Do I honestly think that Israel is breathing a sigh of relief and saying, "Well, now all of our troubles are over. Tobie is on her way." Or even if we will allow that my presence may make some small positive difference to Israel, how can I imagine that this comes close to the good that Israel is doing for me?
I am not doing Israel any favors. Quite the contrary. I am giving Israel what? Some tax money, a couple of more figures for her demographics? And she is giving me...everything.
But the point of this post is not merely to act as a forum for my uninteresting personal revelations. I think that, in some sense, many of us may secretly be feeling the same smugness- attending our rallies, saying our prayers, calling our congressman. "Israel, don't worry, here we are." And our actions are, of course, commendable, and I suppose we have the right to feel good about doing them. But let's not forget for a second that Israel gives us more than we could ever give her.
As Americans, she is a friend in a truly messed-up region, one of our only real allies, and a useful canary in the mineshaft. As Jews, she is our heart, our hopes, our inspiration. She doesn't owe us anything; it's we who owe her.
Monday, July 17, 2006
The Chicago Rally
Blogging real events? Instead of random sentiments? What, Tobie? But yet I feel a certain obligation to record the events of the pro-Israel rally that took place today in Chicago.
First of all, the day was swelteringly hot. Heat index of over one hundred. The organizers (Jewish Federation, I think) were surprisingly well-prepared, handing out water bottles throughout the event, although I don't know if any got to the people in the back of the crowd. My family, because we came a few minutes late, ended up getting incredibly good spots, off to the side of the podium, but right in the front, so that we could see and hear the entire event.
The rally began with the singing of HaTikva and the Star-Spangled Banner. There were a series of politicians who spoke- Congressman Mark Kirk and Judy Baar Topinka, as well as a couple of State Senators. The entire event was very frum friendly- opening with a prayer (Misheberach for Chayalim), reciting Tehillim, and with all the songs led by a male singer, no accompaniment. They also had a couple of teenagers read the names of the killed- very powerful.
The most funny thing about the whole event was the counter-rally across the street- 75 people to our 5000. (Actually, I heard that they had scheduled first and this whole event was just thrown together to counter them. But in any case, we blew them out of the water. Hands down.) They were quite a dedicated lot, but then, they were doing the more fun kind of rally- inane chants and so forth. They kept trying to counter what the speakers were saying or to drown them out. It was actually hilarious to listen to them trying to draw the speakers into some sort of debate, and just getting totally ignored. But it wouldn't really have been much of a debate, since they were given to ridiculous slogans- if a speaker mentioned the Holocaust, they shouted back "Israel is the one causing the Holocaust!" Other gems included "Get out of Lebanon!" (what?) "Racist, go home!", "Stop killing children!", and of course "What do we want? Israel out! When do we want it? Now!"
It was actually fascinating to see the contrasts between the two events. As usual, the organizers handed out Israeli and American flags as a pair; I did not see a single American flag on their side of the street. Our rally was an organized bill of speakers, cheered intermitantly; theirs was a stream of slogans. Our side cheered or shifted silently when the war in Iraq was mentioned; theirs flaunted signs "Get out of Iraq" and had a sizable delegation of Not In My Name-ers. Our side had a large cross-section of population, including a lot of children; theirs was the traditional twenty something protesters.
One other special thing about this rally was the feeling among the crowd. I've been to plenty of Israel rallies, but there was a sense of camraderie today that I don't think I've sensed before. We did not only cheer speakers, but shouted "Yeah!" and comments; we passed water around and looked out for another. The man behind us mentioned that he was going to visit Israel in two weeks, and everyone around him murmured approvingly; later, somebody next to us complimented me on my whoop (I must say, I have a marvelous whoop/scream. And I get to use it so rarely that I really do enjoy trotting it out on occasions like this.) There was a palpable sense that today we were all one, standing with Israel, making our voices heard.
First of all, the day was swelteringly hot. Heat index of over one hundred. The organizers (Jewish Federation, I think) were surprisingly well-prepared, handing out water bottles throughout the event, although I don't know if any got to the people in the back of the crowd. My family, because we came a few minutes late, ended up getting incredibly good spots, off to the side of the podium, but right in the front, so that we could see and hear the entire event.
The rally began with the singing of HaTikva and the Star-Spangled Banner. There were a series of politicians who spoke- Congressman Mark Kirk and Judy Baar Topinka, as well as a couple of State Senators. The entire event was very frum friendly- opening with a prayer (Misheberach for Chayalim), reciting Tehillim, and with all the songs led by a male singer, no accompaniment. They also had a couple of teenagers read the names of the killed- very powerful.
The most funny thing about the whole event was the counter-rally across the street- 75 people to our 5000. (Actually, I heard that they had scheduled first and this whole event was just thrown together to counter them. But in any case, we blew them out of the water. Hands down.) They were quite a dedicated lot, but then, they were doing the more fun kind of rally- inane chants and so forth. They kept trying to counter what the speakers were saying or to drown them out. It was actually hilarious to listen to them trying to draw the speakers into some sort of debate, and just getting totally ignored. But it wouldn't really have been much of a debate, since they were given to ridiculous slogans- if a speaker mentioned the Holocaust, they shouted back "Israel is the one causing the Holocaust!" Other gems included "Get out of Lebanon!" (what?) "Racist, go home!", "Stop killing children!", and of course "What do we want? Israel out! When do we want it? Now!"
