Stop me if you've heard this one:
Two dudes and a lady are walking along a river bank when they look down at the water and notice something peculiar: there are babies floating downstream. Like, actual babies. All three of them run into the river and start plucking the babies out of the water and placing the little tykes on dry land. All of a sudden, the lady stops mid-pluck, turns to the two dudes and tells them to keep fishing the babies out of the water while she goes upstream to find out how the babies are getting put in the river in the first place.
I don't know about you, but I've heard this story told in a million ways, sited from multiple faith-based traditions, all over the country, during professional conferences and during volunteer events, while eating bacon and while not eating bacon, by day and by night, on a plane and on a...uh, well...you get my point. And what is pivotal about this story is not the part about the babies floating down the river. What is compelling about this story is its ability to so clearly identify the roles that the acts of both service and education play as vehicles to achieving justice.
Let me explain myself. As a professional working in the field of service learning, I'm often asked to clarify the difference between service learning and social justice. Out in the universe of Bad Jewry there are various differing opinions on this particular topic. It's been told to me that social justice is really the "cure" for the world's ailments while service learning is "merely" a method to meeting immediate community needs. UMMMM...ok. So let me get this straight: service learning is a band aid and social justice is the only authentic way to achieve tikkun olam, a repaired world? I'm sure I'm not interpreting that correctly. I must be hearing this wrong. Are my ears still clogged from when I was taking those babies out of the river?
Speaking of the story of the babies in the river, I see this excellent anecdote as a prime example of the intersection of social justice and service learning. Both involve education and action. Both impact the community in order to affect systemic change. Both feed the hungry and clothe the homeless. Both stop social injustices at their roots because we are educating ourselves and others AND we are also serving urgent, immediate needs.
To create social justice, to repair our broken world, to right the egregious societal wrongs at which we Bad Jews hurl our super powers, we don't have time for semantics, my friends. Global warming is endangering our planet, our public school system continues to crumble before our very eyes, citizens of our country are being denied equal rights...and we're having a battle of righteousness? Like I said, I must be misinterpreting this.
My humble, yet loud, opinion has me shouting at the top of my lungs that service learning and social justice are equal players on the Bad Jew Scene. To put it simply, I choose to see Service Learning as my method, as my costume with the colorful spandex leotard and shiny black boots, and Social Justice as my mission, as the logo emblazoned across my chest. And I'm pretty sure our costumes are all manufactured at the same place, my fellow Bad Jews. At that place deep within each of our souls that burns with tradition and tzedek, Justice.
We learn in Pirkei Avot 2:21 from the wise Rabbi Tarfon that it's not up to us to finish the task, but neither are we allowed to desist from the task. So being that each and every one of us is right here, reading this blog post, thinking about what we must do next to fulfill our Jewish destinies as citizens of the world united through the fuel of passion and chutzpah to make the world Just, let's agree to drop the semantics and get back out there (talk about a serious Justice League, huh?). Service learning, social justice - interpret them how you may: volunteering at a homeless shelter, voting on November 2nd, community organizing to empower those who have no voice, raising money for cancer research, raising awareness about gay rights, and so on, and so on. It doesn't matter as long as you DO IT. It doesn't matter as long as you TEACH OTHERS TO DO IT.
So where does our reflection lie this time around, my fellow Bad Jews? It's right here, deep in the heart of what feels authentic to you: How do you live your Jewish values - is service "just service" or is it "Just Service?"
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Thursday, August 19, 2010
The Batman Complex: aka The Bad Jew Origin Story
When last we met, my fellow Bad Jews, the summer had just begun. And so had my freak-out. Ok, fine. It wasn't like a long, drawn-out, bender of a freak-out that lasted throughout the summer. But it was a freak-out, nonetheless. And it began with a request from some dear friends: Would I open the ark at their daughter's Bat Mitzvah?
Uhhh...say what, now?
