A Report from the Parliament of the World’s Religions
By Rabbi Daniel Brenner
Over the drone of the harmonium in the Sikh’s makeshift Gudwara, I overheard a Buddhist monk and a Sikh discussing species extinction and reincarnation:
“What if a person’s soul is destined for a near extinct species, like the spotted owl?” the monk asked.
“If the species becomes extinct then would that soul be stuck in limbo for eternity?”
The Parliament of World’s Religions, an idea that was born at the Columbia exposition of the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair, was abuzz with questions sprung from the scuffle between traditional religious thought and new realities. Held this July at Barcelona’s new seaside conference center, the Parliament attracted some eight thousand religious adherents from around the globe to hear recent Nobel Prize winner Shirin Ebadi and countless other presenters listed in the two hundred and fifty-nine page program book address what has become a world increasingly torn by religious conflicts.
What message can be heard over F-15s and car bombs? Can we teach religious tolerance and understanding to those who see the world through the lens of conflict? For the year leading up to the conference, Lee Hancock and I met with leaders of ten other New York based religious organizations to debate that question. The result was planning the largest symposium of the parliament – a three-day focus on interfaith education. Our collaborative, called the Consultation for Interfaith Education, put together an international program of twenty-five sessions, with nearly fifty presenters keynoted by the XIVth Dalai Lama.
Spain, which suffered national turmoil during the massive terror attack in Madrid this past year, turned out to be an ideal location for the conference. And though surveillance was high, with two airport like security searches required to attend the sessions, crowds flocked to hear moderate Muslims, like Ayatollah Hadvhi Tehrani, speak on coexistence.
And while the Dalai Lama’s poor health prevented him from joining us, the consultation turned out to be a big draw. Here are a few stories:
The minute after I checked into my hotel, a gentleman with a dark beard approached me in the lobby.
“You Jewish rabbi?” He asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Do you like Martin Buber?” He asked, mispronouncing the name of one of Judaism’s most influential philosophers, rhyming it with Flubber.
“Yes.” I replied.
“I translate him for graduate students, University of Teheran!”
I immediately invited him to join us in the symposium, and a few days later we both ended up having a conversation about religious extremism with an Indian woman who teaches in South Africa.
“My grandfather would be so upset if he saw what was going on in the Middle East right now” she said.
“What did your grandfather do?” I asked.
“He was Mahatma Gandhi.”
Whoops.
On another day of the conference, Dr. Hasan Al-Assady, an Iraqi psychologist, spoke of both the fears he held regarding extremists and the promise of a new era of freedom in Iraq.
“Did you have any trouble getting out of Iraq during a time of military occupation?” someone from the audience asked after his speech.
“Yes. My truck overheated!” Al-Assady answered, which turned out to be a refreshing humorous moment during a rather academic session.
There were also moments that were touching. After a panel of religious leaders from Israel debated the legacy of Isaac and Ishmael, one of East Jerusalem’s Imam’s gave a long and lovely bear hug to Rabbi David Rosen from West Jerusalem. And at a panel that my wife Lisa attended, for women only, I heard that deeper breakthroughs were taking place. An Orthodox Jewish woman whose son had been severely injured by a Palestinian terrorist’s bomb was listening to the story of a Palestinian woman whose child had been killed by an Israeli soldier. “I carried so much anger in my heart” the Palestinian woman said, “that it began to poison me.”
The Parliament affirmed that religious dialogue has the potential to overcome underlying mistrust. And although the parliament is a microcosm of those already committed to such work, it displays the growing international efforts to bridge traditional religious communities.
A final note - One of my personal highlights was the opportunity to moderate a panel with the renowned Catholic theologian Raimon Pannikar. Pannikar, who was born in Barcelona in 1918 to a Hindu father and a Catholic mother, is regarded as a local saint. Overflow crowds gathered to hear him speak of a cosmotheandric vision in which understanding the simultaneous unity and trinity of the divine, human, and earthly realms is the unifying theme of world religions. Pannikar also had the most quotable remark from the symposium. Claiming that exclusivists, those who insisted that the world could only be understood through the lens of their own tradition, are colorblind he called out “Let us see the colors through this dialogue!”
By the way, the answer to the monk’s question about the spotted owl is that the cycle of reincarnation can be disturbed by species extinction. Proof again that sometimes it is the most esoteric of ideas that push us humans to value the diversity of the planet.
7.9.04
26.8.04
Spirituality and Health hitting the newstands
I just got my first article in a glossy magazine -- Spirituality and Health -- October issue. This is the piece I wrote awhile back on 'under God'
While I proudly placed the mag on the radiator by the toilet (I got an advanced copy in the mail) it has a bizarre ad for a biofeedback video game on the back cover that is freaking me out.
http://www.spiritualityhealth.com/newsh/items/blank/item_3019.html
Under God
By Rabbi Daniel S. Brenner
Now that the Supreme Court has ruled not to hear the “under God” case, and to basically let this insertion into the pledge stand, I think that we as a nation have become stuck, theologically speaking.
As a child sent to a religious day school I could not help but feel that God was watching me from above every time I sat on the toilet. I also sensed that God watched sporting events, occasionally guiding basketballs into hoops from half-court (Dick Vital yelling “Hail Mary!”). In fact, all people were living under God – a deity above us peering down like the manager of the A&P from his perch atop the customer service desk. Where did we get the idea that God was on top of us? How did we get under God in the first place?
I ask this question because as my theology has matured, I have come to learn that God, as conveyed in the Five Books of Moses, is not only up in the sky, but very down-to-earth. God is present in rocky valleys, bushes, even inside of tents. Jacob wakes up from sleeping on a stone pillow and says, “God was in this place and I, and I did not know it!” God in a thorn bush says to Moses “I will be what I will be,” a cloud called “God’s glory” enters the sacred tent before the children of Israel.
So how did God become on high – and as a result we become under God? The source for the phrase “God on high” is an obscure name for God in the Book of Genesis that is uttered by Melchizedek of Salem, one of the Kings who tries to butter-up Abraham. In doing so, he praises Eyl Elyon, which literally means “God on top” but is translated as “Most High God” or “God on High.” Interestingly, none of the patriarchs or matriarchs ever refers to God with this name. Rather, they have a more expansive knowledge of God, and elsewhere in Genesis, we can hear it echoed in Jacob’s blessing: “by the God of your father, who will help you, by El Shaddai, who will bless you with blessings from the sky above and blessings from the deep, lying below, blessings from the breasts and the womb.”
One of my teachers in seminary, the historian Tikve Frymer-Kensky, spoke of the Biblical God as one that is synthesized from the ancient sky gods and the ancient earth gods (as well as a few other gods with varying genders) into one deity. The innovation was to create one unified name for all of the powers that compelled the natural world. And in the Bible, God speaks from within these forces-- "Out of the heavens God let you hear His voice to guide you,” we read in the fourth chapter of Deuteronomy, “and on earth God let you see His great fire, and you heard His words from the midst of the fire.”
So, from this expansive Biblical vision of God in which God permeates all of reality, in both the elemental and the human realms, how did we get into thinking of ourselves as simply ‘under’ God?
The vast majority of the metaphors used to describe God on high come in later books, most notably the Psalms, which are replete with poetic language that describes God in this way. God is ‘above the heavens,’ is the ‘King of Kings’, is the ‘Judge on high seated on his throne’. Those metaphors would surely place us under God - but the author of the Psalms also includes conceptions that are more earthbound. God is a rock, God a fortress, God a dwelling place. And there are conceptual names for God – God as truth, salvation, exceeding joy – that have nothing to do with location.
Why does it matter so much for us to dissect the phrase under God? In part this matters because we are increasingly becoming a more religiously diverse nation.
At a time when religious totalitarianism is making a comeback around the globe, we should recognize our diversity – the fact that while some Americans do envision that believers are below and God is above, others see God within, God as permeating all things, God as manifest in multiple realities or God as a force that by definition can not be limited to human conceptions. There are even a few folks who proudly call themselves ‘godless.’ In short, if the pledge were an actual reflection of America's theological diversity it would have to have a section with a "fill in the blank."
But there is a more important reason for us to revise the language ‘under’ God. We live in an era where it is not only up to God’s watchful eye whether we live or die – but also up to us. As we continue to poison the planet and march faster to ecocide, both God’s immanence in creation and human responsibility as caretakers for the earth should be implicit in our theology.
Yes, God is cosmic. When I look up at the night sky, I see a reflection of God’s glory. But I also see it as I dig in the muck of growth and decay in the garden. And that time that I went snorkeling in the Gulf of Aqaba – that was a blessing from the depths. But most importantly, I sense God’s presence as a force that exists between people when they are reflecting the attributes of understanding, kindness, support, mercy, and justice.
So I think that it is unfortunate that the Supreme Court has passed this opportunity to examine “Under God” and recognize the phrases’ limits. The phrase reverts us back to the ancient sky god and reinforces the notion that God can only be understood as a judge or king who looks down on us. God is much more.
While I proudly placed the mag on the radiator by the toilet (I got an advanced copy in the mail) it has a bizarre ad for a biofeedback video game on the back cover that is freaking me out.
http://www.spiritualityhealth.com/newsh/items/blank/item_3019.html
Under God
By Rabbi Daniel S. Brenner
Now that the Supreme Court has ruled not to hear the “under God” case, and to basically let this insertion into the pledge stand, I think that we as a nation have become stuck, theologically speaking.
As a child sent to a religious day school I could not help but feel that God was watching me from above every time I sat on the toilet. I also sensed that God watched sporting events, occasionally guiding basketballs into hoops from half-court (Dick Vital yelling “Hail Mary!”). In fact, all people were living under God – a deity above us peering down like the manager of the A&P from his perch atop the customer service desk. Where did we get the idea that God was on top of us? How did we get under God in the first place?
I ask this question because as my theology has matured, I have come to learn that God, as conveyed in the Five Books of Moses, is not only up in the sky, but very down-to-earth. God is present in rocky valleys, bushes, even inside of tents. Jacob wakes up from sleeping on a stone pillow and says, “God was in this place and I, and I did not know it!” God in a thorn bush says to Moses “I will be what I will be,” a cloud called “God’s glory” enters the sacred tent before the children of Israel.
So how did God become on high – and as a result we become under God? The source for the phrase “God on high” is an obscure name for God in the Book of Genesis that is uttered by Melchizedek of Salem, one of the Kings who tries to butter-up Abraham. In doing so, he praises Eyl Elyon, which literally means “God on top” but is translated as “Most High God” or “God on High.” Interestingly, none of the patriarchs or matriarchs ever refers to God with this name. Rather, they have a more expansive knowledge of God, and elsewhere in Genesis, we can hear it echoed in Jacob’s blessing: “by the God of your father, who will help you, by El Shaddai, who will bless you with blessings from the sky above and blessings from the deep, lying below, blessings from the breasts and the womb.”
One of my teachers in seminary, the historian Tikve Frymer-Kensky, spoke of the Biblical God as one that is synthesized from the ancient sky gods and the ancient earth gods (as well as a few other gods with varying genders) into one deity. The innovation was to create one unified name for all of the powers that compelled the natural world. And in the Bible, God speaks from within these forces-- "Out of the heavens God let you hear His voice to guide you,” we read in the fourth chapter of Deuteronomy, “and on earth God let you see His great fire, and you heard His words from the midst of the fire.”
So, from this expansive Biblical vision of God in which God permeates all of reality, in both the elemental and the human realms, how did we get into thinking of ourselves as simply ‘under’ God?
The vast majority of the metaphors used to describe God on high come in later books, most notably the Psalms, which are replete with poetic language that describes God in this way. God is ‘above the heavens,’ is the ‘King of Kings’, is the ‘Judge on high seated on his throne’. Those metaphors would surely place us under God - but the author of the Psalms also includes conceptions that are more earthbound. God is a rock, God a fortress, God a dwelling place. And there are conceptual names for God – God as truth, salvation, exceeding joy – that have nothing to do with location.
Why does it matter so much for us to dissect the phrase under God? In part this matters because we are increasingly becoming a more religiously diverse nation.
At a time when religious totalitarianism is making a comeback around the globe, we should recognize our diversity – the fact that while some Americans do envision that believers are below and God is above, others see God within, God as permeating all things, God as manifest in multiple realities or God as a force that by definition can not be limited to human conceptions. There are even a few folks who proudly call themselves ‘godless.’ In short, if the pledge were an actual reflection of America's theological diversity it would have to have a section with a "fill in the blank."
But there is a more important reason for us to revise the language ‘under’ God. We live in an era where it is not only up to God’s watchful eye whether we live or die – but also up to us. As we continue to poison the planet and march faster to ecocide, both God’s immanence in creation and human responsibility as caretakers for the earth should be implicit in our theology.
Yes, God is cosmic. When I look up at the night sky, I see a reflection of God’s glory. But I also see it as I dig in the muck of growth and decay in the garden. And that time that I went snorkeling in the Gulf of Aqaba – that was a blessing from the depths. But most importantly, I sense God’s presence as a force that exists between people when they are reflecting the attributes of understanding, kindness, support, mercy, and justice.
So I think that it is unfortunate that the Supreme Court has passed this opportunity to examine “Under God” and recognize the phrases’ limits. The phrase reverts us back to the ancient sky god and reinforces the notion that God can only be understood as a judge or king who looks down on us. God is much more.
23.8.04
A Message for the New Year
Here is the piece that I'll be submitting to the String of Pearls newsletter:
Elohim, ten li et h'atikvah lekabel ma she'ein Ten li et hakoach leshanot et ma sheken. et haomets lenasot letaken et ha'olam.
G-d, give me the hope to accept what there isn't
Give me the strength to change what is
Give me the courage to try to fix the world.
These words, although they could have been chanted in a Psalm by King David, a poem by Yehudah Halevi, or a prayer by Levi of Berdichev, are from Israeli hip hop artist Subliminal. He writes:
You promised a dove, in the sky there's a hawk
Brother, poisonous twig pricks, this is not an olive branch
Living in a dream, everybody talks about peace
But they shoot, oppress, pull, squeeze the trigger
In a world of suicide attacks, the people are still talking
Living in an illusion of righteousness, they widen the rift in the nation.
Pass madness every day in order to survive
Don't want to live in order to fight,
I fight in order to live
Plant hope, send out roots Shield in my body for the dream so it won't be shattered to splinters
Enough, enough with the hurt, enough with the tears
A year that the land bleeds not sleeping and why?
The line I love to repeat is “plant hope, send out roots, shield in my body for the dream.”
And this summer I had an amazing opportunity to plant some hope within me. In July, Lisa and I traveled (sans kids – thanks Silbermans!) to the Parliament of the World’s Religions in Barcelona. This event, held every five years, brought eight thousand religious people from across the globe for religious dialogue. At a time when religious extremists seem to have grabbed hold of our global steering wheel, this gathering was like a collective act of putting on the brakes, saying, “Stop – What are we killing each other over?” Sitting on the floor of the Sikh Gudwara eating a simple bowl of lentils and speaking with religious leaders from Iran, Iraq, and elsewhere, I felt that perhaps voices advocating peace can take the wheel back and steer it in the direction that we all need to go in – towards a sustainable planet. But I know that it will take much work to do this.