It was actually fascinating to see the contrasts between the two events. As usual, the organizers handed out Israeli and American flags as a pair; I did not see a single American flag on their side of the street. Our rally was an organized bill of speakers, cheered intermitantly; theirs was a stream of slogans. Our side cheered or shifted silently when the war in Iraq was mentioned; theirs flaunted signs "Get out of Iraq" and had a sizable delegation of Not In My Name-ers. Our side had a large cross-section of population, including a lot of children; theirs was the traditional twenty something protesters.
One other special thing about this rally was the feeling among the crowd. I've been to plenty of Israel rallies, but there was a sense of camraderie today that I don't think I've sensed before. We did not only cheer speakers, but shouted "Yeah!" and comments; we passed water around and looked out for another. The man behind us mentioned that he was going to visit Israel in two weeks, and everyone around him murmured approvingly; later, somebody next to us complimented me on my whoop (I must say, I have a marvelous whoop/scream. And I get to use it so rarely that I really do enjoy trotting it out on occasions like this.) There was a palpable sense that today we were all one, standing with Israel, making our voices heard.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
My Reaction
I normally don't post about world events because I don't have anything particularly useful, intelligent, or original to say about them. The blogsphere contains dozens of people expressing their opinions on crucial world events, and most of them are more informed and articulate than I am. With regards to the recent events in Israel, however, I think I might have something of a unique perspective.
I have the perspective of someone who is (G-d willing) making aliya in a month.
And I have a confession to make, as well. I was scared for the first time yesterday. That is, not just scared for Israel- the impartial fear that any American can and does feel- nor scared for loved ones in danger. I was scared for myself, moving to a country that seems to be on the brink of war.
My relatives have always thought that my family was insane for visiting Israel, much less sending their children to live there. One aunt or great-aunt told my mother that she was a horrible mother for putting us into that kind of danger. I'm used to floating around family gatherings, blithely spouting platitudes about how safe Israel really is (more likely to die in a car accident, etc), about how normal life really was, or, when I was feeling more self-righteous, about how I would be willing to die doing something I really believed in, about how you couldn't let fear stop you from doing what you knew was right.
Which is very easy to say when deep down, where you hide gut feelings, you aren't scared at all, because you know that very few people are killed and, furthermore, know for a fact that it won't be you. Because...it won't be. Because it's something that happens to people whom you later hear about in news reports.
And I felt the same way the whole year I spent there. I was aided by the fact that it was a pretty safe year. Terrorist attacks were infrequent and most of our political-thought time was spent on opposing the disengagement or worrying about civil war.
But sitting here now, listening to radio shows and news reports and all the thousands of blogs hashing and rehashing, debating and analyzing, worrying and reassuring, calling to action and critiquing, and going on and on and on...
I wish that I were there. I wish that I were already there, where I could walk outside and see how normal my life was, where I could take buses and watch the people milling about their daily lives. Where my fear would be the fear of every single one of my neighbors, and I could join them in facing it, shrugging it off, and moving on. Where I could bury my face against a building and remember that it was all worth it.
But this... it's like sitting outside an operating room. You don't know what's going on or how things are going, but every few minutes a couple of doctors come out and give hair-raising, conflicting, and vague descriptions of a loved one's surgery. And then twenty or thirty strangers sitting around you begin to analyze what that means and what will happen, and to critique the doctors' techniques, worrying that they might cause further harm. And you sit there, suddenly scared, and want to just push open the doors and come inside and sit beside the operating table, so that you'd be able to watch and be there as it happens. And maybe even help.
When I decided to make aliya, I had a very definite picture of the country I was choosing. And, to be honest, my decision wasn't particularly heroic. I knew what I was getting, and it wasn't a very scary place. But now it is. Not that I think that I am likely to be killed or anything like that, but living in a war zone is a tense, unpleasant sort of experience and it wasn't quite what I had thought I was bargaining for.
But in a way, I'm sort of glad that the fear finally managed to get through. Because it gives me a chance to test all those platitudes that I have so often mouthed. And it turns out that they seem to be true. Because I still can't wait to get there.
I have the perspective of someone who is (G-d willing) making aliya in a month.
And I have a confession to make, as well. I was scared for the first time yesterday. That is, not just scared for Israel- the impartial fear that any American can and does feel- nor scared for loved ones in danger. I was scared for myself, moving to a country that seems to be on the brink of war.
My relatives have always thought that my family was insane for visiting Israel, much less sending their children to live there. One aunt or great-aunt told my mother that she was a horrible mother for putting us into that kind of danger. I'm used to floating around family gatherings, blithely spouting platitudes about how safe Israel really is (more likely to die in a car accident, etc), about how normal life really was, or, when I was feeling more self-righteous, about how I would be willing to die doing something I really believed in, about how you couldn't let fear stop you from doing what you knew was right.
Which is very easy to say when deep down, where you hide gut feelings, you aren't scared at all, because you know that very few people are killed and, furthermore, know for a fact that it won't be you. Because...it won't be. Because it's something that happens to people whom you later hear about in news reports.
