An article about some excellent sites out there to help us learn liturgy (and the author's hopes and plans for one grander than all of these combined):
Niggun Please: Jewish Liturgical Music Database
Sunday, January 31, 2010
903. Ready
This past Shabbat the Israelites finally crossed the Sea of Reeds, as I mentioned a few days ago, and at services the rabbi wondered why God made them take the long way around. Forty years is an awfully long detour. Commentators say it's because God wanted us to learn patience—there's a right time for everything, and we can't rush it. We do what we need to do when we're ready to do it, and must grow in order to get there. God knew the Israelites needed forty years before they'd stop kvetching and be ready for a new life.
I'm in the midst of trying to stop procrastinating about a few big things, and so found the rabbi's words comforting. I really want to do those things, and know I will, but sometimes get angry at myself for taking so long. That doesn't help one bit. I need to take a deep breath, remember to like myself, and concentrate on how good I'll feel when I achieve my goal.
But there will come a point when I need to say, this is it: go. Parashat Beshalah teaches us that lesson, as well:
Our sages point to an interesting fact. The miracle didn't happen until the first person jumped into the water. Why didn't G-d perform the miracle before he jumped in? To teach us that at times G-d waits for us to do our part; to take that leap of faith and then G-d does His part.
— From TorahFax
I'm in the midst of trying to stop procrastinating about a few big things, and so found the rabbi's words comforting. I really want to do those things, and know I will, but sometimes get angry at myself for taking so long. That doesn't help one bit. I need to take a deep breath, remember to like myself, and concentrate on how good I'll feel when I achieve my goal.
But there will come a point when I need to say, this is it: go. Parashat Beshalah teaches us that lesson, as well:
Our sages point to an interesting fact. The miracle didn't happen until the first person jumped into the water. Why didn't G-d perform the miracle before he jumped in? To teach us that at times G-d waits for us to do our part; to take that leap of faith and then G-d does His part.
— From TorahFax
902. Cold January
I walked through Times Square and onto a side street lined with old walkups, trendy Asian restaurants, and some street people with overstuffed shopping bags who looked like costumed extras. A white brick apartment building with a nondescript lobby stood at the end of the block, its lack of character in stark contrast to the garishly lit theaters just a few minutes away. Upstairs the small apartment was packed with loud, laughing people; at first I thought I had the wrong address, and this couldn't possibly be a house of shiva. There were knickknacks from world travels lining the shelves of a big breakfront, and photos of exotic locales on the walls. Even before I met the person who lived here, I could tell that she knew how to have a good life. On the corner of the dining room table sat a photo in a silver frame of a woman with grey, upswept 50s-style hair wearing a smile that at once looked satisfied, patrician, and very kind.
I didn't know the woman who lived here—the knickknack collector and daughter of the smile in the photo—but she recognized me, and we sat down to talk for few minutes before I began the minyan. I lead services occasionally but certainly do not have, or ever pretend to have, the skills of someone in a pastoral role. But although mourners at a minyan know I am not even one ten-thousandth of a rabbi, the fact that I am about to stand in front seems to make me very approachable. I take this inadvertent responsibility seriously; when, right before we begin the service, I ask the son or daughter how she's doing, and the answer comes in waves with silent tears as everyone else is shmoozing and waiting to start, I listen with all my soul for as long as needed. This evening the daughter told me, in the space of just a few minutes, how her mother was "one of the last heroes," a rescued child of the Holocaust who survived even as hundreds of others in the transport did not. How, her family's wealth decimated, her appearance and actions resonated with elegance and refinement even as they struggled in poverty. And how her mother demanded the highest standards from those around her, but always with love and a warm smile. There were no other siblings; the daughter explained that her friends filled this role, and that she wouldn't have survived the ordeal of her mother's illness but for their support. I suddenly thought of myself, and all the losses I experienced at a young age, and realized how fortunate I was to have so many relationships as deep and enduring as the ones this woman described.
There's always time during a shiva minyan to share stories of the deceased, but those friends chose to talk about the daughter instead—how lucky her mother had been to have such a child. Their pride filled the room like sunlight on this freezing January night, helping melt sorrow for a few minutes. The daughter thanked me profusely when it was over, and apologized for being in a hurry—she had to start packing for after shiva ended, when she planned to travel out west and to Europe to heal and continue to live the life of quirky knickknacks and vivid photos that her mother taught her to live.