The High Holidays are also about taking hold of the wheel. We ask: What direction am I headed in? How do I get back to that place where I did feel at peace? How can I drive through this storm?
To answer these questions we must stop our routine and enter into another space. We put the brakes on – and we reflect. At the end, perhaps we can plant some hope - Hope that will send out roots for the coming year.
Shana Tovah U’Metukah
Elohim, ten li et h'atikvah lekabel ma she'ein Ten li et hakoach leshanot et ma sheken. et haomets lenasot letaken et ha'olam.
G-d, give me the hope to accept what there isn't
Give me the strength to change what is
Give me the courage to try to fix the world.
These words, although they could have been chanted in a Psalm by King David, a poem by Yehudah Halevi, or a prayer by Levi of Berdichev, are from Israeli hip hop artist Subliminal. He writes:
You promised a dove, in the sky there's a hawk
Brother, poisonous twig pricks, this is not an olive branch
Living in a dream, everybody talks about peace
But they shoot, oppress, pull, squeeze the trigger
In a world of suicide attacks, the people are still talking
Living in an illusion of righteousness, they widen the rift in the nation.
Pass madness every day in order to survive
Don't want to live in order to fight,
I fight in order to live
Plant hope, send out roots Shield in my body for the dream so it won't be shattered to splinters
Enough, enough with the hurt, enough with the tears
A year that the land bleeds not sleeping and why?
The line I love to repeat is “plant hope, send out roots, shield in my body for the dream.”
And this summer I had an amazing opportunity to plant some hope within me. In July, Lisa and I traveled (sans kids – thanks Silbermans!) to the Parliament of the World’s Religions in Barcelona. This event, held every five years, brought eight thousand religious people from across the globe for religious dialogue. At a time when religious extremists seem to have grabbed hold of our global steering wheel, this gathering was like a collective act of putting on the brakes, saying, “Stop – What are we killing each other over?” Sitting on the floor of the Sikh Gudwara eating a simple bowl of lentils and speaking with religious leaders from Iran, Iraq, and elsewhere, I felt that perhaps voices advocating peace can take the wheel back and steer it in the direction that we all need to go in – towards a sustainable planet. But I know that it will take much work to do this.
The High Holidays are also about taking hold of the wheel. We ask: What direction am I headed in? How do I get back to that place where I did feel at peace? How can I drive through this storm?
To answer these questions we must stop our routine and enter into another space. We put the brakes on – and we reflect. At the end, perhaps we can plant some hope - Hope that will send out roots for the coming year.
Shana Tovah U’Metukah
17.8.04
Responses keep popping up to my article (originally in the Forward) about ground zero
from www.nickdenton.org
Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you
A brilliantly counter-intuitive idea from Daniel Brenner about the rebuilding of the site of the World Trade Center. "Building a mosque on the site would also send a message to the Islamic world about America, and our commitment to the freedom of religion. At a time when many Muslims are being fed endless distortions about America and what we value, it will take more than a publicity mission by Muhammad Ali to change America’s image."
From Nick Bruner
Build a Mosque on Ground Zero
I love this idea. Daniel Brenner, writing on BeliefNet, suggests that we use Ground Zero in part to build an inter-faith center, featuring a mosque, a church and a synagogue. Personally, I'm an athiest, or agnostic at best, but I can't think of a better message to send to Al Qaeda and their like than to demonstrate the openness of our society with action.
Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you
A brilliantly counter-intuitive idea from Daniel Brenner about the rebuilding of the site of the World Trade Center. "Building a mosque on the site would also send a message to the Islamic world about America, and our commitment to the freedom of religion. At a time when many Muslims are being fed endless distortions about America and what we value, it will take more than a publicity mission by Muhammad Ali to change America’s image."
From Nick Bruner
Build a Mosque on Ground Zero
I love this idea. Daniel Brenner, writing on BeliefNet, suggests that we use Ground Zero in part to build an inter-faith center, featuring a mosque, a church and a synagogue. Personally, I'm an athiest, or agnostic at best, but I can't think of a better message to send to Al Qaeda and their like than to demonstrate the openness of our society with action.
On Humanism and "God"
Nothing drives me more crazy than when I hear an athlete thanking God for a 3-pointer, a twenty foot putt, or a touchdown. “Do you mean to tell me that God sits around guiding balls into particular places?” I wonder, “A God in the sky with two hundred channels of ESPN watching and working magic with each play?”
Moments like these make me tempted to buy into the philosophy of men like Sherwin Wine. Sherwin Wine, the Michigan Rabbi and chief proponent of Humanist Judaism has a lot to say about God. “God is an ordinary English word like ‘table’ ‘chair’ or ‘rug’”, Wine argues, a word which he is “sick and tired of using.” Wine views God-talk as irrational, and ultimately as a source of human confusion that undermines our ethical strivings.
So, would it be better to rid ourselves of the irrational God-talk that we hear from athletes, hurricane victims, movie stars, even public officials? Would it be in our interest to replace the outmoded prayers of synagogue life with poetic musings of a different sort?
After many years dwelling on this question, I’ve come to some conclusions.
The word “God” is not like “table” but a lot like the word “love”. Imagine writing a valentine to your sweetie which said “We are mutually compatible partners and we have developed a trusting relationship which I value very deeply”
They’d respond “What about saying ‘I Love You’?”
You’d argue—“Hey, I don’t ‘believe’ in ‘love’. But all the things that you mean by love are in my letter to you.”
They’d say “Just tell me that you love me!”
You’d reread the card. They’d begin packing their socks.
Here’s my analogy, “Love” like the word “God” is used to describe a totality of experience that we can’t fully describe.
For example, someone recovers from an illness, and they say “thank God”. I hear this a lot, but I don’t understand them as saying “thank the chief executive officer of bodily function in the sky”—what I hear is “I am in a state of gratitude to the totality of my experience—the doctors, the medicines, the nurses, the support of my family, the elements of chance, everything.” It is that everything which we cannot fully describe that we call God.
And that is what I use the word “God” to mean-- “the totality of connections that I can’t even begin to describe.”
Sherwin Wine would call my desire to reconcile with the word God a “apologizing, redefining, and explaining” of theology.
But I think that this definition of God is a healthy one, and one grounded in the tradition. The Kaddish says “God is beyond all blessings, poems, and worship” The Yigdal reads “God is unknowable, and there is no end to God’s unity” i.e. no language can capture what the word “God” means. In prayer “God” is a code word for “totality beyond description” like “love” is a code word for “feelings beyond description”
I could give other examples of how I understand Judaism to advocate for such a God. Yet the basic understanding is this—by removing God from the earth-bound (no idols or men are God) we have made “God” a force that is beyond body and language. And even though we may use body and language to speak of God, we are doing so poetically, conscious that the real picture is more than our personal descriptions.
The reality is that if we don’t take it into our own hands to “redefine” / “reconstruct” God, then we’re leaving it in the hands of some rather narrow-minded people. They will define “God”, and they have a pretty nasty track record concerning how their definition leads to irrational ends.
So there you have it, I believe in God. And though I cringe when I hear God attributed to a home run or a slicing backhand or a 7-10 split, part of me says “Yeah, this ball moving in such a way at this very moment is beyond description, and this person is experiencing the totality of existence…so, hey, why not?”
Moments like these make me tempted to buy into the philosophy of men like Sherwin Wine. Sherwin Wine, the Michigan Rabbi and chief proponent of Humanist Judaism has a lot to say about God. “God is an ordinary English word like ‘table’ ‘chair’ or ‘rug’”, Wine argues, a word which he is “sick and tired of using.” Wine views God-talk as irrational, and ultimately as a source of human confusion that undermines our ethical strivings.
So, would it be better to rid ourselves of the irrational God-talk that we hear from athletes, hurricane victims, movie stars, even public officials? Would it be in our interest to replace the outmoded prayers of synagogue life with poetic musings of a different sort?
After many years dwelling on this question, I’ve come to some conclusions.
The word “God” is not like “table” but a lot like the word “love”. Imagine writing a valentine to your sweetie which said “We are mutually compatible partners and we have developed a trusting relationship which I value very deeply”
They’d respond “What about saying ‘I Love You’?”
You’d argue—“Hey, I don’t ‘believe’ in ‘love’. But all the things that you mean by love are in my letter to you.”
They’d say “Just tell me that you love me!”
You’d reread the card. They’d begin packing their socks.
Here’s my analogy, “Love” like the word “God” is used to describe a totality of experience that we can’t fully describe.
For example, someone recovers from an illness, and they say “thank God”. I hear this a lot, but I don’t understand them as saying “thank the chief executive officer of bodily function in the sky”—what I hear is “I am in a state of gratitude to the totality of my experience—the doctors, the medicines, the nurses, the support of my family, the elements of chance, everything.” It is that everything which we cannot fully describe that we call God.
And that is what I use the word “God” to mean-- “the totality of connections that I can’t even begin to describe.”
Sherwin Wine would call my desire to reconcile with the word God a “apologizing, redefining, and explaining” of theology.
But I think that this definition of God is a healthy one, and one grounded in the tradition. The Kaddish says “God is beyond all blessings, poems, and worship” The Yigdal reads “God is unknowable, and there is no end to God’s unity” i.e. no language can capture what the word “God” means. In prayer “God” is a code word for “totality beyond description” like “love” is a code word for “feelings beyond description”
I could give other examples of how I understand Judaism to advocate for such a God. Yet the basic understanding is this—by removing God from the earth-bound (no idols or men are God) we have made “God” a force that is beyond body and language. And even though we may use body and language to speak of God, we are doing so poetically, conscious that the real picture is more than our personal descriptions.
The reality is that if we don’t take it into our own hands to “redefine” / “reconstruct” God, then we’re leaving it in the hands of some rather narrow-minded people. They will define “God”, and they have a pretty nasty track record concerning how their definition leads to irrational ends.
So there you have it, I believe in God. And though I cringe when I hear God attributed to a home run or a slicing backhand or a 7-10 split, part of me says “Yeah, this ball moving in such a way at this very moment is beyond description, and this person is experiencing the totality of existence…so, hey, why not?”
The Big Mess
The Big Mess about Messianic Jews
By Rabbi Daniel Brenner
As a rabbi who works each day with Presbyterian ministers and lay people at a historic Presbyterian seminary, I have to admit that I was deeply concerned when I received word that a “Messianic Jewish Community” opened in a Philadelphia suburb with over $300,000 of Presbyterian Church USA money. The new church (which does not call itself a church) is named Avodat Yisrael, which literally means “sacrifice of Israel”, and it opened in Plymouth Meeting, Pennsylvania. Since its first service, on Rosh Hashanah, I’ve heard that few people have actually joined the congregation but that many questions have been raised. Some have asked - What is so offensive to the Jewish community about Messianic Jews? Others want to know –Is there any way that Presbyterian churches can reach out to Jews without causing a media frenzy?
These are challenging times for those of us who are committed not just to individual clergy or houses of worship, but to national religious organizations. More people are choosing their religious identity the way they choose items at a salad bar, a story told best in books like Generation of Seekers and Spiritual Marketplace by Wade Clark Roof. As a result, there is theological fluidity, borrowing of ritual, and a general freedom to create religious life that is unprecedented.
These forces are not necessarily detrimental to traditional religious communities. As a rabbi, I have viewed genuine Christian interest in Jewish ritual and practice as an overwhelmingly positive development, one that is by no means a new phenomenon. The many Christian communities who hold Passover Seders are just one example of this flowering of Jewish ritual in the church. Rabbis across the country who serve on local clergy councils have truly enjoyed teaching for Christian groups and have seen first hand the sincere desire for spiritual dialogue that exists between Christians and Jews. It is of no surprise to me that some Christians are even interested in learning Hebrew, studying kabbalah, and reading Chassidic tales. I know that many Christians have discovered the Judaica section of their local Barnes & Noble or independent bookstore and have begun to read about Jewish history and religious life. The vast majority of Presbyterians and others who seek out Jewish practices and Jewish insights, or even read a Bruce Feiler book on the Bible, do so in a desire to deepen their relationship to Christ and do so with a genuine respect for Judaism.
It is also true that in a society that is increasingly open, people choose to convert to a religion that they did not grow up with. The latest National Jewish Population study found that many Christians have found homes in the Jewish community and that many Jews have chosen to join Christian communities. In working with Presbyterians, I have heard stories of the Jewish men and women who have become active in churches across the country. Many of these folks are Jews who have married committed Protestants, but some fall into the category of intellectual or spiritual seekers. In their new homes they have found the religious community that they were seeking. Lauren Winner’s recent book Girl Gets God tells her story of a Jewish seeker finding Christ, and in my work I have met not only Christian lay leaders, but Christian ministers who grew up in Jewish homes. Their spiritual journeys led not simply to an embrace of Christ’s teachings, but to a decision to become part of the Church, to enter the covenant of the church community, and to carry on the church’s historical legacy. These folks do not call themselves Messianic Jews. Rather, they are proud to be Christians, and carry in their hearts the Church’s struggles between tradition and innovation.
Messianic Jews are a different type of spiritual seeker. In contrast to Jews who become Christians, most Messianic Jews do not want to be called Christians (hence the title “Messianic Jews” instead of “Hebrew Christians” – an earlier manifestation of their religious community) or to call their congregations churches. Instead, they emphatically state that they are Jewish – Jews who pray in the name of Jesus. Among Messianics there is some disagreement about what type of Judaism they are. To quote one Messianic Jewish leader, Michael Wolf, his mission is to “Commit to, and grow in a lifestyle of faith called Biblical Judaism.” A leader of another wing of Messianic Jews, Stuart Dauerman, claims that “Messianic Judaism is a Judaism, and not a cosmetically altered "Jewish-style" version of what is extant in the wider Christian community.” Many Messianic Jews view Christianity from the third century onward to be an aberration of Christ’s teachings and they argue that to join a Christian church would be to “assimilate” into a European Christianity that is antithetical to Jews. The Union of Messianic Judaism’s recent paper Defining Messianic Judaism calls Presbyterians and others “the Gentile Church”. In some communities there has even been heated discussion about whether Christians who join Messianic Synagogues must convert to Judaism to be full members or to participate in all activities in the congregation – for example, the Union has stated that “Gentiles are certainly welcome within Messianic Jewish Congregations…but congregations remain Jewish, not expressions of ‘one new man’ that is neither Jew nor Greek. Much of their life is based, not strictly on Scripture or on universal precepts for all believers, but on Jewish teaching and tradition. Gentiles moved by Ahavat Yisrael will participate in the Messianic Jewish congregation on these terms.”
Messianic Jews are creating an interesting hybrid religious identity – one that satisfies their personal desires to carry on talmudic based religious rituals and one that gives them a Hebraic path to accepting Yeshua, Jesus. They have taken two traditions that were often at odds with one another (with Jews often the persecuted party) and have inherited the theological, ritual and historical confusion inherent in syncretism. And while both Catholic and Protestant church bodies have worked to correct the bloody legacy of crusaders and church sponsored persecutions against the Jews, and have affirmed that Jews still remain in covenant with God, Messianic Jews continue to target Jews for evangelization – often in deceptive ways. As a result, their eclectic mix does not fly well in a Church or Synagogue. For these reasons, both Jews and Christians have declared Messianic Jews to be a “fringe religious development” – one that stands outside the boundaries of both the Church and the established Jewish religious movements.