And I felt the same way the whole year I spent there. I was aided by the fact that it was a pretty safe year. Terrorist attacks were infrequent and most of our political-thought time was spent on opposing the disengagement or worrying about civil war.
But sitting here now, listening to radio shows and news reports and all the thousands of blogs hashing and rehashing, debating and analyzing, worrying and reassuring, calling to action and critiquing, and going on and on and on...
I wish that I were there. I wish that I were already there, where I could walk outside and see how normal my life was, where I could take buses and watch the people milling about their daily lives. Where my fear would be the fear of every single one of my neighbors, and I could join them in facing it, shrugging it off, and moving on. Where I could bury my face against a building and remember that it was all worth it.
But this... it's like sitting outside an operating room. You don't know what's going on or how things are going, but every few minutes a couple of doctors come out and give hair-raising, conflicting, and vague descriptions of a loved one's surgery. And then twenty or thirty strangers sitting around you begin to analyze what that means and what will happen, and to critique the doctors' techniques, worrying that they might cause further harm. And you sit there, suddenly scared, and want to just push open the doors and come inside and sit beside the operating table, so that you'd be able to watch and be there as it happens. And maybe even help.
When I decided to make aliya, I had a very definite picture of the country I was choosing. And, to be honest, my decision wasn't particularly heroic. I knew what I was getting, and it wasn't a very scary place. But now it is. Not that I think that I am likely to be killed or anything like that, but living in a war zone is a tense, unpleasant sort of experience and it wasn't quite what I had thought I was bargaining for.
But in a way, I'm sort of glad that the fear finally managed to get through. Because it gives me a chance to test all those platitudes that I have so often mouthed. And it turns out that they seem to be true. Because I still can't wait to get there.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
My Fourth
(Mike suggested that I not post this until after the Fourth of July was over, and then enforced his suggestion by refusing to let me use the computer all day.)
There is nothing quite like celebrating the Fourth of July as a soon-to-be emigrant. It makes you feel like a bit of a fake. Explaining the meaning of the holiday to my nephews, waving a flag at the people who march by in the parade, even ranting about the little girl who for some incomprehensible reason is wearing a shirt with a blinking Union Jack on it- the zest for all of them feels a bit ashy in the mouth when you realize that in a month, you'll be leaving the country for another.
Of course, it wouldn't be so bad if the only thing going were a religious question. But I'm not just going to Israel because I happen to think that it's obligatory. I'm like one of those stupid, ridiculous heroines who is being courted by a sturdy, reliable, responsible, wealthy, and all-around suitable gentleman, but nonetheless gives her heart to the handsome, though impecunious, poet, leaving the more worthy suitor with only a warm, sororital feeling
I love Israel. I love it intestinally and automatically, with a native's wry fondness for its foibles. I love it irrationally and irrevocably, so that even after a year, I would stop sometimes in the streets and feel its liquid air purr into my lungs.
And as for America? I'm proud of it. I think that it is quite possibly the greatest nation on earth. It is certainly the best governed and has championed some of the most noble causes. I am grateful to G-d for giving it to us and to America for existing. But when I see the flag, I feel none of the sudden tightness in my stomach or foolish fondness; I curtsey to it politely and tell it that I am most grateful, sir, for your attentions, then disengage my hand and slip away. I would never think to kiss its dirt, or cry when I spot it through an airplane window. Even were it to retain my citizenship, my taxes, my support and participation, I don't think that I would ever fall in love. And now, on a completely different note, but far too good to pass up the opportunity to quote one of my favorite comedy sketches, a clip from Bits of Fry and Laurie, a British comedy team:
There is nothing quite like celebrating the Fourth of July as a soon-to-be emigrant. It makes you feel like a bit of a fake. Explaining the meaning of the holiday to my nephews, waving a flag at the people who march by in the parade, even ranting about the little girl who for some incomprehensible reason is wearing a shirt with a blinking Union Jack on it- the zest for all of them feels a bit ashy in the mouth when you realize that in a month, you'll be leaving the country for another.
Of course, it wouldn't be so bad if the only thing going were a religious question. But I'm not just going to Israel because I happen to think that it's obligatory. I'm like one of those stupid, ridiculous heroines who is being courted by a sturdy, reliable, responsible, wealthy, and all-around suitable gentleman, but nonetheless gives her heart to the handsome, though impecunious, poet, leaving the more worthy suitor with only a warm, sororital feeling
I love Israel. I love it intestinally and automatically, with a native's wry fondness for its foibles. I love it irrationally and irrevocably, so that even after a year, I would stop sometimes in the streets and feel its liquid air purr into my lungs.