I didn't know the woman who lived here—the knickknack collector and daughter of the smile in the photo—but she recognized me, and we sat down to talk for few minutes before I began the minyan. I lead services occasionally but certainly do not have, or ever pretend to have, the skills of someone in a pastoral role. But although mourners at a minyan know I am not even one ten-thousandth of a rabbi, the fact that I am about to stand in front seems to make me very approachable. I take this inadvertent responsibility seriously; when, right before we begin the service, I ask the son or daughter how she's doing, and the answer comes in waves with silent tears as everyone else is shmoozing and waiting to start, I listen with all my soul for as long as needed. This evening the daughter told me, in the space of just a few minutes, how her mother was "one of the last heroes," a rescued child of the Holocaust who survived even as hundreds of others in the transport did not. How, her family's wealth decimated, her appearance and actions resonated with elegance and refinement even as they struggled in poverty. And how her mother demanded the highest standards from those around her, but always with love and a warm smile. There were no other siblings; the daughter explained that her friends filled this role, and that she wouldn't have survived the ordeal of her mother's illness but for their support. I suddenly thought of myself, and all the losses I experienced at a young age, and realized how fortunate I was to have so many relationships as deep and enduring as the ones this woman described.
There's always time during a shiva minyan to share stories of the deceased, but those friends chose to talk about the daughter instead—how lucky her mother had been to have such a child. Their pride filled the room like sunlight on this freezing January night, helping melt sorrow for a few minutes. The daughter thanked me profusely when it was over, and apologized for being in a hurry—she had to start packing for after shiva ended, when she planned to travel out west and to Europe to heal and continue to live the life of quirky knickknacks and vivid photos that her mother taught her to live.
901. Trees
This weekend I attended not one, but two Tu Bishvat seders. I'd been to just one underwhelming one before this, where I got very bored discussing the mystical meaning of nuts and berries. It didn't make much more sense to me than drawing pictures of trees when I was in Hebrew school in an attempt to celebrate "Jewish Arbor Day." (I never understood the the American version of Arbor Day, either.) Recent additional rainforest- and global warming-related content only helped me feel guiltier.
This weekend I began to understand. While acknowledging that the holiday was extremely minor compared to others in the Jewish year, the rabbi pointed out how important trees were to our story. They're singled out in the story of creation, and figure prominently in the event that got us banished from Eden; we wouldn't be here (theologically speaking) if not for trees. We call the Torah "the Tree of Life" and, as this beautiful article on the Tel Shemesh site explains, they're a recurring motif in the Psalms.
But I'm a city person. There are little, skinny trees all over the streets of New York, and much bigger ones in the park where I love to run—great green umbrellas that completely disguise the fact that I live in the middle of concrete—and some individual trees have been sources of beauty and comfort in my life. I am angered and distressed at all of us and our governments for killing them slowly, and ourselves in the process. But they are not omnipresent for me; I can go days without seeing a tree. (Unlike one of my college roommates, an ornithologist specializing in birds of the Costa Rican rainforest. She spends months at a time living under the canopy, studying the inhabitants of each level of green.) Trees are on my mind but not so much, I am sad to say, in my heart.
In both seders this weekend we focused on the Kabbalistic tradition of the seder that assigns to each ritual food—all fruits of trees—a contemporary interpretation of the "four worlds" (too complex to sum up in a few words, but basically steps in the path that takes us from intention through the physical world of action, and finally to the highest, holiest state where we can realize our potential). First we eat a nut with a hard shell, to symbolize the barriers we tend to place between our true nature and the face we show the world. Next, a food like the apricot with a hard center surrounded by softness, representing the ability to let down our guard and become vulnerable. And finally we eat figs and raisins, fruits that are naked and whole, a symbol of the most honest selves to which we aspire. We had lots to drink at these seders, too (especially on Friday, accompanied by loud and happy zemirot), white wine at first, with drops of red added throughout the evening until the color in the cup was solid and definite.
So maybe trees and I have a relationship like Judy Collins and clouds:
I've looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down and still somehow
It's cloud's illusions I recall
I really don't know clouds at all
—"Both Sides Now"
But Tu Bishvat this year help me understand the illusion a little better, and become aware of the mirror that trees and their fruit hold up to my own life.
This weekend I began to understand. While acknowledging that the holiday was extremely minor compared to others in the Jewish year, the rabbi pointed out how important trees were to our story. They're singled out in the story of creation, and figure prominently in the event that got us banished from Eden; we wouldn't be here (theologically speaking) if not for trees. We call the Torah "the Tree of Life" and, as this beautiful article on the Tel Shemesh site explains, they're a recurring motif in the Psalms.