That said, though, perhaps someday Messianic Jews will have the makings of a genuine religious movement – a well articulated philosophy and theology, an accredited seminary, a national network of religious schools, shared educational curricula, a mechanism to provide social services for those who are in need - and the other components those of us affiliated with religious movements work so hard to sustain. But today they are a loosely connected group (or groups – they have numerous “national” bodies) with a unknown number of adherents. From my initial research, I see that their “seminary” amounts to one class taught by an adjunct faculty member at an Evangelical seminary and their “Yeshiva” is a series of audio lectures. Their teachings and practices vary greatly from congregation to congregation, and with a few exceptions (the minister in Plymouth Meeting one of them), they are currently served by leaders who have little or no formal religious training. Some of them call themselves rabbis, other ministers. Perhaps half of their adherents come from Jewish backgrounds.
So what does this all mean for Presbyterians who wish to grow the church and to reach out to new communities?
It is obvious to me as an observer of the Presbyterian Church that the new energy brought into the church by Chinese, Korean, and Pakistani Presbyterians has given many communities new hope. But when one funds a new religious category in the name of attracting new members, such as Messianic Judaism, one has generated the opposite effect. Instead of evangelizing in a way that welcomes people into the Church community, the Church has funded a separate entity – one that borrows from both Christianity and Judaism - and only further distances both Christians and Jews from their spiritual homes. It is clear to me that the Messianics do not want their followers to become Presbyterians nor do they personally want to follow Presbyterian practices. But apparently they have no problem spending money collected from the members of the Presbyterian Church USA to fund a congregation that not only hides the cross and baptismal font, but advertises to Jews in a manner that has been described as deceptive. The minister of this Messianic Jewish congregation took a great leap of faith to leave Judaism and to join the Presbyterian Church and become an ordained minister. I imagine that when he was ordained he vowed to uphold the theology and practice of the Presbyterian Church - isn’t it ironic that he does not urge his followers to do the same?
It is no surprise to me that my fellow Jews view the new church Avodat Yisrael as a cheap advertising gimmick. It is as if mainstream Jews funded a savvy Conservative rabbi to sing Amazing Grace, recite the Lord’s Prayer and read selected New Testament verses in an attempt to lure inter-faith couples.
So how should the Presbyterys respond to inter-marriage and outreach to inter-married families? There are other, more dignified paths. Many churches already have adjusted to new American religious trends and now offer classes for young families entitled "When mommy is Jewish" or "When daddy is Jewish" to help inter-faith families face their issues in an open, non-judgmental environment. Others offer classes particularly on Hebrew Scripture or create a book group that includes a book of Jewish interest. Some have invited in rabbis to teach. Probably the most interesting development in this arena is the award winning local television program in Larchmont, New York that features a Presbyterian minister and a rabbi discussing theological issues over breakfast at a diner. These activities send the message to Jews that they will be welcomed without judgment and spoken of with respect within the Church. When that happens, inter-married families will not only join churches but become amazing assets for furthering the Church’s goals. I’m sure that many of you have seen this with your own eyes.
Decades of work have gone into building a strong relationship between Presbyterians and Jews. In the wake of the holocaust, theological dialogue led to new understandings of an ancient connection. Both Jews and Presbyterians are challenged by America’s new religious realities. It is my hope that Presbyterians across the country will continue to affirm the spiritual journey that Jews and Christians walk together in light of God’s teachings and that further efforts to outreach to inter-married families can be done with true sensitivity and compassion. I hope that in the upcoming assembly that the Presbyterian Church USA’s membership will raise their voices, put an end to further allocations to Messianic Jewish groups and reaffirm the Church’s historic principles regarding Jewish-Christian relations.
By Rabbi Daniel Brenner
As a rabbi who works each day with Presbyterian ministers and lay people at a historic Presbyterian seminary, I have to admit that I was deeply concerned when I received word that a “Messianic Jewish Community” opened in a Philadelphia suburb with over $300,000 of Presbyterian Church USA money. The new church (which does not call itself a church) is named Avodat Yisrael, which literally means “sacrifice of Israel”, and it opened in Plymouth Meeting, Pennsylvania. Since its first service, on Rosh Hashanah, I’ve heard that few people have actually joined the congregation but that many questions have been raised. Some have asked - What is so offensive to the Jewish community about Messianic Jews? Others want to know –Is there any way that Presbyterian churches can reach out to Jews without causing a media frenzy?
These are challenging times for those of us who are committed not just to individual clergy or houses of worship, but to national religious organizations. More people are choosing their religious identity the way they choose items at a salad bar, a story told best in books like Generation of Seekers and Spiritual Marketplace by Wade Clark Roof. As a result, there is theological fluidity, borrowing of ritual, and a general freedom to create religious life that is unprecedented.
These forces are not necessarily detrimental to traditional religious communities. As a rabbi, I have viewed genuine Christian interest in Jewish ritual and practice as an overwhelmingly positive development, one that is by no means a new phenomenon. The many Christian communities who hold Passover Seders are just one example of this flowering of Jewish ritual in the church. Rabbis across the country who serve on local clergy councils have truly enjoyed teaching for Christian groups and have seen first hand the sincere desire for spiritual dialogue that exists between Christians and Jews. It is of no surprise to me that some Christians are even interested in learning Hebrew, studying kabbalah, and reading Chassidic tales. I know that many Christians have discovered the Judaica section of their local Barnes & Noble or independent bookstore and have begun to read about Jewish history and religious life. The vast majority of Presbyterians and others who seek out Jewish practices and Jewish insights, or even read a Bruce Feiler book on the Bible, do so in a desire to deepen their relationship to Christ and do so with a genuine respect for Judaism.
It is also true that in a society that is increasingly open, people choose to convert to a religion that they did not grow up with. The latest National Jewish Population study found that many Christians have found homes in the Jewish community and that many Jews have chosen to join Christian communities. In working with Presbyterians, I have heard stories of the Jewish men and women who have become active in churches across the country. Many of these folks are Jews who have married committed Protestants, but some fall into the category of intellectual or spiritual seekers. In their new homes they have found the religious community that they were seeking. Lauren Winner’s recent book Girl Gets God tells her story of a Jewish seeker finding Christ, and in my work I have met not only Christian lay leaders, but Christian ministers who grew up in Jewish homes. Their spiritual journeys led not simply to an embrace of Christ’s teachings, but to a decision to become part of the Church, to enter the covenant of the church community, and to carry on the church’s historical legacy. These folks do not call themselves Messianic Jews. Rather, they are proud to be Christians, and carry in their hearts the Church’s struggles between tradition and innovation.
Messianic Jews are a different type of spiritual seeker. In contrast to Jews who become Christians, most Messianic Jews do not want to be called Christians (hence the title “Messianic Jews” instead of “Hebrew Christians” – an earlier manifestation of their religious community) or to call their congregations churches. Instead, they emphatically state that they are Jewish – Jews who pray in the name of Jesus. Among Messianics there is some disagreement about what type of Judaism they are. To quote one Messianic Jewish leader, Michael Wolf, his mission is to “Commit to, and grow in a lifestyle of faith called Biblical Judaism.” A leader of another wing of Messianic Jews, Stuart Dauerman, claims that “Messianic Judaism is a Judaism, and not a cosmetically altered "Jewish-style" version of what is extant in the wider Christian community.” Many Messianic Jews view Christianity from the third century onward to be an aberration of Christ’s teachings and they argue that to join a Christian church would be to “assimilate” into a European Christianity that is antithetical to Jews. The Union of Messianic Judaism’s recent paper Defining Messianic Judaism calls Presbyterians and others “the Gentile Church”. In some communities there has even been heated discussion about whether Christians who join Messianic Synagogues must convert to Judaism to be full members or to participate in all activities in the congregation – for example, the Union has stated that “Gentiles are certainly welcome within Messianic Jewish Congregations…but congregations remain Jewish, not expressions of ‘one new man’ that is neither Jew nor Greek. Much of their life is based, not strictly on Scripture or on universal precepts for all believers, but on Jewish teaching and tradition. Gentiles moved by Ahavat Yisrael will participate in the Messianic Jewish congregation on these terms.”
Messianic Jews are creating an interesting hybrid religious identity – one that satisfies their personal desires to carry on talmudic based religious rituals and one that gives them a Hebraic path to accepting Yeshua, Jesus. They have taken two traditions that were often at odds with one another (with Jews often the persecuted party) and have inherited the theological, ritual and historical confusion inherent in syncretism. And while both Catholic and Protestant church bodies have worked to correct the bloody legacy of crusaders and church sponsored persecutions against the Jews, and have affirmed that Jews still remain in covenant with God, Messianic Jews continue to target Jews for evangelization – often in deceptive ways. As a result, their eclectic mix does not fly well in a Church or Synagogue. For these reasons, both Jews and Christians have declared Messianic Jews to be a “fringe religious development” – one that stands outside the boundaries of both the Church and the established Jewish religious movements.
That said, though, perhaps someday Messianic Jews will have the makings of a genuine religious movement – a well articulated philosophy and theology, an accredited seminary, a national network of religious schools, shared educational curricula, a mechanism to provide social services for those who are in need - and the other components those of us affiliated with religious movements work so hard to sustain. But today they are a loosely connected group (or groups – they have numerous “national” bodies) with a unknown number of adherents. From my initial research, I see that their “seminary” amounts to one class taught by an adjunct faculty member at an Evangelical seminary and their “Yeshiva” is a series of audio lectures. Their teachings and practices vary greatly from congregation to congregation, and with a few exceptions (the minister in Plymouth Meeting one of them), they are currently served by leaders who have little or no formal religious training. Some of them call themselves rabbis, other ministers. Perhaps half of their adherents come from Jewish backgrounds.
So what does this all mean for Presbyterians who wish to grow the church and to reach out to new communities?
It is obvious to me as an observer of the Presbyterian Church that the new energy brought into the church by Chinese, Korean, and Pakistani Presbyterians has given many communities new hope. But when one funds a new religious category in the name of attracting new members, such as Messianic Judaism, one has generated the opposite effect. Instead of evangelizing in a way that welcomes people into the Church community, the Church has funded a separate entity – one that borrows from both Christianity and Judaism - and only further distances both Christians and Jews from their spiritual homes. It is clear to me that the Messianics do not want their followers to become Presbyterians nor do they personally want to follow Presbyterian practices. But apparently they have no problem spending money collected from the members of the Presbyterian Church USA to fund a congregation that not only hides the cross and baptismal font, but advertises to Jews in a manner that has been described as deceptive. The minister of this Messianic Jewish congregation took a great leap of faith to leave Judaism and to join the Presbyterian Church and become an ordained minister. I imagine that when he was ordained he vowed to uphold the theology and practice of the Presbyterian Church - isn’t it ironic that he does not urge his followers to do the same?
It is no surprise to me that my fellow Jews view the new church Avodat Yisrael as a cheap advertising gimmick. It is as if mainstream Jews funded a savvy Conservative rabbi to sing Amazing Grace, recite the Lord’s Prayer and read selected New Testament verses in an attempt to lure inter-faith couples.
So how should the Presbyterys respond to inter-marriage and outreach to inter-married families? There are other, more dignified paths. Many churches already have adjusted to new American religious trends and now offer classes for young families entitled "When mommy is Jewish" or "When daddy is Jewish" to help inter-faith families face their issues in an open, non-judgmental environment. Others offer classes particularly on Hebrew Scripture or create a book group that includes a book of Jewish interest. Some have invited in rabbis to teach. Probably the most interesting development in this arena is the award winning local television program in Larchmont, New York that features a Presbyterian minister and a rabbi discussing theological issues over breakfast at a diner. These activities send the message to Jews that they will be welcomed without judgment and spoken of with respect within the Church. When that happens, inter-married families will not only join churches but become amazing assets for furthering the Church’s goals. I’m sure that many of you have seen this with your own eyes.
Decades of work have gone into building a strong relationship between Presbyterians and Jews. In the wake of the holocaust, theological dialogue led to new understandings of an ancient connection. Both Jews and Presbyterians are challenged by America’s new religious realities. It is my hope that Presbyterians across the country will continue to affirm the spiritual journey that Jews and Christians walk together in light of God’s teachings and that further efforts to outreach to inter-married families can be done with true sensitivity and compassion. I hope that in the upcoming assembly that the Presbyterian Church USA’s membership will raise their voices, put an end to further allocations to Messianic Jewish groups and reaffirm the Church’s historic principles regarding Jewish-Christian relations.
11.8.04
Praying With Lior
A few months ago, I met with Ilana Trachtman, director of Praying with Lior which is in the final stage of development. I saw a rough cut of the film, which is about the remarkable prayer skills of Lior Leibling, a young man with Down's Syndrome who just had his bar mitzvah. Ilana is doing a phenomenal job with a difficult subject.
9.8.04
16.7.04
Remarks at Rensellearville Church
Spiritual Activism: From Moses to Bob Marley’s Redemption Song
Rabbi Daniel Brenner
I begin with a story:
The Parable of the Two Scrolls:
A traveler walks down a path holding a scroll of paper in each hand. Every few minutes, the traveler stops along the way and unrolls one of the scrolls.
“The whole world was created for me.” reads the first scroll.
After reading this message, the traveler walks with pride, taking long strides on the journey, enjoying each step, paying little attention to the world as it passes by.
After a while the traveler stops and unrolls the scroll in the other hand
“I am from dust and will return to dust!” it reads.
Suddenly the traveler begins to shuffle along the road in a state of despair, head hanging to the ground, despondent until the next time that the scroll in the other hand is read.
This Chassidic tale is often recalled during the month of reflection that precedes the Jewish High Holidays. Life, we are told by this teaching, is a delicate balancing act between two truths. Hope and despair are those two truths and they are always present.
Today, many political theorists are talking about two truths as well. Two Harvard professors are at the center of this debate. One, Francis Fukuyama, has argued that globalization and the rise of the digital market will eventually create a peaceful world with one language and one culture. The other, Samuel Huntington, has argued that a violent clash of civilizations is upon us - most notably between Islam and the West. In short, these visions predict either a world that is populated by those who wish to forget the past in the name of peace or by those who wish to fight to recreate the glory of the past.
Are either of these predictions proving to be accurate?
While it may seem that the clash is upon us, I want to suggest that in some ways both men are right. We are moving towards a global village and we are more interconnected than we have ever been. Education of millions is now happening via online resources. More young girls are learning than ever before. These could be hopeful signs. Yet, we also live with the images of 9/11 and images of the numerous attacks against Americans and other Westerners who are aid workers, journalists, or simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Who perpetrates these attacks?
In most cases, they are carried out not by those who are directly oppressed under the economic conditions dictated by the West on Arab nations – but those Arab students who can afford to come to the West to seek education and fortune. Sadly, many of them end up feeling more and more alienated from both their ancestral land and the modern world.
The root of the attacks is not Islam or the Quran – but the conflicted soul that rages towards the West (a rage that has been building since the colonial era) and desires the West (for individual autonomy, technology, and political freedom)
That conflict, in a digital world, becomes the impetus for a media spectacle of violence.