Growing up as a member of a Conservative, non-egalitarian synagogue in New Jersey I was not taught to read Torah. I was not allowed to wear a tallis and I was certainly not allowed to be called to the Torah. And now, a million years later (ok, fine - more like 23 years later), I'm being asked to do this truly incredible honor for friends whom I love. My gut reaction? Terror. Fear. FREAK. OUT. And to whom of all people did I run with this dilemma? My friend, The Rabbi.
After some much-needed therapeutic word vomiting and coaching, I acknowledged that my fear of All Things Torah comes from a very deep place in my psyche. I realized my feelings of unease were coming from a place with a clubhouse door wrapped in yellow caution tape stamped with the words, "No Girls Allowed." I felt separate and my mind immediately drifted to these wise words from Pirkei Avot: "Do not separate yourself from the community..."(2:4). Usually, this opening line leads to a few more pearls from Rabbi Hillel that I use when teaching about the Jewish obligation to truly belong to one's community. Yet this time these same words took an entirely different twist. What if it was not YOU who separated yourself from the community, but instead someone else took care of that for you? Someone decided, before you ever had the capacity or maturity to decide for yourself, that you were separate and not equal. And before you even recognized there was a choice for you to make, you became fragmented. And what if this fragmentation caused you to live a life that was not really true for you? Or maybe part of it was true but part of it was a mask. And what if it lead you to a life of fighting crime? And wearing a latex costume with lots of gadgets? Uh, wait a minute. That's Batman, not the Bad Jew. Or is it?
My newfound understanding that this well-intentioned spiritual leader was just doing his job by living and teaching according to the the Jewish tradition which he had been taught helped shed light on my anger, resentment, and fear. It also gave me tremendous insight into why Torah has been my Archnemisis since before I can even remember: Because it never really belonged to me. It has been something outside of my reach; something only accessible to me through others and never directly. And that, my friends, is my origin story.
Like Bruce Wayne, who felt compelled to spend his life eradicating bad guys (and has a much more tragic origin story), I feel compelled to spend my life eradicating social injustices that litter our community. This has become my all-access pass to Jewish practice.
This is My Torah.
But unlike Bruce Wayne, who hides behind the facade of his playboy, rich kid lifestyle, all the while knowing his true self is the "Caped Crusader," I'm taking off the mask. My alter-ego and my present self have merged. They are not fragmented and I no longer hide who I really am. For too long I hid behind the mask of a Good Jew. A Good Jew who goes to shul, keeps kosher, and knows how daven with the best of 'em. But really, I'm not any of those things. No matter how many times I think about learning to read Torah or checking out the latest independent minyan, it comes down to this: I don't want to. There. I said it. Maybe it's because I'm not ready to change. Maybe I don't believe that I can. Maybe the mechitza that separates me from traditional Jewish practice is made of this really powerful, invisible force field like the material used to make Wonder Woman's Invisible Plane. This Bad Jew is a world-saving, rabbi-loving, Jewish-educating, bacon-eating lady. And it's really not about having my pork shoulder and eating it, too. It's about accepting the story that is mine. It's about finding My Torah.
Are you ready, my fellow Bad Jews? It's time to settle up and ask yourself this: What's your origin story and, more importantly, what's Your Torah?
Uhhh...say what, now?
Growing up as a member of a Conservative, non-egalitarian synagogue in New Jersey I was not taught to read Torah. I was not allowed to wear a tallis and I was certainly not allowed to be called to the Torah. And now, a million years later (ok, fine - more like 23 years later), I'm being asked to do this truly incredible honor for friends whom I love. My gut reaction? Terror. Fear. FREAK. OUT. And to whom of all people did I run with this dilemma? My friend, The Rabbi.
