Life in a Petri Dish

If you were fortunate enough to catch my trilogy on identity last week, you’re already aware that I’m in a state of questioning the role of religion in my life but also feel most Jewish in a state of study and discourse. However, my independent study has a crucial flaw compared to a true student of Talmud: I lack a chaver, a friend, a study partner. Rarely do students study alone–they work in pairs, bouncing ideas from one mind to the other until true learning has been achieved.

I lack a study partner, but thankfully, I have you–and I always welcome comments and discussions, always welcome additional voices filling the blank places of the internet upon which these words encroach.

No matter, the summer has returned in full force. Less than a month ago I graduated with my associate’s degree and in a little more than two months I’ll begin classes at a new college working towards my bachelor’s degree. In the time since I walked across the stage and turned my tassel, I’ve gone to the beach, been a guest at another graduation, spent more time playing video games than I have in the last eight months, and studied over Shavuot and spent some serious time in the study of introspection. All of this has only been preparation for my annual dive into the Pirkei Avot. This year I’m starting chapter three and I hope you’ll follow me on this enlightening journey.

The Second I in Identity

There’s a dent between the “I” I was before and the “I” I am now. Life batters us. Damages us. We try (and sometimes we succeed, yet sometimes we fail) to rebuild ourselves, but no matter how close to perfect our handiwork becomes, we’re never quite the same as we were before. We change. Piece by piece, part by part, cell by cell, until we are all unrecognizable. But bits remains. Bits will always remain–in our appearances, perhaps, or our temperaments possibly–but in time we become someone different. Someone new.

It’s this tide going in and going out that’s the journey of our lives. Through sorrow and joy, through love and disappointment, each instant shapes us for the next. We are a function of powers beyond us, yet we cannot be differentiated–nor can we be integrated. What leads us is all that we have. There is no other relation.

Metaphor aside, where do I stand? In this moment, I am more than a man sitting before a screen, typing furiously upon a keyboard abused by his hands. Nor are you–my audience, a reader, a friend perhaps, or even a stranger–just a person behind a computer or on the other side of a tablet or e-reader. You are whole, as I am whole, and the missing pieces are not quite missing, but not yet discovered, not yet chiseled from this form we call our bodies.

I’ve come a long way, yet sometimes I fear I haven’t come at all.

The I is in Israel

I spent six weeks in Israel the summer of 2009. It was one of the most amazing and definitive experiences of my life and served as the perfect bridge from homeschool and Hebrew school to college. One of our writing assignments near the end was to write about what it means to be Jewish. A lot of people despised it, many of us knew it was coming, and I just sat in the computer lab until it was finished.

No matter, as a prelude to the assignment, we were asked to walk around an area of Tel Aviv where we were visiting for the day and see what people living in Israel considered Jewish. We went up and down the streets in small groups. We walked to a cafe. We walked past soldiers. We sat down with some modern Orthodox Jews. It was exciting, yet nerve-wracking approaching strangers in a strange land (alright, it wasn’t that strange, but I’m naturally quiet, so it was surely an exercise in extroversion!). And then, with our classes, we sat down. And then they dumped it on us.

The essay doesn’t stand as my best example of writing (in rereading it, I feel it lacks an air of sophistication about its coherence and structure), but it reflected my evolving views on Judaism and being Jewish at the time, and for that, it did what was intended of it. I hadn’t ever had the intention of sharing it at the time, at least with none other than our teacher, and since length wasn’t it issue, it ended up becoming a fair bit longer than the bit I posted yesterday. So, without further ado, I present to you the essay I called “Recon.”

(Short for “reconfirmation,” of course.)

The First I in Identity

Ten years ago today I became a Bar Mitzvah. Four years ago today I was confirmed. And not only is this weekend my birthday, it is also Shavuot–the birthday of the Torah, the celebration of God giving his word to us, his chosen people, the Jews. It’s said that all Jews were present at Sinai when the Law was given. If that’s the case, it was this day almost four years ago that divinity struck the mundane and carved commandments into stone.

It’s a time for reflection, and if it isn’t, I want it to be. It’s a tradition on Shavuot to study late into the night. At midnight, the sky is said to open for a sixtieth of a breath, barely a split second, and the way into heaven can be seen. These past two or three years I’ve looked, but I’ve been too slow to see it.

Lately I’ve been thinking about me and Judaism. How I realized, some nights ago, that I haven’t been saying the Shema before I go to bed, and that when I do, it hasn’t been as poignant as in the past. How, without religious school, my last constant act of observance has been broken. We don’t go to services so much anymore. We don’t light Shabbat candles. Just last week I played video games all day Saturday without even realizing it was Shabbat. I keep kosher, but by now it’s habitual. And habitual isn’t quite ritual.