But I'm a city person. There are little, skinny trees all over the streets of New York, and much bigger ones in the park where I love to run—great green umbrellas that completely disguise the fact that I live in the middle of concrete—and some individual trees have been sources of beauty and comfort in my life. I am angered and distressed at all of us and our governments for killing them slowly, and ourselves in the process. But they are not omnipresent for me; I can go days without seeing a tree. (Unlike one of my college roommates, an ornithologist specializing in birds of the Costa Rican rainforest. She spends months at a time living under the canopy, studying the inhabitants of each level of green.) Trees are on my mind but not so much, I am sad to say, in my heart.
In both seders this weekend we focused on the Kabbalistic tradition of the seder that assigns to each ritual food—all fruits of trees—a contemporary interpretation of the "four worlds" (too complex to sum up in a few words, but basically steps in the path that takes us from intention through the physical world of action, and finally to the highest, holiest state where we can realize our potential). First we eat a nut with a hard shell, to symbolize the barriers we tend to place between our true nature and the face we show the world. Next, a food like the apricot with a hard center surrounded by softness, representing the ability to let down our guard and become vulnerable. And finally we eat figs and raisins, fruits that are naked and whole, a symbol of the most honest selves to which we aspire. We had lots to drink at these seders, too (especially on Friday, accompanied by loud and happy zemirot), white wine at first, with drops of red added throughout the evening until the color in the cup was solid and definite.
So maybe trees and I have a relationship like Judy Collins and clouds:
I've looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down and still somehow
It's cloud's illusions I recall
I really don't know clouds at all
—"Both Sides Now"
But Tu Bishvat this year help me understand the illusion a little better, and become aware of the mirror that trees and their fruit hold up to my own life.
Friday, January 29, 2010
900. You don't look a day over four
Happy anniversary to me! Wow. When I wrote this first post on January 29, 2005, I never imagined I'd last five years, let alone 900 posts. My life isn't very different than it was back then—still waiting for the guy to call, still trying to pay the bills—but my voice is, in terms of writing as well as chanting. I'm slowing finding the courage to say and sing in new, more honest ways, and the seeds of that confidence began here, with some tentative words and no idea where they'd lead. And with the help of a small but steady bunch of readers who (much to my shock) actually want to hear what I have to say. Thank you, and (assuming the Internet still exists) onward to the next five.
And Shabbat Shalom!
And Shabbat Shalom!
Thursday, January 28, 2010
899. By hand
Oy, things are getting busy again, which is good (in terms of my bank account) and bad (in terms of staying sane). Until I have a few more seconds to write, here's a new kind of Torah for the 21st century—and an interesting interpretation of the mitzvah of participating in the writing of a Torah:
People's Torah
From the site:
"Every Torah has exactly 304,805 Hebrew letters, and it is said that each of these letters corresponds to a soul So, too, People's Torah will have 304,805 Hebrew letters. Each letter will correspond to an individual and be rendered from (and image of) that individual's hand."
People's Torah
From the site:
"Every Torah has exactly 304,805 Hebrew letters, and it is said that each of these letters corresponds to a soul So, too, People's Torah will have 304,805 Hebrew letters. Each letter will correspond to an individual and be rendered from (and image of) that individual's hand."
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
898. Moses
Speaking of Parashat Beshalah, Moses is coming down from the mountain tomorrow.
OK, not really. But according to Business Week, Steve Jobs' wildly anticipated announcement this coming Wednesday of a new kind of tablet computer (tablet, get it?) is prophetic and threatens to change life as we know it. Or something like that:
The Tablet as Totem: Is Steve Jobs Our Moses?
I am the world's biggest iPhone fan, and probably more people will be at the foot of our moden-day Sinai, aka the Internet, than at the original one* to hear this announcement, but I don't think we'll be adding a Sixth Book of Jobs any day soon. (And, despite any phenomenal numbers of tablet sales, the symbolism of the apple in the Torah will still be pretty negative. Sorry, Steve.)
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* That is, without adding in all those other Jews who ever existed or will exist, traditionally also at the mountain that day (a concept that terrified me as a child—even more crowded than the subway at rush hour!).
OK, not really. But according to Business Week, Steve Jobs' wildly anticipated announcement this coming Wednesday of a new kind of tablet computer (tablet, get it?) is prophetic and threatens to change life as we know it. Or something like that:
The Tablet as Totem: Is Steve Jobs Our Moses?
I am the world's biggest iPhone fan, and probably more people will be at the foot of our moden-day Sinai, aka the Internet, than at the original one* to hear this announcement, but I don't think we'll be adding a Sixth Book of Jobs any day soon. (And, despite any phenomenal numbers of tablet sales, the symbolism of the apple in the Torah will still be pretty negative. Sorry, Steve.)