After some much-needed therapeutic word vomiting and coaching, I acknowledged that my fear of All Things Torah comes from a very deep place in my psyche. I realized my feelings of unease were coming from a place with a clubhouse door wrapped in yellow caution tape stamped with the words, "No Girls Allowed." I felt separate and my mind immediately drifted to these wise words from Pirkei Avot: "Do not separate yourself from the community..."(2:4). Usually, this opening line leads to a few more pearls from Rabbi Hillel that I use when teaching about the Jewish obligation to truly belong to one's community. Yet this time these same words took an entirely different twist. What if it was not YOU who separated yourself from the community, but instead someone else took care of that for you? Someone decided, before you ever had the capacity or maturity to decide for yourself, that you were separate and not equal. And before you even recognized there was a choice for you to make, you became fragmented. And what if this fragmentation caused you to live a life that was not really true for you? Or maybe part of it was true but part of it was a mask. And what if it lead you to a life of fighting crime? And wearing a latex costume with lots of gadgets? Uh, wait a minute. That's Batman, not the Bad Jew. Or is it?
My newfound understanding that this well-intentioned spiritual leader was just doing his job by living and teaching according to the the Jewish tradition which he had been taught helped shed light on my anger, resentment, and fear. It also gave me tremendous insight into why Torah has been my Archnemisis since before I can even remember: Because it never really belonged to me. It has been something outside of my reach; something only accessible to me through others and never directly. And that, my friends, is my origin story.
Like Bruce Wayne, who felt compelled to spend his life eradicating bad guys (and has a much more tragic origin story), I feel compelled to spend my life eradicating social injustices that litter our community. This has become my all-access pass to Jewish practice.
This is My Torah.
But unlike Bruce Wayne, who hides behind the facade of his playboy, rich kid lifestyle, all the while knowing his true self is the "Caped Crusader," I'm taking off the mask. My alter-ego and my present self have merged. They are not fragmented and I no longer hide who I really am. For too long I hid behind the mask of a Good Jew. A Good Jew who goes to shul, keeps kosher, and knows how daven with the best of 'em. But really, I'm not any of those things. No matter how many times I think about learning to read Torah or checking out the latest independent minyan, it comes down to this: I don't want to. There. I said it. Maybe it's because I'm not ready to change. Maybe I don't believe that I can. Maybe the mechitza that separates me from traditional Jewish practice is made of this really powerful, invisible force field like the material used to make Wonder Woman's Invisible Plane. This Bad Jew is a world-saving, rabbi-loving, Jewish-educating, bacon-eating lady. And it's really not about having my pork shoulder and eating it, too. It's about accepting the story that is mine. It's about finding My Torah.
Are you ready, my fellow Bad Jews? It's time to settle up and ask yourself this: What's your origin story and, more importantly, what's Your Torah?
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
No Place Like Home
I was born and raised in New Jersey. Just like Bruce Springsteen and Jon Bon Jovi. That's where I learned to ride a bike, spent humid summers playing kickball, and built snow forts every winter with my sister and brother in our yard. But the place where I was born and raised is quite different from the place where I'm from. I'm from here. From Northern California. Where the winter rains are having some difficulty receding this year, but when they do the brilliant spring sun shines and warms the earth. Where the wonderfully cool fog continues to have its way with us, spreading itself out like a cozy blanket over the tops of apartment buildings and street lamps on the streets of San Francisco.
Yes, this is definitely where I'm from.
It's already been 2 months since Passover and I'm having trouble letting it go. But then again, why should I let it go? This most famous tale in Jewish history (I mean, c'mon, there's a movie) is resplendent with reminders of social injustices that are still relevant today; for sure a story that calls Bad Jews everywhere to spring into action. Yet my reason for clinging to Passover is surprisingly not the incredulous truth that slavery and genocide still exist today. Or that people living in my own neighborhood are being denied the basic human rights of shelter or food. What I'm thinking about still is this: What does it mean to be home?
Did the Jews who left Egypt no longer say they were FROM Egypt? Were they FROM the desert? After settling in Israel did the Jews who visited Egypt say they were going "home" to visit the fam for a few weeks of vacay? Even though my identity as a resident is here in Northern California, does it mean that my New Jersey roots have been gutted from my soul? No way. You can take the girl away from The Boss but you can't...well, you get my point.