So how do we address this conflicted soul? How do we address the alienation that is at the heart of the transition from the local to global village?
We do not have to go to the apartment blocks of Paris, Manchester or Hamburg to see Muslims making the difficult transition from local to global village. They are also here in our midst. And when I have spoken with them, I understand how vulnerable they feel.
Since 1965, America has undergone a radical change in religious diversity that Professor Diane Eck has titled the “New Religious America.” It is an America that includes Sikhs, Hindus, Muslims, Buddhists, and more. It is an America that is a microcosm of the world’s religions – and a place in which new forms of those religions are blossoming.
And while America may have not received as much public attention as France has with ‘headscarf crimes’, America is facing a similar challenge of diversity. So we must ask a historical question:
How did America respond to the first wave of immigration that brought religious diversity to these shores– the wave between 1880- and 1920?
While it took nearly three decades for Jews and Catholics to feel accepted in America, we have countless of righteous Protestants to thank for making this nation a welcoming one for religious difference. In 1927, when the National Conference of Christians and Jews began with one Protestant, one Catholic, and one Jewish leader, it sent a message that this nation was one which not only tolerated, but found strength in diversity. John F. Kennedy’s presidency was historic, as was Joseph Leiberman’s candidacy. And these events could not have happened without thousands of local events like this one here today.
For Jews, finding acceptance in America was not only vital in the 1920s, but was especially salient after the horrors visited on our people in Europe during World War II. Jews not only came to see America as a refuge, but to call it home. I grew up with the U.S. Army issue Passover Haggadah that my father used as a G.I.
The same efforts that Protestants pushed forward in solidifying this nation as a Judeo-Christian one must now be advanced to widen the tent. And while I hope that both polytheists (like Hindus) and non-theists (like Buddhists) will be included around the table, it is our fellow monotheists, Muslims, that we must reach out to at this hour.
But bringing them to the table is only the first step. The real question regarding diversity is not simply who we can gather around the table, but what can we accomplish together. Jews, Protestants and Catholics came together and played a major role in healing the nation’s racism and establishing civil rights. Today there is a new set of issues to tackle. So where should we begin? We might draw on some spiritual resources.
In the Book of Exodus, the young Moses “Goes out to see his brethren” – The Midrash, the collection of rabbinic commentaries on the Torah, asks “what did he see?”
He saw the burdens of the young on the backs of the old and the burdens of the old on the backs of the young. He saw the burdens of women on men and men on women.
So how did he respond?
Moses began to shift the burdens, running back and forth. He hoped that Pharoah would be pleased, seeing how much more efficient the work had become. But Pharoah forbid him from interfering. It was then that Moses knew that he would have to stand up to Pharoah.
Today we live in a nation in which our collective burdens are being carried by those whose voices of anguish go unheard. Rather than create a society in which there is a chicken in every pot, we have created a gap between rich and poor that has grown larger each year. Fewer people have health insurance – and even those who have it cannot afford decent health care. And there are thousands of workers in this country – men who work the fields among the pesticides, women who are held in captivity and exploited sexually– who are carrying unjust burdens. It is appalling to me that a Wal-mart janitorial employee from Poland was forced to work 364 days a year, twelve hour shifts and denied medical care when she had a work related accident.
Of course we will not change our society overnight, but the one thing that we can change is our minds.
Bob Marley sang:
Emancipate yourselves from inner slavery/ none but ourselves can free our minds/have no fear for atomic energy / none of them can stop the time/ how long will we kill our prophets/ while they stand aside a look/ we’ve got to take part in it/ got to fulfill the book/ redemption song/this song of freedom/ all I ever had
We can change our minds – and through the electoral process we have the ability to change the policies that impact our nation’s most vulnerable. It is said that the worst part of Egyptian slavery was that the Hebrews had given up hope that they would ever be anything other than slaves. But we should not lose hope that it is possible to create a compassionate and caring society. We can shift the energy we have used to become the world’s military superpower to address the AIDS crisis, environmental crisis, and the desperate need for education.
We carry two scrolls with us. One scroll that gives us hope and one that instills despair.
Today, let us look at the new religious diversity in America as a sign of hope. It will take much work, but we can utilize this diversity to touch the lives of people in every nation. Let us dedicate ourselves to building a wide tent, in which all can rest safely and find nourishment. And let that tent be an inspiration for all our fellow travelers on planet earth.
Rabbi Daniel Brenner
I begin with a story:
The Parable of the Two Scrolls:
A traveler walks down a path holding a scroll of paper in each hand. Every few minutes, the traveler stops along the way and unrolls one of the scrolls.
“The whole world was created for me.” reads the first scroll.
After reading this message, the traveler walks with pride, taking long strides on the journey, enjoying each step, paying little attention to the world as it passes by.
After a while the traveler stops and unrolls the scroll in the other hand
“I am from dust and will return to dust!” it reads.
Suddenly the traveler begins to shuffle along the road in a state of despair, head hanging to the ground, despondent until the next time that the scroll in the other hand is read.
This Chassidic tale is often recalled during the month of reflection that precedes the Jewish High Holidays. Life, we are told by this teaching, is a delicate balancing act between two truths. Hope and despair are those two truths and they are always present.
Today, many political theorists are talking about two truths as well. Two Harvard professors are at the center of this debate. One, Francis Fukuyama, has argued that globalization and the rise of the digital market will eventually create a peaceful world with one language and one culture. The other, Samuel Huntington, has argued that a violent clash of civilizations is upon us - most notably between Islam and the West. In short, these visions predict either a world that is populated by those who wish to forget the past in the name of peace or by those who wish to fight to recreate the glory of the past.
Are either of these predictions proving to be accurate?
While it may seem that the clash is upon us, I want to suggest that in some ways both men are right. We are moving towards a global village and we are more interconnected than we have ever been. Education of millions is now happening via online resources. More young girls are learning than ever before. These could be hopeful signs. Yet, we also live with the images of 9/11 and images of the numerous attacks against Americans and other Westerners who are aid workers, journalists, or simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Who perpetrates these attacks?
In most cases, they are carried out not by those who are directly oppressed under the economic conditions dictated by the West on Arab nations – but those Arab students who can afford to come to the West to seek education and fortune. Sadly, many of them end up feeling more and more alienated from both their ancestral land and the modern world.
The root of the attacks is not Islam or the Quran – but the conflicted soul that rages towards the West (a rage that has been building since the colonial era) and desires the West (for individual autonomy, technology, and political freedom)
That conflict, in a digital world, becomes the impetus for a media spectacle of violence.
So how do we address this conflicted soul? How do we address the alienation that is at the heart of the transition from the local to global village?
We do not have to go to the apartment blocks of Paris, Manchester or Hamburg to see Muslims making the difficult transition from local to global village. They are also here in our midst. And when I have spoken with them, I understand how vulnerable they feel.
Since 1965, America has undergone a radical change in religious diversity that Professor Diane Eck has titled the “New Religious America.” It is an America that includes Sikhs, Hindus, Muslims, Buddhists, and more. It is an America that is a microcosm of the world’s religions – and a place in which new forms of those religions are blossoming.
And while America may have not received as much public attention as France has with ‘headscarf crimes’, America is facing a similar challenge of diversity. So we must ask a historical question:
How did America respond to the first wave of immigration that brought religious diversity to these shores– the wave between 1880- and 1920?
While it took nearly three decades for Jews and Catholics to feel accepted in America, we have countless of righteous Protestants to thank for making this nation a welcoming one for religious difference. In 1927, when the National Conference of Christians and Jews began with one Protestant, one Catholic, and one Jewish leader, it sent a message that this nation was one which not only tolerated, but found strength in diversity. John F. Kennedy’s presidency was historic, as was Joseph Leiberman’s candidacy. And these events could not have happened without thousands of local events like this one here today.
For Jews, finding acceptance in America was not only vital in the 1920s, but was especially salient after the horrors visited on our people in Europe during World War II. Jews not only came to see America as a refuge, but to call it home. I grew up with the U.S. Army issue Passover Haggadah that my father used as a G.I.
The same efforts that Protestants pushed forward in solidifying this nation as a Judeo-Christian one must now be advanced to widen the tent. And while I hope that both polytheists (like Hindus) and non-theists (like Buddhists) will be included around the table, it is our fellow monotheists, Muslims, that we must reach out to at this hour.
But bringing them to the table is only the first step. The real question regarding diversity is not simply who we can gather around the table, but what can we accomplish together. Jews, Protestants and Catholics came together and played a major role in healing the nation’s racism and establishing civil rights. Today there is a new set of issues to tackle. So where should we begin? We might draw on some spiritual resources.
In the Book of Exodus, the young Moses “Goes out to see his brethren” – The Midrash, the collection of rabbinic commentaries on the Torah, asks “what did he see?”
He saw the burdens of the young on the backs of the old and the burdens of the old on the backs of the young. He saw the burdens of women on men and men on women.
So how did he respond?
Moses began to shift the burdens, running back and forth. He hoped that Pharoah would be pleased, seeing how much more efficient the work had become. But Pharoah forbid him from interfering. It was then that Moses knew that he would have to stand up to Pharoah.
Today we live in a nation in which our collective burdens are being carried by those whose voices of anguish go unheard. Rather than create a society in which there is a chicken in every pot, we have created a gap between rich and poor that has grown larger each year. Fewer people have health insurance – and even those who have it cannot afford decent health care. And there are thousands of workers in this country – men who work the fields among the pesticides, women who are held in captivity and exploited sexually– who are carrying unjust burdens. It is appalling to me that a Wal-mart janitorial employee from Poland was forced to work 364 days a year, twelve hour shifts and denied medical care when she had a work related accident.
Of course we will not change our society overnight, but the one thing that we can change is our minds.
Bob Marley sang:
Emancipate yourselves from inner slavery/ none but ourselves can free our minds/have no fear for atomic energy / none of them can stop the time/ how long will we kill our prophets/ while they stand aside a look/ we’ve got to take part in it/ got to fulfill the book/ redemption song/this song of freedom/ all I ever had
We can change our minds – and through the electoral process we have the ability to change the policies that impact our nation’s most vulnerable. It is said that the worst part of Egyptian slavery was that the Hebrews had given up hope that they would ever be anything other than slaves. But we should not lose hope that it is possible to create a compassionate and caring society. We can shift the energy we have used to become the world’s military superpower to address the AIDS crisis, environmental crisis, and the desperate need for education.
We carry two scrolls with us. One scroll that gives us hope and one that instills despair.
Today, let us look at the new religious diversity in America as a sign of hope. It will take much work, but we can utilize this diversity to touch the lives of people in every nation. Let us dedicate ourselves to building a wide tent, in which all can rest safely and find nourishment. And let that tent be an inspiration for all our fellow travelers on planet earth.
12.5.04
My Invocation at the George Rupp lecture
I was asked to deliver the invocation at a time when the world was reeling from the revelations from Abu Gharib. Here's what I came up with:
INVOCATION
Rudin Lecture, May 11, 2004
Eternal One, may it be your will that our coming together here, tonight, for a short time, will inspire and renew us.
Though we come together from diverse religious traditions, with particular theologies and practices that guide us, may we invoke your name tonight together as a sign of shared gratitude for the ability to join together in this space. May we use the freedom and wealth that we are blessed with to make the lives of others more joyful and bearable.
Blessed Holy One, this week our hearts have been heavy. At this time of war and images of brutality, may we be given the courage and strength to put aside the inner cynic, the nasty, brutish and short voice that leads us to look at an atrocity and say “well, this kind of thing always happens.” Give us the strength to say “It does not have to be this way.” Give us the wisdom to learn from this as a nation– and to move forward as a world power with both humility and responsibility. In the face of increased hostility towards us, even in the face of acts of vengeance aimed to rattle us, help us to rise to our highest ideals, and to respond to chaos with calm and clarity.
Source of Life, as you heard the cries of the stranger’s child, of the enslaved Hebrews in Egypt, of the repentant King David in his chambers may we hear the voices that call out at this hour. May we hear, and respond with our own outsretched hands.
INVOCATION
Rudin Lecture, May 11, 2004
Eternal One, may it be your will that our coming together here, tonight, for a short time, will inspire and renew us.
Though we come together from diverse religious traditions, with particular theologies and practices that guide us, may we invoke your name tonight together as a sign of shared gratitude for the ability to join together in this space. May we use the freedom and wealth that we are blessed with to make the lives of others more joyful and bearable.
Blessed Holy One, this week our hearts have been heavy. At this time of war and images of brutality, may we be given the courage and strength to put aside the inner cynic, the nasty, brutish and short voice that leads us to look at an atrocity and say “well, this kind of thing always happens.” Give us the strength to say “It does not have to be this way.” Give us the wisdom to learn from this as a nation– and to move forward as a world power with both humility and responsibility. In the face of increased hostility towards us, even in the face of acts of vengeance aimed to rattle us, help us to rise to our highest ideals, and to respond to chaos with calm and clarity.
Source of Life, as you heard the cries of the stranger’s child, of the enslaved Hebrews in Egypt, of the repentant King David in his chambers may we hear the voices that call out at this hour. May we hear, and respond with our own outsretched hands.
The Big House
This past Monday I taught in Sing Sing to a group of inmates in the Masters of Theology program. 10 Christians, 4 Muslims, most of them lifers. It was intense being in the complex -- located on a magnificent site overlooking the Hudson -- and the students were clearly engaged. One of the best questions was "Have they come out with a new edition of the Encyclopedia Judaica? Our edition in the prison library in 1972, and I was wondering if there have been any discoveries of new aggadic materials!"
5.5.04
Sacred Space
Yesterday we had our Sacred Space conference. University of Chicago's Jonathan Z. Smith was the highlight - an eccentric Durkheimian. We also visited the Manhattan Mormon Temple. Here are some photos. . One of the protestant ministers on the tour said "Gosh, it looks like a funeral home."
30.4.04
Embracing Beliefnet
My book has recently been excerpted on beliefnet, which allows folks to write in their commentary. So far there are a few stories from folks who have dealt with loss.
26.4.04
A classic cartoon from my rabbinical school days
I came acroos this masterpiece, a cartoon from the good old days when I taught Hebrew School. I sort of miss it. sort of.
22.4.04
Blackboards in Abu Gosh
Yesterday we had an event at Auburn with Ron Kronish a rabbi in Jerusalem that does Inter-religious dialogue. He came with a Palestinian educator, Issa Jabar, who was equally eloquent. At one point during the event, a reporter from a rather anti-Israel magazine felt that it was an opportunity to challenge the charge that Palestinians are being taught to hate Israelis in schools. "Is it true," she asked Jabar, "that Palestinain teachers are teaching hate?" Jabar's response: "Yes - but during Oslo we worked on a new curriculum and we are still hoping to implement it!" May it be speedily and in our days.
16.4.04
Pharoah on Audio
The session I did with Rabbi Art Waskow in D.C. "Speaking Truth to Pharoah" is now available on tape. If you are interested, you can order the tape.for 10 bucks plus 7 shipping.
15.4.04
God Bless Omaha
The Harvard School of Divinity Pluralism Project listed one of the op-eds I wrote after 9/11 in its interfaith section. My op-ed was quoted by the editors at the Omaha newspaper. Who knew that folks in Nebraska read the Forverts?