------
* That is, without adding in all those other Jews who ever existed or will exist, traditionally also at the mountain that day (a concept that terrified me as a child—even more crowded than the subway at rush hour!).
897. Freedom
Every Shabbat, at the end of the Torah reading and before the chanting of the haftarah, there's a ritual called hagba (lifting). Someone (preferably someone strong) is given the honor of raising the scroll by its atzei hayim, the poles to which the parchment is attached, and holding it up as high as possible so all members of the congregation can see what's written. If he or she has any energy left (in my synagogue this person is sometimes a woman, of whom I'm in awe; the scroll weighs as much as a small person), she will also turn from side to side so that even those way off to the side can see it. The congregation, in response, lifts the edges of our tallitot to the scroll as we point at it with pinky fingers, a mysterious old tradition (see here).
The best part about hagba, though, is looking at those words. Even if I've just been up at the bima to read them, I'm always amazed by the sight of a whole army of columns waving in the air at perfect attention.
This past Shabbat I looked up at the scroll during the moment of hagba and saw something even better: the future. Next week during Parashat Beshalah we read Shirat Hayam, sung by the Israelites as the waters began to part. Written like bricks in a wall, it's unmistakable amidst the sea of letters in the Sefer Torah:
(From Navigating the Bible.)
Last Shabbat the Israelites were in Egypt. But here was proof, in the wide, unrolled scroll like a flag above our heads, that by next week—each word and person supported by the others—they would find freedom.
The best part about hagba, though, is looking at those words. Even if I've just been up at the bima to read them, I'm always amazed by the sight of a whole army of columns waving in the air at perfect attention.
This past Shabbat I looked up at the scroll during the moment of hagba and saw something even better: the future. Next week during Parashat Beshalah we read Shirat Hayam, sung by the Israelites as the waters began to part. Written like bricks in a wall, it's unmistakable amidst the sea of letters in the Sefer Torah:
Last Shabbat the Israelites were in Egypt. But here was proof, in the wide, unrolled scroll like a flag above our heads, that by next week—each word and person supported by the others—they would find freedom.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
896. Prayer
Here's another interesting link I've been meaning to post since October:
Why Jews Pray
Why does anyone pray? asks Rabbi Ben Greenberg, the author of the article:
"... Prayer is arguably the most fundamental, intimate, and unique element of a life of faith. ... Prayer is the vehicle by which sages of any religion put to words their deepest hopes and visions for all of humanity. "
There is, of course, a rabbinic debate as to why Jews in particular do this:
"... On the one hand, as expressed by Maimonides, praying daily is of fundamental importance. One can speculate a myriad of reasons why this would be so. On the other hand, however, prayer is only necessary when the community is faced with a tremendous difficulty and needs to turn to God and cry out for help in that very moment."
Heschel says it best (from Man in Search of God):
"As a tree is torn from the soil, as a river is separated from its source, the human soul wanes when detached from what is greater than itself. Without the holy, the good turns chaotic; without the good, beauty becomes accidental. ... Unless we aspire to the utmost, we shrink to inferiority. ...
Prayer is our attachment to the utmost."
"These goals are so awesome in scope," concludes Greenberg, "so radical in what they propose, that any adherent to Judaism could easily be left paralyzed into inaction at just pondering the aims of their faith."
I agree—prayer can seem like an overwhelming task. Not even he greatest sages of our tradition could agree on why we do it and Heschel's answer, although brilliant and true, lacks instructions. I think prayer is like Justice Potter Stewart's definition of pornography: you know it when you see it (or feel it in your bones or soul). But how exactly does reciting words over and over change into a connection to something great and undefinable?
The first time I really prayed accompanied a moment of great understanding. I'm not sure what came first, the praying or the opening of the door, but do know that I've had few, if any, grand revelations since then. Yet I'm still able to jump into that stream of prayer, the feeling of touching something like the root of a tree or the reason behind beauty. I've never surfed, but imagine that watching the approach of a wave and then diving in and flying above it must not be all that different from prayer. I leave the shore, the dry sand of ordinary life, and climb up until I reach the crest of something nourishing and endless like water. As with any kind of exertion, I need to warm up first; it's easier when I'm with others who have the same purpose. The familiar sounds of the prayers—not their meaning, but the repetitive rhythm and music of the words—give me energy to swim out to sea.
I pray, I jump into that water not knowing what awaits, because I'm afraid I'll die of thirst without it. Prayer is now essential in my life; I can't imagine feeling safe and at home in the universe without those moments of pause and connection.
Maybe prayer is just mediation, learning how to tune out noise and focus on what's essential. But I think that's God, too—what remains after everything else is gone.