And as for America? I'm proud of it. I think that it is quite possibly the greatest nation on earth. It is certainly the best governed and has championed some of the most noble causes. I am grateful to G-d for giving it to us and to America for existing. But when I see the flag, I feel none of the sudden tightness in my stomach or foolish fondness; I curtsey to it politely and tell it that I am most grateful, sir, for your attentions, then disengage my hand and slip away. I would never think to kiss its dirt, or cry when I spot it through an airplane window. Even were it to retain my citizenship, my taxes, my support and participation, I don't think that I would ever fall in love. And now, on a completely different note, but far too good to pass up the opportunity to quote one of my favorite comedy sketches, a clip from Bits of Fry and Laurie, a British comedy team:
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
My Anniversary
I began this blog one year ago, inspired by my eldest sister and with an entirely unreasonable set of expectations. For those of you too lazy to click on the link, this was my first post:
And, of course, the content has radically shifted as well. At the very beginning, my posts were cuttingly witty (I hope you can hear the sardonicness there. There should be some universal text symbol for dry sarcasm, the way that italics give emphasis and smileys joy). The topics ranged from a parody on the Lorax (by far, my most popular post) to critiques of books and movies. I still rather favor that genre, but find that I can't keep up the necessary levels of annoyance or think of sufficient suitable sources.
Already by July, we can see how my true blog nature will arise- apologizing for not posting for months and summarizing uninteresting aspects of my daily life for general consumption. Things only got more so from there. Soon enough, we faded into vague reflections on random subjects, mixed with banal anecdotes from my life from which those reflections might be spawned. And then came the sappiness.
I must admit, I was totally unprepared for the sappiness. I am not, in my daily life, anything like a sappy person. I have probably told this blog more of my personal feelings than I have told most of friends and family. I blame the diary/confessional feel of the whole thing, although it may also be a sampling error- philosophic or sappy things are easier to write, and easier to keep interested in until you post.
Well, this is a longer than average blogversary (what is with that anyway? What, you add blog to a word and now it's all cool? And anyway, the 'anni' bit means year, so 'blogversary' is absolutely meaningless, in an anneversarial sense) post, but I've neglected things for so long and have a clear run of the computer for a bit. Will the blog survive another year? It's an interesting question. At times, I doubt it, as my interest in the blog wanes and seems to die. But then again, if the blog died all the times that I assumed that it would, it would have to be a cat to still be here. (That was such a messed up sentence. Piece of advice- never, ever trap yourself in a phrase that you're not sure how to end, and then be too lazy to go back and try to revamp it into something that doesn't paint you into a corner.) But here it still is, and I, for one, am still enjoying it.
I don't think that I really need to have a blog. Nobody does, of course, it's supposed to be some kind of a hobby, but I'm already part of a blog for my family, so I don't really need a new forum to rant on, so the blame for this blog can only be placed on my sister.Fascinating stuff. On one hand, we already see many elements that will later rise to the fore: the style that is a curious cross of pompous and awkwardly chatty; the paranthesis that go nowhere and do nothing but interrupt the flow of the sentence (like this one, for example); the long, confusing sentences; the wry, self-denigating tone that you can tell is just waiting to hear a chorus of voices to shout contradicting praises; the inability to find a good way to end. On the other hand (to coin a cliche), we have all of the elements that I can now, from the lofty vantage point of my superior age, look back upon and smile fondly but wryly about the naivete: the struggle to figure out what I want to be when I grow up; the charming notion that I would actually post on a semi-daily basis; and, somewhat latent, the idealistic, unrealistic idea that I would start posting and suddenly, hundreds of people would come flocking to hear the brilliance of my words.
A couple of days ago, we were discussing what on earth I'm going to major in during college. One of the possibilities that came up (actually, she was bringing up possibilities and I was explaining why I could never go into them) was English, but I pointed out the fact that this is the kind of thing that it's easy to major in, but very very hard to earn money in unless one has actual talent, which I'm not sure I do. So she said that I should create a blog as a writing forum to see if A) I enjoy writing something semi-daily and B) if anyone else finds it interesting enough to actually read. So far I can handle A) (Well, it's only been one post) and I have serious doubts as to B), but at least I tried.
And, of course, the content has radically shifted as well. At the very beginning, my posts were cuttingly witty (I hope you can hear the sardonicness there. There should be some universal text symbol for dry sarcasm, the way that italics give emphasis and smileys joy). The topics ranged from a parody on the Lorax (by far, my most popular post) to critiques of books and movies. I still rather favor that genre, but find that I can't keep up the necessary levels of annoyance or think of sufficient suitable sources.
Already by July, we can see how my true blog nature will arise- apologizing for not posting for months and summarizing uninteresting aspects of my daily life for general consumption. Things only got more so from there. Soon enough, we faded into vague reflections on random subjects, mixed with banal anecdotes from my life from which those reflections might be spawned. And then came the sappiness.
I must admit, I was totally unprepared for the sappiness. I am not, in my daily life, anything like a sappy person. I have probably told this blog more of my personal feelings than I have told most of friends and family. I blame the diary/confessional feel of the whole thing, although it may also be a sampling error- philosophic or sappy things are easier to write, and easier to keep interested in until you post.
Well, this is a longer than average blogversary (what is with that anyway? What, you add blog to a word and now it's all cool? And anyway, the 'anni' bit means year, so 'blogversary' is absolutely meaningless, in an anneversarial sense) post, but I've neglected things for so long and have a clear run of the computer for a bit. Will the blog survive another year? It's an interesting question. At times, I doubt it, as my interest in the blog wanes and seems to die. But then again, if the blog died all the times that I assumed that it would, it would have to be a cat to still be here. (That was such a messed up sentence. Piece of advice- never, ever trap yourself in a phrase that you're not sure how to end, and then be too lazy to go back and try to revamp it into something that doesn't paint you into a corner.) But here it still is, and I, for one, am still enjoying it.