Shibley Telhami and the Two State Solution
I heard Shibley Telhami speak today on the two state solution. He was level-headed and brilliant - I just wished that someone in power would stop and listen. His latest piece is in Foreign Affairs.
14.4.04
Religious Leaders to team up with Ice Cream Makers
I heard a presentation from the folks from True Majority an outfit spawned by Ben of Ben and Jerry's. The host was Rabbi Balfour Brickner and his clergy group. One of their missions is to work on ecomomic justice issues -- to help people see the bigger issues - both nationally and globally. The short videos on their site are worth watching.
1.4.04
Another review for Embracing Life
Here's another review of my book. This review is the first I've seen from a caregiver's perspective.
31.3.04
Yoruba
Davenning at Borough Park’s Yoruba Shtiebel
By Rabbi Daniel S. Brenner
This past Sunday morning I trekked through the foot of snow that recently visited the Big Apple to take an honorary seat on the bimah of the Christ Apostolic Church. This is one of Borough Park’s wonders - Housed in what once was a German Evangelical chapel is a church of Nigerian immigrants, whose service is mostly in the Yoruba dialect and whose band has no fewer than five onigangans – sacred drummers singing praises to the Lord on congas, djembes, and talking drums. From the moment that the band began to play every leg, arm, and head in the place began to move – men in finely tailored suits and women in magnificent hats and African dress swaying in their separate sections. This kept on for a full two hours, only briefly interrupted by a few short prayers and speeches. The energy in the room was electric – this was a house of God caught up in the throes of spiritual ecstasy.
Whenever I am called on to be a guest rabbi in a church I tell myself the following things- Smile, you represent the Jewish people. Stand up and sit down with the congregation. Don’t cross your legs or look at your watch. Pay attention to the speaker even if no one else is. Close your eyes when they have their heads down in prayer. Don’t try to sing something you don’t know. Nod politely with your mouth closed when they say ‘Amen’ to a prayer in Jesus’ name.
I tried my best to follow these rules, but let me say this – you try to go to Christ Apostolic and sit still – try not to dance when that choir begins to shout, try not to shout “Hallelujah!” when that bass line kicks in and the entire congregation is shaking like it was James Brown at the Apollo. You might be able to hold back for a few minutes, but after that, the ruach hakodesh is going to move you.
But I was moved by much more than the spiritual energy I felt that morning in Brooklyn. Chirst Apostolic is led by a charismatic 70 year old minister, Dr. Abraham Oyedeji, a man who received death threats for his stand against the military government that ruled Lagos up until 1998. His bravery in exposing human rights violations before the United Nations, along with the bravery of many others, has led to a time of great promise in Nigeria.
With all the talk these days about democracy or the lack of it in Iraq, we might look towards Nigeria to see if religious freedom and democracy are viable in a nation that is increasingly under the sway of Islamic law. The North is Muslim and the South is Christian and in the last four years, nearly 10,000 Nigerians have been murdered in various feuds between Christians and Muslims. In response, President Obasanjo has pushed forward a vision of the nation that is “multi-religious” – he has even insisted on a secular constitution. As a result of his recent re-election, there is relative calm now of these religious tensions – but they can boil over at any moment and they must be addressed at all times.
One of the factors that helps this “multi-religious” vision move forward is the strong voice of Nigerian immigrants in America who are well connected to the current government. In a private meeting after the service, the Reverend Oyedeji articulated a vision of Nigerian life that spoke to his own vision of religious tolerance:
“My uncle was a practitioner of African traditional religion but he was a righteous man – the most generous and loving man I have ever met. Could I tell him that he must become a Christian? And my older brother, he was the chief Imam of Nigeria. Could I tell my older brother what to believe? That is not done in an African family. So God will judge who has a place in heaven – not me.”
He then turned to me, and said “and this goes for my Jewish brothers and sisters as well.” At a time of global religious tension, it is reassuring to hear a personal vision of religious diversity.
So what I came away with from the Church was much more than a song in my head and a few dance steps, but a sense that we Jews are not as alone as we think. Among the new Americans, those who came after the 1965 immigration act, there are others who hold onto their traditions in the diaspora and hold concern in their hearts for their homelands. There are also others who wish that the freedom of religious expression possible in America could be true in their homelands. More importantly, there are others who experience themselves as a religious minority, who live in regions where they are seeing a wing of Islam attempting to dominate the political and legal sphere.
After the Sunday service, one of the younger ministers who saw my enthusiastic response to their worship came up to me and said “This was different from what you are used to, I am sure!” –I smiled. “Yes,” I wanted to say, “the whole Jesus thing is noticeably absent in my shul!” But I also wanted to say “No. It is no different - I, too, sing ancient words to the Holy One, grateful for the blessing of religious freedom, feeling the wondrous irony of being blessed in exile.”
Rabbi Daniel S. Brenner is the director of the Center for Multifaith Education at Auburn Theological Seminary in New York City.
By Rabbi Daniel S. Brenner
This past Sunday morning I trekked through the foot of snow that recently visited the Big Apple to take an honorary seat on the bimah of the Christ Apostolic Church. This is one of Borough Park’s wonders - Housed in what once was a German Evangelical chapel is a church of Nigerian immigrants, whose service is mostly in the Yoruba dialect and whose band has no fewer than five onigangans – sacred drummers singing praises to the Lord on congas, djembes, and talking drums. From the moment that the band began to play every leg, arm, and head in the place began to move – men in finely tailored suits and women in magnificent hats and African dress swaying in their separate sections. This kept on for a full two hours, only briefly interrupted by a few short prayers and speeches. The energy in the room was electric – this was a house of God caught up in the throes of spiritual ecstasy.
Whenever I am called on to be a guest rabbi in a church I tell myself the following things- Smile, you represent the Jewish people. Stand up and sit down with the congregation. Don’t cross your legs or look at your watch. Pay attention to the speaker even if no one else is. Close your eyes when they have their heads down in prayer. Don’t try to sing something you don’t know. Nod politely with your mouth closed when they say ‘Amen’ to a prayer in Jesus’ name.
I tried my best to follow these rules, but let me say this – you try to go to Christ Apostolic and sit still – try not to dance when that choir begins to shout, try not to shout “Hallelujah!” when that bass line kicks in and the entire congregation is shaking like it was James Brown at the Apollo. You might be able to hold back for a few minutes, but after that, the ruach hakodesh is going to move you.
But I was moved by much more than the spiritual energy I felt that morning in Brooklyn. Chirst Apostolic is led by a charismatic 70 year old minister, Dr. Abraham Oyedeji, a man who received death threats for his stand against the military government that ruled Lagos up until 1998. His bravery in exposing human rights violations before the United Nations, along with the bravery of many others, has led to a time of great promise in Nigeria.
With all the talk these days about democracy or the lack of it in Iraq, we might look towards Nigeria to see if religious freedom and democracy are viable in a nation that is increasingly under the sway of Islamic law. The North is Muslim and the South is Christian and in the last four years, nearly 10,000 Nigerians have been murdered in various feuds between Christians and Muslims. In response, President Obasanjo has pushed forward a vision of the nation that is “multi-religious” – he has even insisted on a secular constitution. As a result of his recent re-election, there is relative calm now of these religious tensions – but they can boil over at any moment and they must be addressed at all times.
One of the factors that helps this “multi-religious” vision move forward is the strong voice of Nigerian immigrants in America who are well connected to the current government. In a private meeting after the service, the Reverend Oyedeji articulated a vision of Nigerian life that spoke to his own vision of religious tolerance:
“My uncle was a practitioner of African traditional religion but he was a righteous man – the most generous and loving man I have ever met. Could I tell him that he must become a Christian? And my older brother, he was the chief Imam of Nigeria. Could I tell my older brother what to believe? That is not done in an African family. So God will judge who has a place in heaven – not me.”
He then turned to me, and said “and this goes for my Jewish brothers and sisters as well.” At a time of global religious tension, it is reassuring to hear a personal vision of religious diversity.
So what I came away with from the Church was much more than a song in my head and a few dance steps, but a sense that we Jews are not as alone as we think. Among the new Americans, those who came after the 1965 immigration act, there are others who hold onto their traditions in the diaspora and hold concern in their hearts for their homelands. There are also others who wish that the freedom of religious expression possible in America could be true in their homelands. More importantly, there are others who experience themselves as a religious minority, who live in regions where they are seeing a wing of Islam attempting to dominate the political and legal sphere.
After the Sunday service, one of the younger ministers who saw my enthusiastic response to their worship came up to me and said “This was different from what you are used to, I am sure!” –I smiled. “Yes,” I wanted to say, “the whole Jesus thing is noticeably absent in my shul!” But I also wanted to say “No. It is no different - I, too, sing ancient words to the Holy One, grateful for the blessing of religious freedom, feeling the wondrous irony of being blessed in exile.”
Rabbi Daniel S. Brenner is the director of the Center for Multifaith Education at Auburn Theological Seminary in New York City.
30.3.04
One Nation Under God
in Spirituality & Health
The Problem With One Nation Under God
By Rabbi Daniel S. Brenner
As a child sent to a religious day school I could not help but feel that God was watching me from above every time I sat on the toilet. I also sensed that God watched sporting events, occasionally guiding basketballs into hoops from half-court (Dick Vital yelling “Hail Mary!”). In fact, all people were living “under” God – a deity above us peering down like the manager of the A&P from his perch atop the customer service desk. So as eight members of the Supreme Court and the rest of the nation debate the phrase “under God”, I’ve been thinking about the “under” part. Where did we get the idea that God was on top of us? How did we get “under” God in the first place?
I ask this question because as my theology has matured, I have come to learn that God, as conveyed in the Five Books of Moses, is not only up in the sky, but very down-to-earth. God is present in rocky valleys, bushes, even inside of tents. Jacob wakes up from sleeping on a stone pillow and says, “God was in this place and I, and I did not know it!” God in a thorn bush says to Moses “I will be what I will be,” a cloud called “God’s glory” enters the sacred tent before the children of Israel.
So how did God become “on high” – and as a result we become “under” God? The source for the phrase “God on high” is an obscure name for God in the Book of Genesis that is uttered by Melchizedek of Salem, one of the Kings who tries to butter-up Abraham. In doing so, he praises Eyl Elyon, which literally means “God on top” but is translated as “Most High God” or “God on High.” Interestingly, none of the patriarchs or matriarchs ever refers to God with this name. Rather, they have a more expansive knowledge of God, and elsewhere in Genesis, we can hear it echoed in Jacob’s blessing: “by the God of your father, who will help you, by El Shaddai, who will bless you with blessings from the sky above and blessings from the deep, lying below, blessings from the breasts and the womb.”
One of my teachers in seminary, the historian Tikve Frymer-Kensky, spoke of the Biblical God as one that is synthesized from the ancient sky gods and the ancient earth gods (as well as a few other gods with varying genders) into one deity. The innovation was to create one unified name for all of the powers that compelled the natural world. And in the Bible, God speaks from within these forces-- "Out of the heavens God let you hear His voice to guide you,” we read in the fourth chapter of Deuteronomy, “and on earth God let you see His great fire, and you heard His words from the midst of the fire.”
So, from this expansive Biblical vision of God in which God permeates all of reality, in both the elemental and the human realms, how did we get into thinking of ourselves as simply ‘under’ God?
The vast majority of the metaphors used to describe God on high come in later works, most notably the Psalms, which are replete with poetic language that describes God in this way. God is ‘above the heavens,’ is the ‘King of Kings’, is the ‘Judge on high seated on his throne.’ Those metaphors would surely place us under God - but the author of the Psalms also includes conceptions that are more earthbound. God is a rock, God a fortress, God a dwelling place. And there are conceptual names for God – God as truth, salvation, exceeding joy – that have nothing to do with location.
Why does it matter so much for us to dissect the phrase ‘under’ God? In part this matters because we are increasingly becoming a more religiously diverse nation.
At a time when religious totalitarianism is making a comeback around the globe, we should recognize our diversity – the fact that while some Americans do envision that believers are below and God is above, others see God within, God as permeating all things, God as manifest in multiple realities or God as a force that by definition can not be limited to human conceptions. There are even a few folks who proudly call themselves ‘godless.’ In short, if the pledge were an actual reflection of America's theological diversity it would have to have a section with a "fill in the blank."
But there is a more important reason for us to revise the language ‘under’ God. We live in an era where it is not only up to God whether we live or die – but also up to us. As we continue to poison the planet and march faster to ecocide, both God’s immanence in creation and human responsibility should be implicit in our theology.
Yes, God is cosmic. When I look up at the night sky, I see a reflection of God’s glory. But I also see it as I dig in the garden. And that time that I went snorkeling in the Gulf of Aqaba – that was a blessing from the depths. But most importantly, I sense God’s presence as a force that exists between people when they are reflecting the attributes of understanding, kindness, support, mercy, and justice.
So I think that it is time for us to let go of “Under God” and recognize the phrases’ limits. It reverts us back to the ancient sky god and reinforces the notion that God can only be understood as a judge or king who looks down on us. God is much more.
Rabbi Daniel S. Brenner is the Director of the Center for Multifaith Education at Auburn Theological Seminary in New York City.
The Problem With One Nation Under God
By Rabbi Daniel S. Brenner
As a child sent to a religious day school I could not help but feel that God was watching me from above every time I sat on the toilet. I also sensed that God watched sporting events, occasionally guiding basketballs into hoops from half-court (Dick Vital yelling “Hail Mary!”). In fact, all people were living “under” God – a deity above us peering down like the manager of the A&P from his perch atop the customer service desk. So as eight members of the Supreme Court and the rest of the nation debate the phrase “under God”, I’ve been thinking about the “under” part. Where did we get the idea that God was on top of us? How did we get “under” God in the first place?
I ask this question because as my theology has matured, I have come to learn that God, as conveyed in the Five Books of Moses, is not only up in the sky, but very down-to-earth. God is present in rocky valleys, bushes, even inside of tents. Jacob wakes up from sleeping on a stone pillow and says, “God was in this place and I, and I did not know it!” God in a thorn bush says to Moses “I will be what I will be,” a cloud called “God’s glory” enters the sacred tent before the children of Israel.
So how did God become “on high” – and as a result we become “under” God? The source for the phrase “God on high” is an obscure name for God in the Book of Genesis that is uttered by Melchizedek of Salem, one of the Kings who tries to butter-up Abraham. In doing so, he praises Eyl Elyon, which literally means “God on top” but is translated as “Most High God” or “God on High.” Interestingly, none of the patriarchs or matriarchs ever refers to God with this name. Rather, they have a more expansive knowledge of God, and elsewhere in Genesis, we can hear it echoed in Jacob’s blessing: “by the God of your father, who will help you, by El Shaddai, who will bless you with blessings from the sky above and blessings from the deep, lying below, blessings from the breasts and the womb.”
One of my teachers in seminary, the historian Tikve Frymer-Kensky, spoke of the Biblical God as one that is synthesized from the ancient sky gods and the ancient earth gods (as well as a few other gods with varying genders) into one deity. The innovation was to create one unified name for all of the powers that compelled the natural world. And in the Bible, God speaks from within these forces-- "Out of the heavens God let you hear His voice to guide you,” we read in the fourth chapter of Deuteronomy, “and on earth God let you see His great fire, and you heard His words from the midst of the fire.”