Why Jews Pray
Why does anyone pray? asks Rabbi Ben Greenberg, the author of the article:
"... Prayer is arguably the most fundamental, intimate, and unique element of a life of faith. ... Prayer is the vehicle by which sages of any religion put to words their deepest hopes and visions for all of humanity. "
There is, of course, a rabbinic debate as to why Jews in particular do this:
"... On the one hand, as expressed by Maimonides, praying daily is of fundamental importance. One can speculate a myriad of reasons why this would be so. On the other hand, however, prayer is only necessary when the community is faced with a tremendous difficulty and needs to turn to God and cry out for help in that very moment."
Heschel says it best (from Man in Search of God):
"As a tree is torn from the soil, as a river is separated from its source, the human soul wanes when detached from what is greater than itself. Without the holy, the good turns chaotic; without the good, beauty becomes accidental. ... Unless we aspire to the utmost, we shrink to inferiority. ...
Prayer is our attachment to the utmost."
"These goals are so awesome in scope," concludes Greenberg, "so radical in what they propose, that any adherent to Judaism could easily be left paralyzed into inaction at just pondering the aims of their faith."
I agree—prayer can seem like an overwhelming task. Not even he greatest sages of our tradition could agree on why we do it and Heschel's answer, although brilliant and true, lacks instructions. I think prayer is like Justice Potter Stewart's definition of pornography: you know it when you see it (or feel it in your bones or soul). But how exactly does reciting words over and over change into a connection to something great and undefinable?
The first time I really prayed accompanied a moment of great understanding. I'm not sure what came first, the praying or the opening of the door, but do know that I've had few, if any, grand revelations since then. Yet I'm still able to jump into that stream of prayer, the feeling of touching something like the root of a tree or the reason behind beauty. I've never surfed, but imagine that watching the approach of a wave and then diving in and flying above it must not be all that different from prayer. I leave the shore, the dry sand of ordinary life, and climb up until I reach the crest of something nourishing and endless like water. As with any kind of exertion, I need to warm up first; it's easier when I'm with others who have the same purpose. The familiar sounds of the prayers—not their meaning, but the repetitive rhythm and music of the words—give me energy to swim out to sea.
I pray, I jump into that water not knowing what awaits, because I'm afraid I'll die of thirst without it. Prayer is now essential in my life; I can't imagine feeling safe and at home in the universe without those moments of pause and connection.
Maybe prayer is just mediation, learning how to tune out noise and focus on what's essential. But I think that's God, too—what remains after everything else is gone.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
895. Amazing
I've posted before about how I really love my iPhone. Here's further proof that it's an amazing device (sorry for the commercial at the beginning):
iPhone Saves Life of Man Trapped Under Rubble in Haiti
iPhone Saves Life of Man Trapped Under Rubble in Haiti
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
894. Shalshelet
Three things I have not yet done in the course of my Torah chanting odyssey:
1. Chant the end of a book of the Torah and say "Hazah, hazak." (Just about every other adult who reads Torah at my synagogue has done this! I want to, as well, for no reason other than it would be cool. My timing seems to be lousy.)
2. Learn High Holy Day trope (I have too much stuff keeping me busy on days when one would chant this).
3. Chant a shalshelet, a rare, long, and baroquely ornate trope that appears just four times in the entire Torah. Here's what it sounds like, an entire song unto itself.
There was a shalshelet a few weeks ago in Pararshat Vayeshev, and a very smart friend noticed it was on the same word I chanted the following week, shalshelet-less: vayima'ein, "and he [Yosef, when tempted by the seductive advances of his master's wife] refused." We did some research in The Biggest Book Ever (aka Chanting the Hebrew Bible, by Joshua Jacobson), and learned that the trope name, which means "chain," probably—maybe—alludes to the long, drawn-out, waffling back and forth nature of the refusal. Jacobson's theory is that the purpose of trope is to clarify and support grammar, and secondary meanings are nice to speculate on but never a sure thing, so who knows.
Wikipedia led me to a fascinating paper about the shalshelet that analyzes each usage and ties them into a grand theory of struggle, confusion, and delay:
The Shalshelet: Mark Of Ambivelence
"The shalshelet arouses our attention at these four incidents," writes the author, Moise A. Navon, "which incisively illustrate the archetypal struggles which man must battle within himself."
This is what I love about Jewish learning: that meaning can be found in every detail, letter, sound, and sigh to help us become more self-aware and, in the process, a little better at repairing the world.
1. Chant the end of a book of the Torah and say "Hazah, hazak." (Just about every other adult who reads Torah at my synagogue has done this! I want to, as well, for no reason other than it would be cool. My timing seems to be lousy.)