My Disapproval
(This 'My' Stuff is getting harder and harder every time)
Just a short incident from today's visit to Kiddieland: A woman tries to board a mini-roller coaster with a daughter and two little kids. The woman running the place says that the kids both need to sit with the mother, since she's the only adult. The mother turns to her and says, in a falsely casual voice, "Oh, you know that my daughter is 16?" "Really?" replies the woman, "because she went on a ride earlier and she told me that she was 11." (The girl, quite clearly, is 11.) The mother is thrown off-balance only for a moment. She snaps at her children to get on the ride and then turns to the woman and hisses in an undertone, "She's fibbing. I don't know why she said that."
Perhaps I'm just a self-righteous busybody, but I was majorly offended. Even if one is going to lie for convenience, how dare they blame their children for not doing the same? How dare she call her daughter a "fibber" for having the moral decency not to lie? To be fair, she didn't seem really angry at her daugher afterwards and she was probably just shocked at being caught in a lie (and such a very obvious lie, too), but nonetheless. Nonetheless.
Just a short incident from today's visit to Kiddieland: A woman tries to board a mini-roller coaster with a daughter and two little kids. The woman running the place says that the kids both need to sit with the mother, since she's the only adult. The mother turns to her and says, in a falsely casual voice, "Oh, you know that my daughter is 16?" "Really?" replies the woman, "because she went on a ride earlier and she told me that she was 11." (The girl, quite clearly, is 11.) The mother is thrown off-balance only for a moment. She snaps at her children to get on the ride and then turns to the woman and hisses in an undertone, "She's fibbing. I don't know why she said that."
Perhaps I'm just a self-righteous busybody, but I was majorly offended. Even if one is going to lie for convenience, how dare they blame their children for not doing the same? How dare she call her daughter a "fibber" for having the moral decency not to lie? To be fair, she didn't seem really angry at her daugher afterwards and she was probably just shocked at being caught in a lie (and such a very obvious lie, too), but nonetheless. Nonetheless.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
My Book List
In lieu of a real true post about anything useful, which would require effort that I, frankly, do not really care to invest, I have decided to post a list and synopsis of all the various books that I am reading currently or have just finished reading. And there is a reason for this decision. It so happens that my method of selecting books- picking up things around the house that look interesting- has gotten me a range of books that are a) eclectic and b) make me look all smart and studious and so forth.
1) A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius- Well. It actually is. Heartbreaking and Staggeringly Genius that is. And so many levels of meta and self-consciousness that it could make your head spin. It's all about being aware of yourself as a member of the intellectual youth, and it's quite interesting. At times, it gets a little annoying, but the thing is, you know that the author knows that too, and so it's nice.
2) The Truth and Pyramids (Terry Pratchett books) Of course, I'm re-reading these, since I've read all of Pratchett's books, but they are just so much fun. I adore Pratchett characters, and both of these are not part of his regular series so there's no chance of having already gotten tired of the protagonists. Pyramids, especially, I have not read for a while and I had forgotten just how wonderful it is.
3) Rachel and Leah Part of Orson Scott Card's Bible Stories. A little weird. I mean, the concept, of trying to write novels around the Biblical stories is interesting, but unfortunately Card is crippled by a) the Mormon readings that he must include and b) his inability to write romance that is not painful. And the romance in this book was the most painful of all, since he decided not only to make Rachel and Leah madly in love with Jacob, but to make the handmaidens pretty much swooning as well. Which he accomplished by making Jacob an action-figure, perfect hero character. Card had, I must admit, some interesting insights, but he ended up convoluting the whole story in an effort to make Laban a wonderful guy. Now, considering the whole switch and so forth, it's tricky, but he manages. Sort of. Not a bad read, but I think the book made me grimace and go "icky, icky" a bit too much for a proper Biblical rendition.
4) First Circle- I'm only in the middle of this one. It's the story of prisoners in the very upper levels of the Gulag, the bits reserved for the intellectuals and so forth who can produce better if not mistreated. It's a great story- the characters are all fun and the characterization of Stalin is cuttingly clever. The only real problem is that the author introduces a new character every chapter- and I'm already on page 200- and they all have Russian names and keeping switching names and patronyms and nicknames and so forth so that you can't hardly keep track of any of them. I mean, I'll be halfway through a conversation before realizing that there are only two participants, not the three or four that I had assumed.
5) Burn Rate- Somebody's story of his time as an internet entrepaneur. I got most of the way through this and then got a little bored. His life is just such a constant whirl of disasters and betrayals and deals and desperation and no real income. You pity him, but you also want to hit him over the head and ask him how he got into this mess.
There are a couple others here and there- SciFi anthologies, history books that my father pushes on me, and so forth, but these are the ones that I have finished or at least made a decent attempt at in the past week.
And just for the record, my brother was, in fact, hovering over my shoulder for a large portion of this post. Which is why I can't be expected to do anything more inspired than a book list.
1) A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius- Well. It actually is. Heartbreaking and Staggeringly Genius that is. And so many levels of meta and self-consciousness that it could make your head spin. It's all about being aware of yourself as a member of the intellectual youth, and it's quite interesting. At times, it gets a little annoying, but the thing is, you know that the author knows that too, and so it's nice.