So, here's my latest question for you, my fellow Bad Jews: How do you identify your place of belonging?
Not so simple a question to answer. Is it where you were born and spent your summers? Or is it where your heart always knew you belonged? We move around for so many reasons. Some of us move for new jobs, for true love, for a more affordable cost of living. Some move because we want to belong to a community that needs what we have to offer or because we want to learn another culture.
For some, it's like love at first sight: we know it when we see it and we feel it immediately. For others it's the comfort and familiarity of family that draw us to the place we call home. This "calling" and our calling to save the world are very much tied together, leading me to the Part Two of my question, which is: Where do we begin?
I am constantly struggling with how to translate global issues into local issues - I have to save the world by starting in my own backyard. With this comes the humbling admission that I don't know enough about what my own community needs. Is there hunger here? Yes. Is there homelessness here? Yes. And here's my dirty secret, which is now clearly no longer a secret: it's actually scarier to tackle local community issues than it is to take on the injustices of the world at-large. Because they are here. And they're in my face, staring at me every day and challenging me to change them. What if I can't change them? What if I suck at it? But that's just me.
San Francisco is my home and there are a million reasons I can name for why this is. But just like I carry the shared history of Passover within my soul every day, I also carry kickball games in humid summers and Jon Bon Jovi's shaggy mane. And I can choose to make changes here, there, or even farther away. And moreover, sometimes taking a reflective moment to remember who I am and where I'm at can make all the difference in the differences that I decide to make in the world.
As REM so eloquently put it, "stand in the place where you live." Seriously, my fellow Bad Jews, do it. Stand. And breathe. Think about where you are, where you come from, and where you're going.
Now get back to it, even if you decide to change your game plan.
Yes, this is definitely where I'm from.
It's already been 2 months since Passover and I'm having trouble letting it go. But then again, why should I let it go? This most famous tale in Jewish history (I mean, c'mon, there's a movie) is resplendent with reminders of social injustices that are still relevant today; for sure a story that calls Bad Jews everywhere to spring into action. Yet my reason for clinging to Passover is surprisingly not the incredulous truth that slavery and genocide still exist today. Or that people living in my own neighborhood are being denied the basic human rights of shelter or food. What I'm thinking about still is this: What does it mean to be home?
Did the Jews who left Egypt no longer say they were FROM Egypt? Were they FROM the desert? After settling in Israel did the Jews who visited Egypt say they were going "home" to visit the fam for a few weeks of vacay? Even though my identity as a resident is here in Northern California, does it mean that my New Jersey roots have been gutted from my soul? No way. You can take the girl away from The Boss but you can't...well, you get my point.
So, here's my latest question for you, my fellow Bad Jews: How do you identify your place of belonging?
Not so simple a question to answer. Is it where you were born and spent your summers? Or is it where your heart always knew you belonged? We move around for so many reasons. Some of us move for new jobs, for true love, for a more affordable cost of living. Some move because we want to belong to a community that needs what we have to offer or because we want to learn another culture.
For some, it's like love at first sight: we know it when we see it and we feel it immediately. For others it's the comfort and familiarity of family that draw us to the place we call home. This "calling" and our calling to save the world are very much tied together, leading me to the Part Two of my question, which is: Where do we begin?
I am constantly struggling with how to translate global issues into local issues - I have to save the world by starting in my own backyard. With this comes the humbling admission that I don't know enough about what my own community needs. Is there hunger here? Yes. Is there homelessness here? Yes. And here's my dirty secret, which is now clearly no longer a secret: it's actually scarier to tackle local community issues than it is to take on the injustices of the world at-large. Because they are here. And they're in my face, staring at me every day and challenging me to change them. What if I can't change them? What if I suck at it? But that's just me.
San Francisco is my home and there are a million reasons I can name for why this is. But just like I carry the shared history of Passover within my soul every day, I also carry kickball games in humid summers and Jon Bon Jovi's shaggy mane. And I can choose to make changes here, there, or even farther away. And moreover, sometimes taking a reflective moment to remember who I am and where I'm at can make all the difference in the differences that I decide to make in the world.