So, from this expansive Biblical vision of God in which God permeates all of reality, in both the elemental and the human realms, how did we get into thinking of ourselves as simply ‘under’ God?
The vast majority of the metaphors used to describe God on high come in later works, most notably the Psalms, which are replete with poetic language that describes God in this way. God is ‘above the heavens,’ is the ‘King of Kings’, is the ‘Judge on high seated on his throne.’ Those metaphors would surely place us under God - but the author of the Psalms also includes conceptions that are more earthbound. God is a rock, God a fortress, God a dwelling place. And there are conceptual names for God – God as truth, salvation, exceeding joy – that have nothing to do with location.
Why does it matter so much for us to dissect the phrase ‘under’ God? In part this matters because we are increasingly becoming a more religiously diverse nation.
At a time when religious totalitarianism is making a comeback around the globe, we should recognize our diversity – the fact that while some Americans do envision that believers are below and God is above, others see God within, God as permeating all things, God as manifest in multiple realities or God as a force that by definition can not be limited to human conceptions. There are even a few folks who proudly call themselves ‘godless.’ In short, if the pledge were an actual reflection of America's theological diversity it would have to have a section with a "fill in the blank."
But there is a more important reason for us to revise the language ‘under’ God. We live in an era where it is not only up to God whether we live or die – but also up to us. As we continue to poison the planet and march faster to ecocide, both God’s immanence in creation and human responsibility should be implicit in our theology.
Yes, God is cosmic. When I look up at the night sky, I see a reflection of God’s glory. But I also see it as I dig in the garden. And that time that I went snorkeling in the Gulf of Aqaba – that was a blessing from the depths. But most importantly, I sense God’s presence as a force that exists between people when they are reflecting the attributes of understanding, kindness, support, mercy, and justice.
So I think that it is time for us to let go of “Under God” and recognize the phrases’ limits. It reverts us back to the ancient sky god and reinforces the notion that God can only be understood as a judge or king who looks down on us. God is much more.
Rabbi Daniel S. Brenner is the Director of the Center for Multifaith Education at Auburn Theological Seminary in New York City.
Four Seasons
Rothkos on the wall, Diane Sawyer and Henry Kissinger at the next table over, Senator Corzine shmoozing up on the balcony level - I had the baby spinach, the peppered Tuna and the mocha sundae as I got to know one of our donors. The Four Seasons is one classy joint.
11.3.04
The Belarussians are coming!!!
The State Department called me yesterday to see if I'd speak to a group from Belarus. It is a eclectic mix of officials- a Jew, Christian, and Hare Krishna -- all coming to the U.S. on this junket:
RELIGION IN THE U.S. A Freedom Support Grant Project for Belarus
These visitors are invited to the United States under the auspices of the State Department
International Visitor Program.
March 6 - 28, 2004
Objectives:
The participants will be exposed to the diverse religious, social and cultural life of Americans. The visitors will:
· Explore the meaning and significance of the constitutional provision against governmental establishment of religion (“separation of church and state”)
· Discuss with representatives of the legislative and executive branches of the government issues of religious freedom domestically and internationally
· Learn about the role that non-governmental organizations (NGOs) play in defining and mediating the status of religion in the U.S.
· Examine the role of religious communities in the area of volunteerism
· Meet with representatives of various faith communities to exchange observations on the practice of their faiths in the United States and their relations with other denominations and faiths
· Become acquainted with the role of the U.S. Military Chaplain Corps in promoting religious identity and tolerance
· Examine the relationship between the news media and religious practice in the U. S.
RELIGION IN THE U.S. A Freedom Support Grant Project for Belarus
These visitors are invited to the United States under the auspices of the State Department
International Visitor Program.
March 6 - 28, 2004
Objectives:
The participants will be exposed to the diverse religious, social and cultural life of Americans. The visitors will:
· Explore the meaning and significance of the constitutional provision against governmental establishment of religion (“separation of church and state”)
· Discuss with representatives of the legislative and executive branches of the government issues of religious freedom domestically and internationally
· Learn about the role that non-governmental organizations (NGOs) play in defining and mediating the status of religion in the U.S.
· Examine the role of religious communities in the area of volunteerism
· Meet with representatives of various faith communities to exchange observations on the practice of their faiths in the United States and their relations with other denominations and faiths
· Become acquainted with the role of the U.S. Military Chaplain Corps in promoting religious identity and tolerance
· Examine the relationship between the news media and religious practice in the U. S.
9.3.04
Karen Armstrong
Last night Union Seminary's Barry Ulnalov lecturer was Karen Armstrong, the former nun who went on to tv and literary stardom as a guide to religion. I enjoyed her work History of God, and I went expecting to hear her wax philiosophic...but this was a spiritual memoir event that weighed heavy on the memoir trope of "how a reject became famous" -- she was funny and charming but ultimately she had very little to say.
4.3.04
Embracing Life is on the list
The UJA's Shira Ruskay Center for End-of-Life Issues has added my book to its resource list.
Jewish Week Coverage of the Passion seminar at NYTS
Jonathan Mark's piece on the event last Monday captured the discussion beautifully.
2.3.04
The Room is Spinning
Last night I attended the Temple of Understanding benefit at the posh University Club on the UES. Whirling dervishes, Bahai chants, a klezmer band, a praying Yogi, Coleman Bark's hipster Rumi poems over cello and circle drum, a Lebanese scholar reciting Gibrhan, a giggling Cokie Roberts -- all were on stage at one time or another....I sat with Sister Joan Kirby, an Episcopal priest, and some donors who couldn't make heads or tales of the evenings lineup.
1.3.04
The Passion
Rev. George McLean, a Methodist, invited me in this morning to the New York Theological Seminary to address the D. Min students on the topic of Mel Gibson's The Passion. It was a challenging speech - and some of the students, a Catholic priest among them, spoke with admiration of Gibson's work. But he was receptive to my perspective, which I appreciated. My gist was this:
1) I, like many Jews, view the film through two lenses: The exile and persecution of Jews that began with the first destruction of the Temple and the legacy of Christian anti-semitism that lead up to the Shoah. To me Gibson's film is focused on a Jew being tortured by governmental authorities and I can't help but link it to Shoah films.
2) Suffering and violence in film is neccesary at times to depict human cruelty, but the drawn out torture of this film is itself brutalizing and I was horrified to see young children in the audience.
3) While I think that the charges of anti-semitism are only drawing more attention to the film, I am concerned about the depiction of old Jewish men in this film. They are heartless.
We had a lovely heart-to-heart discussion after my remarks. I'm hoping that the reporter from the Jewish Week, Jonathan Mark, will capture the vibe of the room in his piece. It felt that our collective response made the controversy worthwhile.
1) I, like many Jews, view the film through two lenses: The exile and persecution of Jews that began with the first destruction of the Temple and the legacy of Christian anti-semitism that lead up to the Shoah. To me Gibson's film is focused on a Jew being tortured by governmental authorities and I can't help but link it to Shoah films.
2) Suffering and violence in film is neccesary at times to depict human cruelty, but the drawn out torture of this film is itself brutalizing and I was horrified to see young children in the audience.
3) While I think that the charges of anti-semitism are only drawing more attention to the film, I am concerned about the depiction of old Jewish men in this film. They are heartless.
We had a lovely heart-to-heart discussion after my remarks. I'm hoping that the reporter from the Jewish Week, Jonathan Mark, will capture the vibe of the room in his piece. It felt that our collective response made the controversy worthwhile.
24.2.04
Memory after the Holocaust
Ilana Abramovitch sent this one to me -- she works at the museum (one of the folks who invited me to do the educator's conference last year) and is putting this program together. I'll be in D.C. but this looks great.
Sunday, March 21
Museum of Jewish Heritage - A Living Memorial to the Holocaust presents:
Memory After the Holocaust
With Douglas Greenberg, Geoffrey Hartman,
Daniel Liebeskind, Leon Wieseltier,
Yosef Yerushalmi and James Young
Sixty years after the Holocaust, memories of Nazi-occupied Europe provide the raw material for histories, memoirs, works of literature, and art. Memory After the Holocaust features three conversations, with noted thinkers from across a variety of disciplines, that explore the ways in which Holocaust memory is preserved and passed from generation to generation.
1p.m.
MEMORY, HISTORY, AND THE JEWS
Leon Wieseltier, Literary Editor, The New Republic, and Yosef Yerushalmi, Professor, Columbia University
2:30 p.m.
PRESERVING MEMORY
Douglas Greenberg, President and Chief Executive Officer, Survivors of the Shoah Visual History Foundation, and Geoffrey Hartman, Professor and Project Director, Fortunoff Video Archive for Holocaust Testimonies, Yale University
4p.m.
BUILDING & REBUILDING MEMORY
Daniel Liebeskind, Architect, and James Young, Professor, University of Massachusetts Amherst
$10 adults, $7 members/seniors, $5 students
Tickets allow access to any part of the event.
TICKETS: On-Line at http://www.mjhnyc.org or call the box office at 646.437.4202
SUBWAY: 4/5 to Bowling Green, R to Whitehall, 1/9 to South Ferry
BUS: M1, M6, M9, M15
Edmond J. Safra Hall
Museum of Jewish Heritage - A Living Memorial to the Holocaust
36 Battery Place in Lower Manhattan
646.437.4200
Sunday, March 21
Museum of Jewish Heritage - A Living Memorial to the Holocaust presents:
Memory After the Holocaust
With Douglas Greenberg, Geoffrey Hartman,
Daniel Liebeskind, Leon Wieseltier,
Yosef Yerushalmi and James Young
Sixty years after the Holocaust, memories of Nazi-occupied Europe provide the raw material for histories, memoirs, works of literature, and art. Memory After the Holocaust features three conversations, with noted thinkers from across a variety of disciplines, that explore the ways in which Holocaust memory is preserved and passed from generation to generation.
1p.m.
MEMORY, HISTORY, AND THE JEWS
Leon Wieseltier, Literary Editor, The New Republic, and Yosef Yerushalmi, Professor, Columbia University
2:30 p.m.
PRESERVING MEMORY
Douglas Greenberg, President and Chief Executive Officer, Survivors of the Shoah Visual History Foundation, and Geoffrey Hartman, Professor and Project Director, Fortunoff Video Archive for Holocaust Testimonies, Yale University
4p.m.
BUILDING & REBUILDING MEMORY
Daniel Liebeskind, Architect, and James Young, Professor, University of Massachusetts Amherst
$10 adults, $7 members/seniors, $5 students
Tickets allow access to any part of the event.
TICKETS: On-Line at http://www.mjhnyc.org or call the box office at 646.437.4202
SUBWAY: 4/5 to Bowling Green, R to Whitehall, 1/9 to South Ferry
BUS: M1, M6, M9, M15
Edmond J. Safra Hall
Museum of Jewish Heritage - A Living Memorial to the Holocaust
36 Battery Place in Lower Manhattan
646.437.4200
Sing Sing
After teaching Talmud to a group of students from the New York Theological Seminary I got invited to the big house - I'll be going to Sing Sing to teach Talmud to a group of Christian inmates. They have all been involved in christian education while being incarcerated and are interested in learning from a rabbi. I think that my great uncle was a chaplain there, so this is another of those full circle experiences.
20.2.04
Reb Zalman
My latest project, to beam Reb Zalman into JTS via videoconferencing, is taking shape for March 8th. I recentlly stumbled across a page of Reb Zalman links which included a piece I did with him entitled Kavanah for Living. There's a copy of the address he gave at the Oberlin graduation which is a poetic and phophetic work.
10.2.04
A Good Read
Last night I read Nicole Krauss' short story "The Last Words on Earth" in the February 9th issue of The New Yorker. Brilliant and funny.
9.2.04
92nd Street Y
After Speaking today at the 92nd Street Y -- to the 60 + Senior crowd on Reconstructionism -- I met a survivor, Margot Freidlander -- who told me about hearing Leo Baeck speak in Thereisnstadt. What she said was this "People always tell shmaltzy stories of those who attempted to follow Jewish ritual in the camps but people do not realize that Baeck gave lectures on Jewish intellectual thought in the camps! On philosophy - That was what kept us going!"
A film-maker is working on a film of her life and the year and a half she was part of the Berlin Underground.
A film-maker is working on a film of her life and the year and a half she was part of the Berlin Underground.
5.2.04
Suburban Shtick
I'm off to the Larchmont Temple Sunday morning to do a presentation entitled "What's a Nice Jewish Boy Doin' in a Place Like This?" The public is invited.
3.2.04
Hiding and Seeking
This Sunday Auburn is hosting a private screening of Hiding and Seeking the new film by Menachem Daum and Oren Rudavsky. I got a chance to see a rough cut of this film a few months ago. In short, the piece is brilliant - it is the journey of a devoted modern Orthodox father to teach his self-ghettoized ultra-orthodox sons to reach out beyond their enclave. The Voice gave it a fantastic review and I hope there will be more to follow.
Joel Ben Izzy
The Beggar King is a gem of a book. I met Ben Izzy when he wove a few of his tales at Auburn Theological Seminary last Fall and the acclaims his book have recieved speak to the power of this bizzare tale of cancer and coincidence. It is great to see a storyteller make a shekel or two.
2.2.04
March on Washington
As Bill Frist cleans his office he may also be thinking about what he'll be speaking on at Washington 14, the UJC conference coming to D.C. next month. He and "Hillary!" are the politico headliners. Rabbi Art Waskow and I are doing one of the side-shows "Speaking Truth to Pharoah" on Monday the 22nd. There is a list of all the confirmed speakers.
Little Fish in Big Pond
Last week I met Senator George Mitchell in a closed door meeting concerning Mideast Peace and I heard the Prince of Jordan speak at the Abraham Initiatives. Both events seemed hopefully optimistic in light of the bombing in Jerusalem, but optimism beats the prison building mentality any day. The highlight of the day was in between meetings - sharing a car with Imam Feisal Abdul Rauf and talking about the Mideast as a big football game. It sounds like a joke - the rabbi and imam talking pigskin - but that's how it happened last week in the Big Apple - so God Bless America. On Friday I was at Columbia University's Center for Human Rights at a consult on Human Rights and Religion - another nexus to watch in the decade ahead.
21.1.04
Embracing Life, Eating Cheese
Last night I joined Rabbi Leon Morris and Joe Fins, M.D. at Temple Emmanuel for a panel on Palliative Care. The best thing about doing an event at Emmanuel is that they label the cheeses -- as in "Belgian Gouda" , "Sharp Wisconsin Cheddar" -- written in mock calligraphic letters. Fins had the line of the night "Palliative care means to "cloak" like wood veneer -- something you won't see here at Emmanuel!"
20.1.04
Queer Eye for the Straight God
Well, here's my latest piece in Killing the Buddha -- Queer Eye for the Straight God. The tasteful photo and caption illustrating the piece is another example of the creative brilliance of the Killing the Buddha team. Avocado Theology.