2. Learn High Holy Day trope (I have too much stuff keeping me busy on days when one would chant this).
3. Chant a shalshelet, a rare, long, and baroquely ornate trope that appears just four times in the entire Torah. Here's what it sounds like, an entire song unto itself.
There was a shalshelet a few weeks ago in Pararshat Vayeshev, and a very smart friend noticed it was on the same word I chanted the following week, shalshelet-less: vayima'ein, "and he [Yosef, when tempted by the seductive advances of his master's wife] refused." We did some research in The Biggest Book Ever (aka Chanting the Hebrew Bible, by Joshua Jacobson), and learned that the trope name, which means "chain," probably—maybe—alludes to the long, drawn-out, waffling back and forth nature of the refusal. Jacobson's theory is that the purpose of trope is to clarify and support grammar, and secondary meanings are nice to speculate on but never a sure thing, so who knows.
Wikipedia led me to a fascinating paper about the shalshelet that analyzes each usage and ties them into a grand theory of struggle, confusion, and delay:
The Shalshelet: Mark Of Ambivelence
"The shalshelet arouses our attention at these four incidents," writes the author, Moise A. Navon, "which incisively illustrate the archetypal struggles which man must battle within himself."
This is what I love about Jewish learning: that meaning can be found in every detail, letter, sound, and sigh to help us become more self-aware and, in the process, a little better at repairing the world.
893. Antisocial Media
So I've apparently been banned from Facebook. I've been a member for a few years, visit once or twice a week to see what friends are up to or track down someone from elementary school, maybe post a line about my state of mind. That's it. I neither play online games nor promote my business. I'm the most benign Facebook user ever.
Last week I got what looked like a suspicious email about the status of my account. I decided to change my password in response. Next time I logged in, I was informed that I'd been "disabled," the fate of those who violate Facebook's terms of service and post offensive material, spam other users, etc. All traces of me have now disappeared from Facebook—old messages, photos, you name it. It's as if I never existed. Repeated emails to Facebook elicited no response until I tried to contact them from an address other than my usual one. Then I got an automated reply: we'll get back to you.
Call me a pessimist, but I don't think they will.
Seems I'm not the only one enmeshed in this Kafka-esque scenario. I've found hundreds of similar complaints online, many posted just this month. Some suggested that friends write to Facebook on the banned person's behalf; I tried this, and my friends got emails back asking me write directly. (Gee, I never thought of that!) A few complaints were from columnists, people with known names; their accounts were restored within a few days, along with apologies from real human beings. I guess the rest of us don't count.
Facebook is fun, and has enhanced that quality of my life; I'll miss it, but can certainly live without it. Hey, it's free—what should I expect? Sure, my presence puts ad revenue in Facebook's pocket, but they don't owe me anything personally, right?
But they do. Facebook attracts users by creating community, something we all crave; by alienating and ignoring a member of that community, they are failing miserably on both a business and ethical level. An organization (or a state, social group, synagogue, church) must be judged by the way they treat their weakest members. Hire more customer service people to deal with complaints (Mr. Zuckerberg, you can certainly afford it), or issue a public statement about why accounts are disabled in error, and how to rectify the problem. (Hint: sending out an automated reply and never following up is not the answer.) They demand responsible users; they must be a responsible service provider in return. This isn't a new concept, and Rabbi Hillel said it best: "Do not unto others that which is hateful unto you." Facebook seems to be forgetting that the Internet is small enough that such lack of respect is noticed, and big enough to make room for the next big thing to take their place.
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UPDATE (hours after posting the above): Kvetching to the universe seems to have created some good karma. As mysteriously as they turned me into a non-person, Facebook just informed me (via a form letter, of course) that my account was restored. I'm happy to see it back, but will remain forever wary of investing too much of myself there or on any other social media platform that grows too big, too fast. It's community with a big asterisk.
Last week I got what looked like a suspicious email about the status of my account. I decided to change my password in response. Next time I logged in, I was informed that I'd been "disabled," the fate of those who violate Facebook's terms of service and post offensive material, spam other users, etc. All traces of me have now disappeared from Facebook—old messages, photos, you name it. It's as if I never existed. Repeated emails to Facebook elicited no response until I tried to contact them from an address other than my usual one. Then I got an automated reply: we'll get back to you.
Call me a pessimist, but I don't think they will.
Seems I'm not the only one enmeshed in this Kafka-esque scenario. I've found hundreds of similar complaints online, many posted just this month. Some suggested that friends write to Facebook on the banned person's behalf; I tried this, and my friends got emails back asking me write directly. (Gee, I never thought of that!) A few complaints were from columnists, people with known names; their accounts were restored within a few days, along with apologies from real human beings. I guess the rest of us don't count.