As REM so eloquently put it, "stand in the place where you live." Seriously, my fellow Bad Jews, do it. Stand. And breathe. Think about where you are, where you come from, and where you're going.
Now get back to it, even if you decide to change your game plan.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Repairing Myself
I find myself drawn to my kitchen floor. The cool, smooth, linoleum floor in the kitchen of my apartment. When my day is crashing down on me; when I just can't breathe anymore; when I've forgotten how to take care of myself: this is when I'm drawn to my calming kitchen floor. I'm not sure if it's the immediate change of altitude or the forced change in perspective that enables me to slow down when I sit on my kitchen floor, but there is something about that space that gives me the room I need to breathe. Sitting there, leaning against the dark brown cabinets, staring at my nieces' artwork stuck to the refrigerator with big, bold magnets, I somehow find the room I need to remember to be present with myself.
I must confess to you this, my fellow Bad Jews: I am sad. I'm sad for many reasons but in this moment in time I am sad because I am not listening to my kitchen floor. It's been calling to me; telling me to slow down and listen to my sadness. Telling me it's ok to be broken because being broken makes space for healing. But wait...there's no time for this! I have to save the world. Which brings me to my next question for all of us Bad Jews out there: How can we repair the world if we don't repair ourselves?
Jewish tradition teaches us it is our responsibility to leave the world a better place than how we found it. The world is a gift which was was created by God and given to us. And because this gift's origins are holy, given to us by a higher power, whether we believe in GOD, or G-d, or god, it deserves some respect. Some tender loving kindness. Well, if my memory serves me correctly, I'm pretty sure that somewhere in the book of Bereishit (Genesis) humankind is created by this same spiritual power. So, if we choose to view the world as a holy place, I believe each individual person can see her/himself as a holy place. And as such, we should hold ourselves accountable for healing our own bodies and minds in addition to the world at-large.
Perhaps another way to spin it is the idea that we are each made in the image of God. Now the concept of being made in the image of God is in itself another blog for another day. However, let me get to my point: a recent study session with a rabbi friend reminded me that God is sometimes referred to as "HaMakom" or "The Place." If God, who is holy, is a place and individual people made in God's likeness are each a place, then we can make the assumption that we ourselves are holy places. Yes? Still with me? So why not prioritize healing the place that is closest to me, which is ME, so that I can better heal the places that exist outside of ME.
While I have never considered myself to have a strong connection to God (I mean, you know, G-O-D) my recent act of ignoring my kitchen floor and rushing out to heal the world has me feeling anything but holy. As a matter of fact, it has me feeling quite the opposite. And as a Bad Jew taking on the awesome responsibility of saving the world, I'm realizing I need to save myself, too. I need to get back to my place of spirituality, whether that's on my kitchen floor or inside my own body, to do some healing so that I am strong enough and able to heal the world.
As practicing Bad Jews we are often consumed with a burning passion to heal the world outside of ourselves. At this very moment, you're most likely reading this and wondering when I'm going to finish up my thoughts so that you can head back out there. Don't worry, I'm almost done. But first I want to challenge your Jewish practice. Stop what you're doing. Right now.
And ask yourself this: What are you doing to repair yourself? Think long and hard before you answer that question. Now ask yourself again.
I must confess to you this, my fellow Bad Jews: I am sad. I'm sad for many reasons but in this moment in time I am sad because I am not listening to my kitchen floor. It's been calling to me; telling me to slow down and listen to my sadness. Telling me it's ok to be broken because being broken makes space for healing. But wait...there's no time for this! I have to save the world. Which brings me to my next question for all of us Bad Jews out there: How can we repair the world if we don't repair ourselves?