2) The Truth and Pyramids (Terry Pratchett books) Of course, I'm re-reading these, since I've read all of Pratchett's books, but they are just so much fun. I adore Pratchett characters, and both of these are not part of his regular series so there's no chance of having already gotten tired of the protagonists. Pyramids, especially, I have not read for a while and I had forgotten just how wonderful it is.
3) Rachel and Leah Part of Orson Scott Card's Bible Stories. A little weird. I mean, the concept, of trying to write novels around the Biblical stories is interesting, but unfortunately Card is crippled by a) the Mormon readings that he must include and b) his inability to write romance that is not painful. And the romance in this book was the most painful of all, since he decided not only to make Rachel and Leah madly in love with Jacob, but to make the handmaidens pretty much swooning as well. Which he accomplished by making Jacob an action-figure, perfect hero character. Card had, I must admit, some interesting insights, but he ended up convoluting the whole story in an effort to make Laban a wonderful guy. Now, considering the whole switch and so forth, it's tricky, but he manages. Sort of. Not a bad read, but I think the book made me grimace and go "icky, icky" a bit too much for a proper Biblical rendition.
4) First Circle- I'm only in the middle of this one. It's the story of prisoners in the very upper levels of the Gulag, the bits reserved for the intellectuals and so forth who can produce better if not mistreated. It's a great story- the characters are all fun and the characterization of Stalin is cuttingly clever. The only real problem is that the author introduces a new character every chapter- and I'm already on page 200- and they all have Russian names and keeping switching names and patronyms and nicknames and so forth so that you can't hardly keep track of any of them. I mean, I'll be halfway through a conversation before realizing that there are only two participants, not the three or four that I had assumed.
5) Burn Rate- Somebody's story of his time as an internet entrepaneur. I got most of the way through this and then got a little bored. His life is just such a constant whirl of disasters and betrayals and deals and desperation and no real income. You pity him, but you also want to hit him over the head and ask him how he got into this mess.
There are a couple others here and there- SciFi anthologies, history books that my father pushes on me, and so forth, but these are the ones that I have finished or at least made a decent attempt at in the past week.
And just for the record, my brother was, in fact, hovering over my shoulder for a large portion of this post. Which is why I can't be expected to do anything more inspired than a book list.
Friday, June 23, 2006
My Excuses
To quote another long absent blogger, "I'm not dead yet" (Unfortunately, he has not posted in the months and months since then. Let us hope it is not an omen.) The reason for this absurdly long haitus is the computer situation back at home. See, the deal is this: The only computer with internet access is in my brother's room. Which makes a certain amount of sense, since he's usually the only one to use it. But now that I am home, I have to force my way into his room and manually pry him away from the computer every time that I want to check my email. I shudder to think what I would have to do to make him give me the leisure to post.
Actually, that's not entirely true. Probably, if I said that I had an awesome idea for a blogpost, he would move off the computer to let me post it. And stand by my side watching me type it. And pointing out my typos....
But, alas, blogging- or at least my blogging- doesn't happen quite like that. I can only post when inspiration strikes, and the inspiration, or even the inclination to go to the trouble of posting lasts for such a very short time. One bolt of lightening, vague interest, and then pfizzle. All gone. So the actual creation of blog posts relies on the precise coincidence of inspiration and access to a computer. Such coincidence, is, of course, helped when one spends most of one's day in front of the computer, but it is rendered nearly impossible when any access is curtailed by one's brother. That's all there is to that.
Also, sometimes I worry that I am sick and tired of blogging. I mean, there is so much of everything out there. Do I really have anything particularly interesting to say? Do I really have the need to say it? It is, I will grant, occasionally terribly amusing, but it's a lot of effort to go to (to which to go? Ugh) without any sort of inspiration. And so the days and weeks go by. And the guilt builds and builds.
But now that I am posting, I might as well give the world a twelve-second update on my life (No, I don't know if it's precisely twelve seconds to read. It's certainly a bit more to type. But it sounds so much more precise than "ten seconds" or even "a minute"). I am currently hanging around my house, spending time with family, friends, and an assortment of books, trying vaguely to find a summer job that's going to want someone for only a month. My main vocation, such as it is, is getting my aliya paperwork together. Did I mention that I'm making aliya? Well, I am. And so I'm scurrying around, here and there, getting my forms filled out and so forth. The plan as it currently stands involves my going to Israel around August and entering the Hebrew University Summer Ulpan program. Rather entertaining, really, since two of my friends are going to be going there as well. Friends with whom I went to seminary and with whom I am going to be going to Bar Ilan. It's sort of sad- I had this one year where I pretended to have my own life and now zoop! I get sucked back into this Three Musketeers-ship. Maybe I'll post more about that later, should inclination and access collide. Anyways, the ulpan runs through the end of September, after which are chagim, after which I begin the law program at Bar Ilan. That is, assuming that I really have been accepted, since I haven't gotten any papers from them and have only the assurance of my sister in Israel, who spoke to some people in charge there.
There. That's all. It's not, I admit, terribly exciting, but it probably will be a lot more interesting in August. Of course, then I may not have access to computers, so y'all may not get to hear about that craziness either. Ha ha.