16.1.04
Yoruba Shteibel Hits the Newstands
This morning - all of six degrees in NYC - I stopped by the newstand in Penn Station to pick up the Jewish Week to see if they ran my piece on the Yoruba Church. I was thrilled to see it on the back page, and they also ran a great photo of the minister who was so gracious in welcoming me (sadly the pic is not included in the web version). Check out the Jewish Week.
Killing The Buddha
I went to the book release party for Killing the Buddha Wednesday night at a swank loft on 28th street (above a furrier) I met the editors and some other fine folk. The book is an off-shoot of the web-zine I've been writing for as an outlet for my unconventional religio-literary work. Two of my pieces are in the archive, Please Don't Kill the Prophet and Behind the Pulpit and I've got another piece debuting next week.
13.1.04
Jews on the Idiot Box
Jonathan Mark used a few of my comments on the whole "popularity of Jews on television" craze that appeared in his latest Jewish Week article. Check out-
http://www.thejewishweek.com/bottom/specialcontent.php3?artid=659
http://www.thejewishweek.com/bottom/specialcontent.php3?artid=659
6.1.04
In a bizarre twist in my life story...
My friend Marty Pottenger has written me in as a character in her new play, Abundance. The premiere is Thursday night, at the Dance Theater Workshop, W. 19th Street. Check out http://www.dtw.org/2004spring/working_theater_04.htm
There's a piece on it from Playbill -- with a picture of the dude who plays me!
This was all part of a community dialogue I took part in back in 2002 --- The Abundance Project.
There's a piece on it from Playbill -- with a picture of the dude who plays me!
This was all part of a community dialogue I took part in back in 2002 --- The Abundance Project.
5.1.04
For those looking to purchase Embracing Life and Facing Death...
Click here for more information on the book I co-wrote with Joseph J. Fins, MD, chief of medical ethics at New York Presbyterian- Cornell Medical Center:
http://www.clal.org/palliative_info.htm
http://www.clal.org/palliative_info.htm
23.12.03
I recently was a guest commentator on the NPR show The Infinite Mind
To listen, check out the the show on Coincidence- I'm there around the 37th minute or so.
18.12.03
Here's a Book Review I just published in the journal Crosscurrents
The Beggar King and the Secret of Happiness
Author: Joel Ben Izzy
Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill
Publication date: November 7, 2003
Reviewed by Daniel S. Brenner
In lecture six of The Varieties of Religious Experience, the Sick Soul,
William James quotes Robert Louis Stevenson -"There is indeed one element in human
destiny that not blindness itself can controvert. Whatever else we are
intended to do, we are not intended to succeed; failure is the fate allotted." James
adds that "our nature being thus rooted in failure, is it any wonder that
theologians should have held it to be essential, and thought that only through the
personal experience of humiliation which it engenders the deeper sense of
life's significance is reached?"
Failure is at the heart of first time author Joel ben Izzy's "The Beggar King
and the Secret of Happiness " a memoir by a traveling storyteller who learns
at the age of thirty-seven that he has thyroid cancer. In ben Izzy's
narrative, he skillfully places his own failures in navigating through a life with a life-threatening disease in the context of the failures of two other men - his father's failure to provide for his family and his mentor's failure to overcome depression.
Ben Izzy has much to add. Here, for example, is a Sufi tale that he cites -
“Oh, great sage, Nasrudin,” said the eager student, "I must ask you a very
important question, the answer to which we all seek: What is the secret to
attaining happiness?"
Nasrudin thought for a time, then responded. "The secret of happiness is good
judgment."
"Ah," said the student. "But how do we attain good judgment?"
"From experience," answered Nasrudin.
"Yes," said the student. "But how do we attain experience?'
"Bad judgment."
The hook of ben Izzy's story comes in the irony involved in one of the
complications surrounding the disease. After successful surgery for his tumor, he
loses his voice. He is told that he will never speak again. The quiet tragedy
that unfolds is apparent as a man who makes a living as a professional
storyteller can't even read a story to his two young children. At first Michela would forget. "Daddy tell a story! A Chelm story! Or the one about the lost horse! Or the Irish king story!"
Then, Elijah would remind her. "No, Michaela. We don't want to hear a story, do we?" She'd shake her head in agreement. His attempts to speak
without properly working vocal cords lead him to a further sense of failure and
humiliation. He walks around his house in a funk and spins himself back into
the world of his cranky mentor.
Ben Izzy is funny, and one of his best jokes is a parable that captures this
book's simple brilliance:
A man goes to a tailor and gets fitted for a new suit. Two weeks later the
man tries on the suit and it fits terribly. "One sleeve is too long and one is
to short. The pants are tight here and baggy here," he says to the tailor.
The tailor replies "The suit is fine, just hold your shoulder back like this
and lean down like this and then put your left foot back like this…Perfect!"
The man walks out on to the street, hobbling along awkwardly as the tailor
had instructed him. Two women notice him.
"My God! What happened to him?" one says.
"I don't know," says the other, "but that's a great-looking suit!"
The suit that fits ben Izzy’s twisting narrative is a series of fourteen folktales that he has selected. In them he imparts Zen, Hindu, Christian, and Muslim tales as well as the Jewish stories which are his native tongue. Between the tales, Ben Izzy works wonders with his central paradox of a speechless storyteller - and while he keeps his narrative light, he generally avoids fluffy spiritual summations. Except for some of the scenes with his cigar smoking mentor that have a “Tuesday’s with Morrie” feel, the interactions he has with his family are genuine and moving. Particularly moving are the moments when he communicates with his mother via an eraser board.
“Why so quiet?” she asked again. “You haven’t said a thing since you got here.”
Again I took out my eraser board and wrote, “I lost my voice.”
A puzzled look appeared on her face. “You have laryngitis?”
I shook my head. “Cancer,” I wrote.
You feel for his desperation, and hope for some redemption. So how does ben Izzy pick himself up from the failure of his vocal cords and fear of an early grave to attain “a deeper sense of life’s significance?”
Though ben Izzy briefly mentions a desire to hear God's voice, this book is marked by an absence of theological quest or questioning during a time of illness. The problem of evil, which so riddles Reynolds Price's meditations on cancer in his work Letter to
a Man in the Fire is absent here. Nor does ben Izzy join forces with
the demonic and go Vegas - either the Fear and Loathing or Leaving Las Vegas
variety that makes for a tasty parable of self-destruction. Rather, ben Izzy
looks for “life’s significance” in the folktales themselves.
In this way, ben Izzy’s little book of folktales and memoir solidifies the rise of a literary culture that Stanford philosopher Richard Rorty has articulated. In Rorty’s essay, “The Decline of Redemptive Truth and the Rise of Literary Culture” he argues that humanity has gone through three great stages of development. They are monotheism, in which religion offers hope through entering a covenant with a supremely powerful non-human. Philosophy, in which a set of beliefs tell us what is true about the world we live in, and literary culture - which does not care about What is True but about "What is new?"
In a literary culture, it is not only the canon set by Harold Bloom that becomes sacred text. The surviving remnant of the people’s religion – their folktales- also become sacred. Folktales have advantages in a literary culture. Like the Five Books of Moses, their author is invisible, their origins are secret, and there are no royalties to be paid. Even the style by which they are told - with careful detail in some places and purposeful omissions in others - echoes the ancient biblical narrative. If that isn’t enough to solidify the folktales ascendancy, in The Beggar King and the Secret of Hapinness the folktales are placed in a special font and with accompanying flourishes. It is as if life were simply a commentary on a set of tales.
The translator Hillel Halkin once wrote that "Folktales, like jokes and
mythical serpents - change their skins often but have extremely long lives."
While folktales touch immortality ben Izzy’s book proves that they work best in helping us through the mortal’s journey. What is new in his work is that he has returned the memoir genre to its ancestral roots– here every personal revelation is a portal to a tale more universal in scope. Ben Izzy is to be praised. In a world that is increasingly self-referential he still finds redemptive truth, albeit with a lower-case “t”.
published in Crosscurrents
Author: Joel Ben Izzy
Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill
Publication date: November 7, 2003
Reviewed by Daniel S. Brenner
In lecture six of The Varieties of Religious Experience, the Sick Soul,
William James quotes Robert Louis Stevenson -"There is indeed one element in human
destiny that not blindness itself can controvert. Whatever else we are
intended to do, we are not intended to succeed; failure is the fate allotted." James
adds that "our nature being thus rooted in failure, is it any wonder that
theologians should have held it to be essential, and thought that only through the
personal experience of humiliation which it engenders the deeper sense of
life's significance is reached?"
Failure is at the heart of first time author Joel ben Izzy's "The Beggar King
and the Secret of Happiness " a memoir by a traveling storyteller who learns
at the age of thirty-seven that he has thyroid cancer. In ben Izzy's
narrative, he skillfully places his own failures in navigating through a life with a life-threatening disease in the context of the failures of two other men - his father's failure to provide for his family and his mentor's failure to overcome depression.
Ben Izzy has much to add. Here, for example, is a Sufi tale that he cites -
“Oh, great sage, Nasrudin,” said the eager student, "I must ask you a very
important question, the answer to which we all seek: What is the secret to
attaining happiness?"
Nasrudin thought for a time, then responded. "The secret of happiness is good
judgment."
"Ah," said the student. "But how do we attain good judgment?"
"From experience," answered Nasrudin.
"Yes," said the student. "But how do we attain experience?'
"Bad judgment."
The hook of ben Izzy's story comes in the irony involved in one of the
complications surrounding the disease. After successful surgery for his tumor, he
loses his voice. He is told that he will never speak again. The quiet tragedy
that unfolds is apparent as a man who makes a living as a professional
storyteller can't even read a story to his two young children. At first Michela would forget. "Daddy tell a story! A Chelm story! Or the one about the lost horse! Or the Irish king story!"
Then, Elijah would remind her. "No, Michaela. We don't want to hear a story, do we?" She'd shake her head in agreement. His attempts to speak
without properly working vocal cords lead him to a further sense of failure and
humiliation. He walks around his house in a funk and spins himself back into
the world of his cranky mentor.
Ben Izzy is funny, and one of his best jokes is a parable that captures this
book's simple brilliance:
A man goes to a tailor and gets fitted for a new suit. Two weeks later the
man tries on the suit and it fits terribly. "One sleeve is too long and one is
to short. The pants are tight here and baggy here," he says to the tailor.
The tailor replies "The suit is fine, just hold your shoulder back like this
and lean down like this and then put your left foot back like this…Perfect!"
The man walks out on to the street, hobbling along awkwardly as the tailor
had instructed him. Two women notice him.
"My God! What happened to him?" one says.
"I don't know," says the other, "but that's a great-looking suit!"
The suit that fits ben Izzy’s twisting narrative is a series of fourteen folktales that he has selected. In them he imparts Zen, Hindu, Christian, and Muslim tales as well as the Jewish stories which are his native tongue. Between the tales, Ben Izzy works wonders with his central paradox of a speechless storyteller - and while he keeps his narrative light, he generally avoids fluffy spiritual summations. Except for some of the scenes with his cigar smoking mentor that have a “Tuesday’s with Morrie” feel, the interactions he has with his family are genuine and moving. Particularly moving are the moments when he communicates with his mother via an eraser board.
“Why so quiet?” she asked again. “You haven’t said a thing since you got here.”
Again I took out my eraser board and wrote, “I lost my voice.”
A puzzled look appeared on her face. “You have laryngitis?”
I shook my head. “Cancer,” I wrote.
You feel for his desperation, and hope for some redemption. So how does ben Izzy pick himself up from the failure of his vocal cords and fear of an early grave to attain “a deeper sense of life’s significance?”
Though ben Izzy briefly mentions a desire to hear God's voice, this book is marked by an absence of theological quest or questioning during a time of illness. The problem of evil, which so riddles Reynolds Price's meditations on cancer in his work Letter to
a Man in the Fire is absent here. Nor does ben Izzy join forces with
the demonic and go Vegas - either the Fear and Loathing or Leaving Las Vegas
variety that makes for a tasty parable of self-destruction. Rather, ben Izzy
looks for “life’s significance” in the folktales themselves.
In this way, ben Izzy’s little book of folktales and memoir solidifies the rise of a literary culture that Stanford philosopher Richard Rorty has articulated. In Rorty’s essay, “The Decline of Redemptive Truth and the Rise of Literary Culture” he argues that humanity has gone through three great stages of development. They are monotheism, in which religion offers hope through entering a covenant with a supremely powerful non-human. Philosophy, in which a set of beliefs tell us what is true about the world we live in, and literary culture - which does not care about What is True but about "What is new?"
In a literary culture, it is not only the canon set by Harold Bloom that becomes sacred text. The surviving remnant of the people’s religion – their folktales- also become sacred. Folktales have advantages in a literary culture. Like the Five Books of Moses, their author is invisible, their origins are secret, and there are no royalties to be paid. Even the style by which they are told - with careful detail in some places and purposeful omissions in others - echoes the ancient biblical narrative. If that isn’t enough to solidify the folktales ascendancy, in The Beggar King and the Secret of Hapinness the folktales are placed in a special font and with accompanying flourishes. It is as if life were simply a commentary on a set of tales.
The translator Hillel Halkin once wrote that "Folktales, like jokes and
mythical serpents - change their skins often but have extremely long lives."
While folktales touch immortality ben Izzy’s book proves that they work best in helping us through the mortal’s journey. What is new in his work is that he has returned the memoir genre to its ancestral roots– here every personal revelation is a portal to a tale more universal in scope. Ben Izzy is to be praised. In a world that is increasingly self-referential he still finds redemptive truth, albeit with a lower-case “t”.
published in Crosscurrents
Davenning at Borough Park’s Yoruba Shtiebel
By Rabbi Daniel S. Brenner
(Will appear in The Jewish Week on 1/16/04)
This past Sunday morning I trekked through the foot of snow that recently visited the Big Apple to take an honorary seat on the bimah of the Christ Apostolic Church. This is one of Borough Park’s wonders - Housed in what once was a German Evangelical chapel is a church of Nigerian immigrants, whose service is mostly in the Yoruba dialect and whose band has no fewer than five onigangans – sacred drummers singing praises to the Lord on congas, djembes, and talking drums. From the moment that the band began to play every leg, arm, and head in the place began to move – men in finely tailored suits and women in magnificent hats and African dress swaying in their separate sections. This kept on for a full two hours, only briefly interrupted by a few short prayers and speeches. The energy in the room was electric – this was a house of God caught up in the throes of spiritual ecstasy.
Whenever I am called on to be a guest rabbi in a church I tell myself the following things- Smile, you represent the Jewish people. Stand up and sit down with the congregation. Don’t cross your legs or look at your watch. Pay attention to the speaker even if no one else is. Close your eyes when they have their heads down in prayer. Don’t try to sing something you don’t know. Nod politely with your mouth closed when they say ‘Amen’ to a prayer in Jesus’ name.
I tried my best to follow these rules, but let me say this – you try to go to Christ Apostolic and sit still – try not to dance when that choir begins to shout, try not to shout “Hallelujah!” when that bass line kicks in and the entire congregation is shaking like it was James Brown at the Apollo. You might be able to hold back for a few minutes, but after that, the ruach hakodesh is going to move you.