Jewish tradition teaches us it is our responsibility to leave the world a better place than how we found it. The world is a gift which was was created by God and given to us. And because this gift's origins are holy, given to us by a higher power, whether we believe in GOD, or G-d, or god, it deserves some respect. Some tender loving kindness. Well, if my memory serves me correctly, I'm pretty sure that somewhere in the book of Bereishit (Genesis) humankind is created by this same spiritual power. So, if we choose to view the world as a holy place, I believe each individual person can see her/himself as a holy place. And as such, we should hold ourselves accountable for healing our own bodies and minds in addition to the world at-large.
Perhaps another way to spin it is the idea that we are each made in the image of God. Now the concept of being made in the image of God is in itself another blog for another day. However, let me get to my point: a recent study session with a rabbi friend reminded me that God is sometimes referred to as "HaMakom" or "The Place." If God, who is holy, is a place and individual people made in God's likeness are each a place, then we can make the assumption that we ourselves are holy places. Yes? Still with me? So why not prioritize healing the place that is closest to me, which is ME, so that I can better heal the places that exist outside of ME.
While I have never considered myself to have a strong connection to God (I mean, you know, G-O-D) my recent act of ignoring my kitchen floor and rushing out to heal the world has me feeling anything but holy. As a matter of fact, it has me feeling quite the opposite. And as a Bad Jew taking on the awesome responsibility of saving the world, I'm realizing I need to save myself, too. I need to get back to my place of spirituality, whether that's on my kitchen floor or inside my own body, to do some healing so that I am strong enough and able to heal the world.
As practicing Bad Jews we are often consumed with a burning passion to heal the world outside of ourselves. At this very moment, you're most likely reading this and wondering when I'm going to finish up my thoughts so that you can head back out there. Don't worry, I'm almost done. But first I want to challenge your Jewish practice. Stop what you're doing. Right now.
And ask yourself this: What are you doing to repair yourself? Think long and hard before you answer that question. Now ask yourself again.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Wrestle Me This
Jewish Wrestling isn't the sport you might think it is. There are no spandex unitards or funny costumes and gimmicks. The matches aren't rigged and there is never a clear winner. Although the tradition of Jewish Wrestling traces all the way back to Jacob and his physical struggle with an aggressive angel, the wrestling we do today is a match of logic and reason. It's the cerebral wrestling we do with Jewish concepts and ethics; with the code prescribed by the Torah and the great thinkers who had plenty to say about this code. My fellow Bad Jews, this is a seriously Bad Ass sport. And the coolest thing about it? Anyone can compete.
As a Bad Jew committed to service, there's an ongoing wrestling match to which I find myself constantly drawn. It's a match that addresses a critical question about service: Who is service for? On one hand I hear your collective sigh of "No Duh." Service is for the recipient, for those in need. Yet my other hand is grasping firmly to another opinion. This is an opinion that includes the concept of reciprocity as an integral element of high quality, effective service learning. Learning, being the key word here, as a tool that helps those of us providers of service understand root causes of social injustices and Jewish traditions that call us to service in the first place. In other words, the link between Jewish identity and the fulfillment of civic responsibility.
I was struck by a quote in a December editorial in the Jewish Daily Forward that cited, “Service has to be about making change in communities, not about making changes in me,” noted David Rosenn, executive director of Avodah, another well-regarded service program. “The last thing we want the Jewish community to do is use communities in distress as a vehicle to build identity.” (http://www.forward.com/articles/120018/)
What I'm wrestling with here is the "shame on you" implication that service should not be used to transform ourselves, but only communities that need help. Aren't our own passions, education, and commitment to making social change the vehicles driving us to provide service and make changes in our communities? Don't these three important factors come from a place deeply rooted in our identities? I mean, maybe what I'm really saying is I don't believe in true altruism; that there is always something to be gained by the provider of service. Whether it's the feeling that we belong to something bigger than ourselves, a sense of civic responsibility, or the learning about a new culture or community's way of life, these "side effects" are what foster a sustained commitment to leaving the world a better place than how we received it. Now I ask you, Bad Jews, is this a negative effect of participating in service? Because it sure doesn't sound like it to me.