So lately I’ve been thinking.

A Family Theme

This morning was the second “Shababa” at the religious school where I teach. It’s a new experiment this year, having “Shabbat school” one weekend every month or so instead of having school on Sunday. So far I’ve enjoyed them; they’re different, but unique and a pleasant experience for the teachers and students alike.

Today I had the honor of giving the d’var Torah, which in Hebrew means “words on the Torah.” It’s comparable to a sermon, except it’s not preaching, it’s teaching. See, Jews don’t proselytize–we perseverate. And with all our perseverative studying, it’s only natural to share it with others (studying the Torah is itself a commandment).

In any case, though short and sweet and written with a younger audience in mind, I thought I may as well share the drash here for anyone who may wish to read it.

Sabbath Delight

Family was this week’s theme. My brother and his family came up the first and we all visited until they left today. And whenever I had free time, I was busy journalling and playing video games. In fact, I’d probably be off playing video games right now if it weren’t Friday.

“If it weren’t Friday?” But–but the weekends are supposed to be for fun! And aren’t video games fun? Well, yes, but you see, that’s not the only thing the weekends are for….

All Things Come to an End

I’m writing this Friday night as I wait to leave for Kol Nidre, the start of Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, the final moment before the book is closed for another year. It’s fitting then, I suppose, that I should be reading the last teaching from the second book of the Pirkey Avot tonight. Today, when you read this, two gates will close.

2.21 This was a favorite teaching of his:

Your are not obligated to finish the task,
neither are you free to neglect it.
If you have studied much Torah, your reward will be abundant.
Your Employer can be relied upon to reward you for your labors.
Know, however, that the reward of the righteous is in a future time.

Reading this, I find it beautiful and fitting for the evening, for the day. Last week, Rabbi Tarfon spoke about workers and rewards, as he reiterates here, but what shines to me is not the study of Torah, which I have also spoken about on many occasions, or reliable employers, but how this teaching begins, and how this teaching ends.

Destiny and Rebirth

I’d like to begin by saying Shanah tovah to all my readers! This past Wednesday began Rosh HaShanah, the celebration of the Jewish new year and one of the most important holidays in the Jewish year. The ten days following until Yom Kippur (the Day of Atonement) next Saturday are referred to as the Days of Awe and are a time to seek forgiveness and make amends for the coming year.

Today, however, my focus is still on the Pirkei Avot.

2.20 Rabbi Tarfon taught:

The day is short, the task is great;
the workers indolent, the reward bountiful,
and the Master insistent!

What is this, a piece of poetry? Though I’m apt to adore art, I must wonder what is meant by this, what lesson was intended, what pupils were at his feet when he spoke these words….

On Diligence, Defense, and Duty

Long ago we were introduced to Rabbi Yoḥanan ben Zakkai and his five disciples. Since then we have learned from each of these Rabbis countless things–we’ve learned about community, about perception about prayers and obligations, about goodness and evil. Today, our lessons from these wise men come to an end as we study their final lesson to all us.

2.19 Rabbi Elazar taught:

Be diligent in the study of Torah;
Be armed with knowledge to refute a heretic;
Be aware for Whom you labor and that your Employer can be relied upon to reward your labors.

The interesting thing of all of this is that since I began studying the words of these six Rabbis more than two months ago, I was in a completely difference place in life. Since the semester began, however, I’ve been learning about statistics, world religions, and American politics, and my burgeoning wealth of knowledge in these areas has already changed the way I think and the way I see the world around me. I can almost guarantee that if I were to begin these texts now where I began then, I’d come to different conclusions on each of them. But there is no looking back in my philosophy, only looking forward, and that brings us to where I’d like to begin today.

Hello, I’m Evil

I don’t think I’ve ever done this before, but I’m doing it now: I’m spending two weeks on the same mishneh, the same teaching. I hadn’t thought I’d be able to say so much on it, hadn’t expected it at all, but I got so carried away in my talk of prayers that I left no room for a further discussion on evil and identity. But perhaps that was for the best. Maybe we should keep our prayers away from what’s evil. But just maybe, we’ll see otherwise.

For those who might have missed it, or simply would like to read it again, here is the teaching I’ll be writing from, which is the same as last week’s:

2.18 Rabbi Shimon taught:

Be careful when you recite the Sh’ma and the Amidah.

When reciting the Amidah do not make your prayer a prescribed routine but a plea for mercy and grace before God, as it is said, “For He is gracious and merciful, patient and abounding in love, taking pity on evildoers” (Joel 2:13).

Do not regard yourself as an evil person.

In my first post, I focused primarily on the first two lines of this teaching. Today, I shall focus on the last.