Facebook is fun, and has enhanced that quality of my life; I'll miss it, but can certainly live without it. Hey, it's free—what should I expect? Sure, my presence puts ad revenue in Facebook's pocket, but they don't owe me anything personally, right?
But they do. Facebook attracts users by creating community, something we all crave; by alienating and ignoring a member of that community, they are failing miserably on both a business and ethical level. An organization (or a state, social group, synagogue, church) must be judged by the way they treat their weakest members. Hire more customer service people to deal with complaints (Mr. Zuckerberg, you can certainly afford it), or issue a public statement about why accounts are disabled in error, and how to rectify the problem. (Hint: sending out an automated reply and never following up is not the answer.) They demand responsible users; they must be a responsible service provider in return. This isn't a new concept, and Rabbi Hillel said it best: "Do not unto others that which is hateful unto you." Facebook seems to be forgetting that the Internet is small enough that such lack of respect is noticed, and big enough to make room for the next big thing to take their place.
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UPDATE (hours after posting the above): Kvetching to the universe seems to have created some good karma. As mysteriously as they turned me into a non-person, Facebook just informed me (via a form letter, of course) that my account was restored. I'm happy to see it back, but will remain forever wary of investing too much of myself there or on any other social media platform that grows too big, too fast. It's community with a big asterisk.
Monday, January 18, 2010
892. Status
This essay in Haaretz caught my eye:
Why rabbis sin
The author writes, in part:
" ... Across the Jewish world, one scandal followed another: corrupt and criminal activity among kosher slaughterers and kashrut supervisors, drug smuggling, theft and other illegal financial practices, racial discrimination, sexual abuse, some rabbis recorded demanding sex for conversions and others taking drugs and employing prostitutes. One after another, the headlines have reiterated a sad litany of corruption among Orthodox Jews, in many cases among their rabbinical leaders.
None of this is new ... I am tired of making excuses. Once I would argue that 2,000 years of oppression, hatred and exclusion had taught the Jews to do whatever they needed to survive. Or, I would note that much of Orthodox Jewry nowadays is barely a generation removed from life in an Eastern Europe where the state was an enemy and everyone had to break the rules in order to evade the discriminatory regimes. ... It may be true that every religion has a similar problem, but that's no excuse. I don't deny the goodness, charity and spirituality that do exist within Orthodoxy, but I am concerned about so many who let the side down, and an automatic tendency of authority to blame the messenger.
All closed groups behave this way, not only Orthodox Jews ..."
Yes. I read the article thinking not of Orthodoxy, his focus, but many aspects of the Jewish world at large. It doesn't matter how we choose to pray or observe; once we start to feel comfortable with our status—whether at the top of the heap, or righteously oppressed—we run the risk of becoming complacent, no longer fighting to change our own lives but rather trying to change everyone else's to fit neatly into ours. Life is one big Catch-22. You finally get where you want to be and discover that you're someone else, often someone not very nice, once you're there.
Why rabbis sin
The author writes, in part:
" ... Across the Jewish world, one scandal followed another: corrupt and criminal activity among kosher slaughterers and kashrut supervisors, drug smuggling, theft and other illegal financial practices, racial discrimination, sexual abuse, some rabbis recorded demanding sex for conversions and others taking drugs and employing prostitutes. One after another, the headlines have reiterated a sad litany of corruption among Orthodox Jews, in many cases among their rabbinical leaders.
None of this is new ... I am tired of making excuses. Once I would argue that 2,000 years of oppression, hatred and exclusion had taught the Jews to do whatever they needed to survive. Or, I would note that much of Orthodox Jewry nowadays is barely a generation removed from life in an Eastern Europe where the state was an enemy and everyone had to break the rules in order to evade the discriminatory regimes. ... It may be true that every religion has a similar problem, but that's no excuse. I don't deny the goodness, charity and spirituality that do exist within Orthodoxy, but I am concerned about so many who let the side down, and an automatic tendency of authority to blame the messenger.
All closed groups behave this way, not only Orthodox Jews ..."
Yes. I read the article thinking not of Orthodoxy, his focus, but many aspects of the Jewish world at large. It doesn't matter how we choose to pray or observe; once we start to feel comfortable with our status—whether at the top of the heap, or righteously oppressed—we run the risk of becoming complacent, no longer fighting to change our own lives but rather trying to change everyone else's to fit neatly into ours. Life is one big Catch-22. You finally get where you want to be and discover that you're someone else, often someone not very nice, once you're there.