Of course I would never suggest to purposefully manipulate a service activity in order to fulfill the outcome of building identity. That would most definitely deserve a "shame on you." If, however, service in its natural form acts as a conductor to Jewish identity and causes changes within oneself, I have to argue that service is, in fact, about making changes in me as well as about saving the world.
And so, in the tradition of debate between the schools of the great rabbis Hillel and Shammai, it appears we have two sides to this question. It's time to join the wrestling match, my fellow Bad Jews. Are you in? Like I said, you don't even need a costume.
As a Bad Jew committed to service, there's an ongoing wrestling match to which I find myself constantly drawn. It's a match that addresses a critical question about service: Who is service for? On one hand I hear your collective sigh of "No Duh." Service is for the recipient, for those in need. Yet my other hand is grasping firmly to another opinion. This is an opinion that includes the concept of reciprocity as an integral element of high quality, effective service learning. Learning, being the key word here, as a tool that helps those of us providers of service understand root causes of social injustices and Jewish traditions that call us to service in the first place. In other words, the link between Jewish identity and the fulfillment of civic responsibility.
I was struck by a quote in a December editorial in the Jewish Daily Forward that cited, “Service has to be about making change in communities, not about making changes in me,” noted David Rosenn, executive director of Avodah, another well-regarded service program. “The last thing we want the Jewish community to do is use communities in distress as a vehicle to build identity.” (http://www.forward.com/articles/120018/)
What I'm wrestling with here is the "shame on you" implication that service should not be used to transform ourselves, but only communities that need help. Aren't our own passions, education, and commitment to making social change the vehicles driving us to provide service and make changes in our communities? Don't these three important factors come from a place deeply rooted in our identities? I mean, maybe what I'm really saying is I don't believe in true altruism; that there is always something to be gained by the provider of service. Whether it's the feeling that we belong to something bigger than ourselves, a sense of civic responsibility, or the learning about a new culture or community's way of life, these "side effects" are what foster a sustained commitment to leaving the world a better place than how we received it. Now I ask you, Bad Jews, is this a negative effect of participating in service? Because it sure doesn't sound like it to me.
Of course I would never suggest to purposefully manipulate a service activity in order to fulfill the outcome of building identity. That would most definitely deserve a "shame on you." If, however, service in its natural form acts as a conductor to Jewish identity and causes changes within oneself, I have to argue that service is, in fact, about making changes in me as well as about saving the world.
And so, in the tradition of debate between the schools of the great rabbis Hillel and Shammai, it appears we have two sides to this question. It's time to join the wrestling match, my fellow Bad Jews. Are you in? Like I said, you don't even need a costume.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Unleash Your Bad Jew
And so this is how it begins. Laying it out there on the cliched proverbial table for the world to see: I'm a Bad Jew.
My bacon-loving past has caught up with me and I can no longer be silenced, even after years in what my best friend menacingly calls, "The Pork Deprivation Chamber." I don't mean to confuse you; this new venture into the world of blogging isn't actually about my love of bacon.
This venture is about naming the deep desire to be accepted by Judaism as a full-fledged, practicing Jew. It’s about my own disconnect from traditional forms of Jewish ritual and the not-so-subtle message I received throughout most of my life that if I didn’t go to shul and didn’t say the Amidah I was a Bad Jew. It’s about believing that my bacon love made me less of a Jew than the Good Jews who obediently stayed away from pork products. It's about being an equal citizen in the eyes of the holistic Jewish community. It's about a call to action that has been in motion since Abraham answered his phone with, "Brit? Sign me up" or since Moses answered his phone with, "Here I am." It's about ending an age-old game of telephone tag that has resulted in the whitewashing of one of the holiest obligations most near and dear to my heart: service to others.