Actually, that's not entirely true. Probably, if I said that I had an awesome idea for a blogpost, he would move off the computer to let me post it. And stand by my side watching me type it. And pointing out my typos....
But, alas, blogging- or at least my blogging- doesn't happen quite like that. I can only post when inspiration strikes, and the inspiration, or even the inclination to go to the trouble of posting lasts for such a very short time. One bolt of lightening, vague interest, and then pfizzle. All gone. So the actual creation of blog posts relies on the precise coincidence of inspiration and access to a computer. Such coincidence, is, of course, helped when one spends most of one's day in front of the computer, but it is rendered nearly impossible when any access is curtailed by one's brother. That's all there is to that.
Also, sometimes I worry that I am sick and tired of blogging. I mean, there is so much of everything out there. Do I really have anything particularly interesting to say? Do I really have the need to say it? It is, I will grant, occasionally terribly amusing, but it's a lot of effort to go to (to which to go? Ugh) without any sort of inspiration. And so the days and weeks go by. And the guilt builds and builds.
But now that I am posting, I might as well give the world a twelve-second update on my life (No, I don't know if it's precisely twelve seconds to read. It's certainly a bit more to type. But it sounds so much more precise than "ten seconds" or even "a minute"). I am currently hanging around my house, spending time with family, friends, and an assortment of books, trying vaguely to find a summer job that's going to want someone for only a month. My main vocation, such as it is, is getting my aliya paperwork together. Did I mention that I'm making aliya? Well, I am. And so I'm scurrying around, here and there, getting my forms filled out and so forth. The plan as it currently stands involves my going to Israel around August and entering the Hebrew University Summer Ulpan program. Rather entertaining, really, since two of my friends are going to be going there as well. Friends with whom I went to seminary and with whom I am going to be going to Bar Ilan. It's sort of sad- I had this one year where I pretended to have my own life and now zoop! I get sucked back into this Three Musketeers-ship. Maybe I'll post more about that later, should inclination and access collide. Anyways, the ulpan runs through the end of September, after which are chagim, after which I begin the law program at Bar Ilan. That is, assuming that I really have been accepted, since I haven't gotten any papers from them and have only the assurance of my sister in Israel, who spoke to some people in charge there.
There. That's all. It's not, I admit, terribly exciting, but it probably will be a lot more interesting in August. Of course, then I may not have access to computers, so y'all may not get to hear about that craziness either. Ha ha.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
My Random Thought
Alright, this has nothing to do with anything, but while I'm posting....
If I were writing a short story, I would totally have it that Lakewood Yid and reasonablynuts of the comment thread to this post turn out to be married, both of them unaware that the other has ever blogged. Just saying.
If I were writing a short story, I would totally have it that Lakewood Yid and reasonablynuts of the comment thread to this post turn out to be married, both of them unaware that the other has ever blogged. Just saying.
My Stalkers
(Okay, it's still fun. But then, it's all of seven minutes later.)
So it has come to my attention (through comparing stats and comments, and that sort of thing) that there are a lot of people out there who are reading this blog, unbeknownst to me. Not, of course, that I mind. Obviously. Quite the opposite. Having readers, and especially commenting readers, makes me feel warm all over. But I am just a little bit curious about all of those people who may be reading this. Some of you, I think I may even know in real life. Others, probably not. But...if you exist and you are reading these words, I would really appreciate it if you would post just a one word comment or something, saying "Hi. I exist." Just to satisfy that insatiable curiousity. And yes, friends and family, I would like you to comment as well. Even if I know about you.
So it has come to my attention (through comparing stats and comments, and that sort of thing) that there are a lot of people out there who are reading this blog, unbeknownst to me. Not, of course, that I mind. Obviously. Quite the opposite. Having readers, and especially commenting readers, makes me feel warm all over. But I am just a little bit curious about all of those people who may be reading this. Some of you, I think I may even know in real life. Others, probably not. But...if you exist and you are reading these words, I would really appreciate it if you would post just a one word comment or something, saying "Hi. I exist." Just to satisfy that insatiable curiousity. And yes, friends and family, I would like you to comment as well. Even if I know about you.
My Orthodoxy
(Due to having just watched a spat of Scrubs episodes on youtube.com, I think I'm going to take to naming all of my posts "My Something". Until the novelty wears off. Which will probably be after this post.)
Search-for-Emes brought up something interesting in the comment thread on his latest post. In response to a comment I made, he saw me as "a fairly Un-orthodox Orthodox." It got me thinking.
I've always known that my Orthodoxy is somewhat atypical. I disagree with almost everyone I know about at least half my positions. (The key is to know enough different people that it's always different halves.) I have friends questioning their Orthodoxy and friends who have just converted. I have friends who think that I am a total shtarked-out religious fanatic and friends who probably pray for my soul daily. I have friends who can't believe I went to a Beis Yaakov high school and friends who can't believe I'd go to a secular college. Friends who thought I was crazy for coming back to America after seminary and friends who think I'm absolutely insane to be transfering to Bar Ilan.
So, which group of these should define what's "Orthodox"? And how should I feel about the fact that I'm different from almost all of them?
Well, to be frank, it doesn't really bother me so much. So I'm different. Nu, I think I be more annoyed if I were just the same.