891. Guilt
I had a horrible dream last night that I completely forgot about the second day of Rosh Hashanah. (But I had an excuse; it fell on Martin Luther King Day—it was REALLY early—and I assumed, in perfect dream-logic, that there could only one holiday a time.) As soon as I realized the truth, I ran around in a panic, yelling and screaming—who led the service? Would I be banished from the congregation? How could I ever atone?
I was enormously relieved to wake up and remember that today was only one holiday. I had been writing about guilt before I went to sleep, probably the reason for the dream, and also thinking about another al chet to add to the list come September. That visiting couple at the end of my row this Shabbat, the ones who were shocked by the appearance of the gospel choir, were also very annoying. They didn't say hello when I sat down (then again, neither did I, because I was annoyed they were sitting in MY part of the pew.) The man, clearly Jewishly knowledgeable, was unfamiliar with our siddur and tunes and spent much of the service flipping pages in grumbling confusion. When he did recognize something, however, he sang it really loud and fast, usually winning the race with the cantor and getting to the end first. I wanted to believe his zeal was spiritual, but could not help but imagine that he was trying to demonstrate, by mumbling at the highest possible decibel, how it really should be done. This man I didn't know from Adam, with his repeated, intrusive bursts of phrase fragments, started to represent all the reasons why I stayed away from Judaism for so many years. I began to hate his apparent closed-minded, self-congratulatory triumphalism—and then hate myself even more (al chet) for judging a complete stranger, on Shabbat no less. (Not just judging; making up an entire life story, complete with conflict, failure and ill-gotten gains.)
So I took many deep breaths and tried to grab onto some wisps of gemilut hasadim amidst the bad singing aimed at my left ear. I calmed down. And when I came back to my seat after chanting Torah, the man had a big smile on his face and held out his hand: "Yasher koah!" I realized that he looked just like most of my elderly relatives, who were pretty nice people beneath all the kvetching.
I was enormously relieved to wake up and remember that today was only one holiday. I had been writing about guilt before I went to sleep, probably the reason for the dream, and also thinking about another al chet to add to the list come September. That visiting couple at the end of my row this Shabbat, the ones who were shocked by the appearance of the gospel choir, were also very annoying. They didn't say hello when I sat down (then again, neither did I, because I was annoyed they were sitting in MY part of the pew.) The man, clearly Jewishly knowledgeable, was unfamiliar with our siddur and tunes and spent much of the service flipping pages in grumbling confusion. When he did recognize something, however, he sang it really loud and fast, usually winning the race with the cantor and getting to the end first. I wanted to believe his zeal was spiritual, but could not help but imagine that he was trying to demonstrate, by mumbling at the highest possible decibel, how it really should be done. This man I didn't know from Adam, with his repeated, intrusive bursts of phrase fragments, started to represent all the reasons why I stayed away from Judaism for so many years. I began to hate his apparent closed-minded, self-congratulatory triumphalism—and then hate myself even more (al chet) for judging a complete stranger, on Shabbat no less. (Not just judging; making up an entire life story, complete with conflict, failure and ill-gotten gains.)
So I took many deep breaths and tried to grab onto some wisps of gemilut hasadim amidst the bad singing aimed at my left ear. I calmed down. And when I came back to my seat after chanting Torah, the man had a big smile on his face and held out his hand: "Yasher koah!" I realized that he looked just like most of my elderly relatives, who were pretty nice people beneath all the kvetching.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
890. Chromosomes
Thanks to my daily Google alert for the word "Judaism," here's a great blog post by an open-minded Orthodox rabbi (I don't mean to imply that these terms are oymorons, but sometimes they are, unfortunately) about the tendency of Judaism to look to the Matriarchs as role models for women, and the Patriarchs for men. But we all need to learn from all of these figures, no matter our respective genders:
The Sexing of Judaism's Founders
An excerpt:
" ... I am still disturbed by the implicit suggestion that Avraham, Yitzchak and Yaakov belong on one side of the mechitzah, and Sarah, Rivkah, Rachel and Leah are property of the women’s section. Do we really want to teach our children to emulate only those biblical figures who share their chromosomes? And where does that dichotomy leave people of more vague sexual identity?"
The Sexing of Judaism's Founders
An excerpt:
" ... I am still disturbed by the implicit suggestion that Avraham, Yitzchak and Yaakov belong on one side of the mechitzah, and Sarah, Rivkah, Rachel and Leah are property of the women’s section. Do we really want to teach our children to emulate only those biblical figures who share their chromosomes? And where does that dichotomy leave people of more vague sexual identity?"
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