This mitzvah, this commandment, of being of service to others is a deep and rich obligation that is layered with anecdotes and its very own “How To” manual with instructions on how to treat strangers, how to feed the hungry, and how to empower those with disabilities to name a few. It’s a pretty big deal to be tasked with “tikkun olam,” repairing the world. Yet do those of us who practice Judaism through this particular ritual feel accepted and honored for this form of Jewish observance? I suppose I wouldn’t be writing this if I felt the answer was “yes.”
Please understand my intent is not to downplay or disregard other Jewish obligations in any way. Service is certainly not the only way to express one’s Jewish identity, nor is it superior. My point is to simply say this: those of us Bad Jews who do not connect with traditional forms of Jewish rituals should unleash and empower our Bad Selves to continue making this world a better place through challenging social injustices, righting egregious wrongs, and taking care of the planet we have been so blessed to inherit. While it’s true service has been in our systems for what seems like forever, let’s not dismiss it with a wave because of that very reason.
Unlike Batman, who believes his calling is a curse, I believe I've been called to do work in this world that is not only an obligation but is also a blessing. I've learned that following the mitzvot in the footsteps of my ancestors has, in fact, led me to the discovery of my own Jewish identity. It was there all along but I allowed too many outside voices to drown it out and define what they thought my Jewish identity should be. Now I feel confident that I can eat my bacon and continue to campaign against Prop 8 as part of my Jewish practice. And so can you. Continue your Jewish practice and be proud of it. It’s legit, I promise.
This is for all of us Bad Jews: unleash yourself, save the world, be Bad.
My bacon-loving past has caught up with me and I can no longer be silenced, even after years in what my best friend menacingly calls, "The Pork Deprivation Chamber." I don't mean to confuse you; this new venture into the world of blogging isn't actually about my love of bacon.
This venture is about naming the deep desire to be accepted by Judaism as a full-fledged, practicing Jew. It’s about my own disconnect from traditional forms of Jewish ritual and the not-so-subtle message I received throughout most of my life that if I didn’t go to shul and didn’t say the Amidah I was a Bad Jew. It’s about believing that my bacon love made me less of a Jew than the Good Jews who obediently stayed away from pork products. It's about being an equal citizen in the eyes of the holistic Jewish community. It's about a call to action that has been in motion since Abraham answered his phone with, "Brit? Sign me up" or since Moses answered his phone with, "Here I am." It's about ending an age-old game of telephone tag that has resulted in the whitewashing of one of the holiest obligations most near and dear to my heart: service to others.
This mitzvah, this commandment, of being of service to others is a deep and rich obligation that is layered with anecdotes and its very own “How To” manual with instructions on how to treat strangers, how to feed the hungry, and how to empower those with disabilities to name a few. It’s a pretty big deal to be tasked with “tikkun olam,” repairing the world. Yet do those of us who practice Judaism through this particular ritual feel accepted and honored for this form of Jewish observance? I suppose I wouldn’t be writing this if I felt the answer was “yes.”
Please understand my intent is not to downplay or disregard other Jewish obligations in any way. Service is certainly not the only way to express one’s Jewish identity, nor is it superior. My point is to simply say this: those of us Bad Jews who do not connect with traditional forms of Jewish rituals should unleash and empower our Bad Selves to continue making this world a better place through challenging social injustices, righting egregious wrongs, and taking care of the planet we have been so blessed to inherit. While it’s true service has been in our systems for what seems like forever, let’s not dismiss it with a wave because of that very reason.
Unlike Batman, who believes his calling is a curse, I believe I've been called to do work in this world that is not only an obligation but is also a blessing. I've learned that following the mitzvot in the footsteps of my ancestors has, in fact, led me to the discovery of my own Jewish identity. It was there all along but I allowed too many outside voices to drown it out and define what they thought my Jewish identity should be. Now I feel confident that I can eat my bacon and continue to campaign against Prop 8 as part of my Jewish practice. And so can you. Continue your Jewish practice and be proud of it. It’s legit, I promise.
This is for all of us Bad Jews: unleash yourself, save the world, be Bad.
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