I think that one crucial advantage that I have had in my life is that I attended a high school whose philosophy was radically different from my own. (I sound fixated on high school. I'm really not. But you have to remember, it was only two years ago. I am young. I have an excuse. she whimpered) (I can never remember- different from or different than?) Not that it was fun at the time. I have a note book with pages filled with unvocalized screams. Of course, I knew that I was going to be reading them later and it was probably at least 50% pretention, but still. It wasn't easy. I disagreed with nearly all of my teachers, administrators, and classmates. In ninth grade, I spent an hour (with Miri, actually) arguing with my principle over whether non-Jews got Hashgacha Pratis. In tenth grade, I (and Miri again, actually) took over the school newspaper and went on a crusade trying to get the school to schedule davening time on gym days for a time that actually conformed with z'man tefilla. I spent eleventh grade in awe of the fact that I had a chumash teacher who actually stimulated my mind to some degree- a Michlala graduate who introduced us to such novel ideas as dissecting p'rakim for themes, contrasting meforshim, and so forth. (Not with Miri, this time. She tended to sleep through these classes. She never got enough sleep). And in twelfth grade, I spent the year trying to apply to seminaries that the school would not allow into the school and colleges that the school would prefer that I did not even know existed.
But the point is, I think it was awesome for me. Putting aside the awesome legal training, it does a lot for your intelligence and hashkafa to daily have to justify them, argue them, analyze them, question them, and fight for them. I wasn't able to get by without thinking. And that, if anything, is what's unorthodox about me.
Not that I claim complete intellectual honesty, nor can I necessary defend all of my opinions in a free and open debate. But the point is that I have thought. Nine times out of ten, I have already struggled with the issues that people tend to raise. I have something vaguely intelligent to say to people who wonder what Orthodoxy is all about, and to those who want to know the basic reasons for basic things. And I generally know why I do the shtarked-out things and why I do the crazy secular ones. I have found a place for Beis Yaakov and University of Chicago, for America and for aliya.
And I don't think that this makes me all special or anything like that. And it certainly doesn't give me any of the answers. But it probably does make me just a little bit Un-orthodox. I think I can handle that.
Search-for-Emes brought up something interesting in the comment thread on his latest post. In response to a comment I made, he saw me as "a fairly Un-orthodox Orthodox." It got me thinking.
I've always known that my Orthodoxy is somewhat atypical. I disagree with almost everyone I know about at least half my positions. (The key is to know enough different people that it's always different halves.) I have friends questioning their Orthodoxy and friends who have just converted. I have friends who think that I am a total shtarked-out religious fanatic and friends who probably pray for my soul daily. I have friends who can't believe I went to a Beis Yaakov high school and friends who can't believe I'd go to a secular college. Friends who thought I was crazy for coming back to America after seminary and friends who think I'm absolutely insane to be transfering to Bar Ilan.
So, which group of these should define what's "Orthodox"? And how should I feel about the fact that I'm different from almost all of them?
Well, to be frank, it doesn't really bother me so much. So I'm different. Nu, I think I be more annoyed if I were just the same.
I think that one crucial advantage that I have had in my life is that I attended a high school whose philosophy was radically different from my own. (I sound fixated on high school. I'm really not. But you have to remember, it was only two years ago. I am young. I have an excuse. she whimpered) (I can never remember- different from or different than?) Not that it was fun at the time. I have a note book with pages filled with unvocalized screams. Of course, I knew that I was going to be reading them later and it was probably at least 50% pretention, but still. It wasn't easy. I disagreed with nearly all of my teachers, administrators, and classmates. In ninth grade, I spent an hour (with Miri, actually) arguing with my principle over whether non-Jews got Hashgacha Pratis. In tenth grade, I (and Miri again, actually) took over the school newspaper and went on a crusade trying to get the school to schedule davening time on gym days for a time that actually conformed with z'man tefilla. I spent eleventh grade in awe of the fact that I had a chumash teacher who actually stimulated my mind to some degree- a Michlala graduate who introduced us to such novel ideas as dissecting p'rakim for themes, contrasting meforshim, and so forth. (Not with Miri, this time. She tended to sleep through these classes. She never got enough sleep). And in twelfth grade, I spent the year trying to apply to seminaries that the school would not allow into the school and colleges that the school would prefer that I did not even know existed.
But the point is, I think it was awesome for me. Putting aside the awesome legal training, it does a lot for your intelligence and hashkafa to daily have to justify them, argue them, analyze them, question them, and fight for them. I wasn't able to get by without thinking. And that, if anything, is what's unorthodox about me.
Not that I claim complete intellectual honesty, nor can I necessary defend all of my opinions in a free and open debate. But the point is that I have thought. Nine times out of ten, I have already struggled with the issues that people tend to raise. I have something vaguely intelligent to say to people who wonder what Orthodoxy is all about, and to those who want to know the basic reasons for basic things. And I generally know why I do the shtarked-out things and why I do the crazy secular ones. I have found a place for Beis Yaakov and University of Chicago, for America and for aliya.
And I don't think that this makes me all special or anything like that. And it certainly doesn't give me any of the answers. But it probably does make me just a little bit Un-orthodox. I think I can handle that.
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