But I was moved by much more than the spiritual energy I felt that morning in Brooklyn. Chirst Apostolic is led by a charismatic seventy-year-old minister, Dr. Abraham Oyedeji, a man who received death threats for his stand against the military government that ruled Lagos up until 1998. His bravery in exposing human rights violations before the United Nations, along with the bravery of many others, has led to a time of great promise in Nigeria.
With all the talk these days about democracy or the lack of it in developing countries, we might look towards Nigeria to see if religious freedom and democracy are viable in a nation that is increasingly under the sway of Islamic law. In Nigeria, where the North is predominately Muslim and the South is Christian, the end of military rule has been marked by a rise in religious tension – with nearly 10,000 Nigerians murdered in various blood feuds between the two groups. In response, President Obasanjo has adamantly pushed forward a vision of the nation that is “multi-religious” – he has even insisted on a secular constitution. As a result of his recent re-election, there is relative calm now of these religious tensions – but they can boil over at any moment and they must be addressed at all times.
One of the factors that helps this “multi-religious” vision move forward is the strong voice of Nigerian immigrants in America who are well connected to the current government. In a private meeting after the service, the Reverend Oyedeji articulated a vision of Nigerian life that spoke to his own vision of religious tolerance:
“My uncle was a practitioner of African traditional religion but he was a righteous man – the most generous and loving man I have ever met. Could I tell him that he must become a Christian? And my older brother, he was the chief Imam of Nigeria. Could I tell my older brother what to believe? That is not done in an African family. So God will judge who has a place in heaven – not me.”
He then turned to me, and said “and this goes for my Jewish brothers and sisters as well.” At a time of global religious tension, it is reassuring to hear a personal vision of religious diversity.
So what I came away with from the Church was much more than a song in my head and a few dance steps, but a sense that we Jews are not as alone as we think. Among the new Americans, those who came after the 1965 immigration act, there are others who hold onto their traditions in the Diaspora and hold concern in their hearts for their homelands. There are also others who wish that the freedom of religious expression possible in America could be true in their homelands. More importantly, there are others who experience themselves as a religious minority, who live in regions where they are seeing a revisionist wing of Islam attempting to dominate the political and legal sphere.
After the Sunday service, one of the younger ministers who saw my enthusiastic response to their worship came up to me and said “This was different from what you are used to, I am sure!” –I smiled. “Yes,” I wanted to say, “the whole Jesus thing is noticeably absent in my shul!” But I also wanted to say “No. It is no different - I, too, sing ancient words to the Holy One, grateful for the blessing of religious freedom, feeling the wondrous irony of being blessed in exile.”
By Rabbi Daniel S. Brenner
(Will appear in The Jewish Week on 1/16/04)
This past Sunday morning I trekked through the foot of snow that recently visited the Big Apple to take an honorary seat on the bimah of the Christ Apostolic Church. This is one of Borough Park’s wonders - Housed in what once was a German Evangelical chapel is a church of Nigerian immigrants, whose service is mostly in the Yoruba dialect and whose band has no fewer than five onigangans – sacred drummers singing praises to the Lord on congas, djembes, and talking drums. From the moment that the band began to play every leg, arm, and head in the place began to move – men in finely tailored suits and women in magnificent hats and African dress swaying in their separate sections. This kept on for a full two hours, only briefly interrupted by a few short prayers and speeches. The energy in the room was electric – this was a house of God caught up in the throes of spiritual ecstasy.
Whenever I am called on to be a guest rabbi in a church I tell myself the following things- Smile, you represent the Jewish people. Stand up and sit down with the congregation. Don’t cross your legs or look at your watch. Pay attention to the speaker even if no one else is. Close your eyes when they have their heads down in prayer. Don’t try to sing something you don’t know. Nod politely with your mouth closed when they say ‘Amen’ to a prayer in Jesus’ name.
I tried my best to follow these rules, but let me say this – you try to go to Christ Apostolic and sit still – try not to dance when that choir begins to shout, try not to shout “Hallelujah!” when that bass line kicks in and the entire congregation is shaking like it was James Brown at the Apollo. You might be able to hold back for a few minutes, but after that, the ruach hakodesh is going to move you.
But I was moved by much more than the spiritual energy I felt that morning in Brooklyn. Chirst Apostolic is led by a charismatic seventy-year-old minister, Dr. Abraham Oyedeji, a man who received death threats for his stand against the military government that ruled Lagos up until 1998. His bravery in exposing human rights violations before the United Nations, along with the bravery of many others, has led to a time of great promise in Nigeria.
With all the talk these days about democracy or the lack of it in developing countries, we might look towards Nigeria to see if religious freedom and democracy are viable in a nation that is increasingly under the sway of Islamic law. In Nigeria, where the North is predominately Muslim and the South is Christian, the end of military rule has been marked by a rise in religious tension – with nearly 10,000 Nigerians murdered in various blood feuds between the two groups. In response, President Obasanjo has adamantly pushed forward a vision of the nation that is “multi-religious” – he has even insisted on a secular constitution. As a result of his recent re-election, there is relative calm now of these religious tensions – but they can boil over at any moment and they must be addressed at all times.
One of the factors that helps this “multi-religious” vision move forward is the strong voice of Nigerian immigrants in America who are well connected to the current government. In a private meeting after the service, the Reverend Oyedeji articulated a vision of Nigerian life that spoke to his own vision of religious tolerance:
“My uncle was a practitioner of African traditional religion but he was a righteous man – the most generous and loving man I have ever met. Could I tell him that he must become a Christian? And my older brother, he was the chief Imam of Nigeria. Could I tell my older brother what to believe? That is not done in an African family. So God will judge who has a place in heaven – not me.”
He then turned to me, and said “and this goes for my Jewish brothers and sisters as well.” At a time of global religious tension, it is reassuring to hear a personal vision of religious diversity.
So what I came away with from the Church was much more than a song in my head and a few dance steps, but a sense that we Jews are not as alone as we think. Among the new Americans, those who came after the 1965 immigration act, there are others who hold onto their traditions in the Diaspora and hold concern in their hearts for their homelands. There are also others who wish that the freedom of religious expression possible in America could be true in their homelands. More importantly, there are others who experience themselves as a religious minority, who live in regions where they are seeing a revisionist wing of Islam attempting to dominate the political and legal sphere.
After the Sunday service, one of the younger ministers who saw my enthusiastic response to their worship came up to me and said “This was different from what you are used to, I am sure!” –I smiled. “Yes,” I wanted to say, “the whole Jesus thing is noticeably absent in my shul!” But I also wanted to say “No. It is no different - I, too, sing ancient words to the Holy One, grateful for the blessing of religious freedom, feeling the wondrous irony of being blessed in exile.”
24.11.03
Turks and Jews in the Jersey Burbs
By Daniel S. Brenner
When I hear something awful, like the news that an 85-year-old grandmother and her 8-year-old granddaughter are murdered by a terrorist along with twenty-six others in a blast in Istanbul, I deal with my emotional turmoil by doing something mindless and useful - like raking leaves.
I was raking the last leaves of autumn from my front yard in Montclair on Sunday morning, trying to take my mind off the thought that synagogues are prime targets for explosives when Evrim came walking up to me. I stopped the rake and turned his direction to wave hello, but before I could get a word out I saw the tears welled up in his eyes.
"Did you hear the news?" he said.
Evrim is my tenant- for the last two years he has lived in the third floor apartment above my house while finishing his MBA. We rarely speak, other than "Is the apartment too hot/ too cold?" and he's quiet and works late. So I have to say that this was the first time I've ever seen him emotional like this, his face carrying the news of tragedy.
I nodded in his direction. "I heard the news." I said, "so sad."
Evrim is a Turk and a Muslim. After completing school in Istanbul he came to the U.S. to do graduate work. It was right after 9/11, and he had a hard time finding an apartment. He pleaded with me to read his two letters of recommendation from his professors. I made a phone call to his advisor to make sure they were legitimate. I made out a lease.
"I had to come and talk to you, " he said, "because it is so sad to me. All morning I've been asking myself - 'How can a religious person destroy a synagogue?'"
"I don't know," I said.
We stood together, chilled by the cool breeze in the air, and we spoke.
I spoke of one of my classmates during my time living in Jerusalem, a young woman who was killed by a terrorist while taking a nature hike. He spoke of his father, a teacher who was imprisoned for speaking out against the government’s persecution of Kurds. We talked of how the world has changed since the Cold War, and where we thought the world was heading now that Islamic extremists are expanding their attack strategy. We stood, a Jew and a Turk in the Jersey Burbs, sharing our histories and sorrows.
"I don't know how it will end.” Evrim said, “but I just know that it is terrible what the Jewish people are going through."
"Thanks, Evrim." I said, and I went back to raking.
Late Sunday night, I click on the radio on the top of the frig as I clean up after the kids. I hear that many Turks have come out to the two bombed out synagogues and are holding a vigil. They say that they stand with the Jews. I'd like to think that after such a heinous act - the destruction of families as they are taking part in a religious celebration - that not only Turkish Muslims, but Muslims around the world will grieve, and lift up their voices in disgust. I’m not naïve – I know that there are those who cheer every time a Jew is murdered, but it is a comfort to know that there are those whose hearts ache at such atrocities. One of them happens to be living above me. For this I am grateful.
By Daniel S. Brenner
When I hear something awful, like the news that an 85-year-old grandmother and her 8-year-old granddaughter are murdered by a terrorist along with twenty-six others in a blast in Istanbul, I deal with my emotional turmoil by doing something mindless and useful - like raking leaves.
I was raking the last leaves of autumn from my front yard in Montclair on Sunday morning, trying to take my mind off the thought that synagogues are prime targets for explosives when Evrim came walking up to me. I stopped the rake and turned his direction to wave hello, but before I could get a word out I saw the tears welled up in his eyes.
"Did you hear the news?" he said.
Evrim is my tenant- for the last two years he has lived in the third floor apartment above my house while finishing his MBA. We rarely speak, other than "Is the apartment too hot/ too cold?" and he's quiet and works late. So I have to say that this was the first time I've ever seen him emotional like this, his face carrying the news of tragedy.
I nodded in his direction. "I heard the news." I said, "so sad."
Evrim is a Turk and a Muslim. After completing school in Istanbul he came to the U.S. to do graduate work. It was right after 9/11, and he had a hard time finding an apartment. He pleaded with me to read his two letters of recommendation from his professors. I made a phone call to his advisor to make sure they were legitimate. I made out a lease.
"I had to come and talk to you, " he said, "because it is so sad to me. All morning I've been asking myself - 'How can a religious person destroy a synagogue?'"
"I don't know," I said.
We stood together, chilled by the cool breeze in the air, and we spoke.
I spoke of one of my classmates during my time living in Jerusalem, a young woman who was killed by a terrorist while taking a nature hike. He spoke of his father, a teacher who was imprisoned for speaking out against the government’s persecution of Kurds. We talked of how the world has changed since the Cold War, and where we thought the world was heading now that Islamic extremists are expanding their attack strategy. We stood, a Jew and a Turk in the Jersey Burbs, sharing our histories and sorrows.
"I don't know how it will end.” Evrim said, “but I just know that it is terrible what the Jewish people are going through."
"Thanks, Evrim." I said, and I went back to raking.
Late Sunday night, I click on the radio on the top of the frig as I clean up after the kids. I hear that many Turks have come out to the two bombed out synagogues and are holding a vigil. They say that they stand with the Jews. I'd like to think that after such a heinous act - the destruction of families as they are taking part in a religious celebration - that not only Turkish Muslims, but Muslims around the world will grieve, and lift up their voices in disgust. I’m not naïve – I know that there are those who cheer every time a Jew is murdered, but it is a comfort to know that there are those whose hearts ache at such atrocities. One of them happens to be living above me. For this I am grateful.
23.9.03
The Unexpected Return
Goyische Mazel for One Yiddische Kup
By Rabbi Daniel S. Brenner
In 5763 I worked in an office of orthodox rabbis who quoted Talmudic tractates and ate microwaved knishes. In 5764 I’ll be spending my days with Presbyterian ministers who quote John Calvin and eat cold shrimp salads. No, I haven’t found Jesus, or tasted shrimp, but after six years on the faculty of CLAL I’ve left to become the first rabbi to direct the Center for Multifaith Education at Auburn Theological Seminary in New York City. Auburn has strong Presbyterian roots, and my father-in-law jokes that I am “America’s first Presbyterian Rabbi”. Ugh. During the first week of my new gig, under the watchful eyes of the gargoyles peering down at me from atop Riverside Church I hung up a print of Tzfat sculptor Mike Leaf’s masterpiece “the Lubavitcher Rebbe, Bob Dylan, and the Mosiach on Harleys”. It was my way of claiming a bit of turf. I’m not sure what they think of it.
I imagine that for most rabbis the thought of working as an agent of a Protestant seminary would sound like a bizarre and ironic career choice, but for me this position is sort of a homecoming. As a son of the South I grew up in the Presbyterian stronghold of Charlotte, North Carolina – home not only to a large and thriving Presbyterian community but a Presbyterian hospital and college as well. My best friend in junior high and high school was Dwight Thomas Bridges III, a Presbyterian.
But still, there is something uncomfortable about a being a rabbi and working within the seminary of another religious tradition. The first time that I visited Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi, who teaches World Religions at a Buddhist university, I was a little freaked by the Buddhist icons and idols around campus and the constant bowing, to the idols and to teachers, that marked Naropa University’s spiritual approach. I knew that for every pioneer like Reb Zalman, there were many who turned in the other direction. When my best friend from college, a Jewish guy from an affluent White suburb, became a baal t’shuvah he confided in me that he had completely broken his ties with his non-Jewish friends. His rabbi had explained that we should not be fooled by gestures of goodwill – that the entire world was still out to get us, and that the Passover Haggadah’s words “in every generation they stand against us to wipe us out” are as true today as they ever were. I was very disturbed to think that my friend had abandoned the idea that there would be peaceful relations between Jews and any of the other peoples that inhabit the planet, and I vowed that I would always maintain my deep ties of friendship to people outside the Jewish community.
I had no idea how hard it would be to keep that vow. Ever since I entered rabbinical school my world has become increasingly monocultural each year. The three friendships from college with non-Jews that I tried to maintain were stretched thin as I immersed myself in Jewish life. In their place I met many new Jewish friends and once I got my family multiplying (My sweetheart Lisa and I are blessed with three little ones) I found myself gravitating to Jewish families and forming a chavurah. In our new home we had some Christian neighbors but only once did we invite them over for a Shabbat meal. When my two oldest started Solomon Schechter Day School I had formally moved into a self-imposed shtetl – in the phone list I kept in my Palm Pilot the only non-Jews were my plumber, my carpenter, and my roofer. I had seriously broken my vow.
All that has changed in a month. Now I not only spend hours in dialogue with thoughtful Protestants, but I meet with Buddhists, Hindus, Catholics, and Muslims. My new hero is a seventy-eight year-old Catholic nun who has a sharp sense of humor and speaks of the virtues of silence and contemplative practices. In my new position I also get to meet with many Jewish thinkers and scholars – and invite them in to be part of the creative religious dialogues happening at Auburn.
So this is a tale of a homecoming – and like all tales of homecoming, not only have I changed but the place has changed too. America, which once was steered under the spiritual and moral guidance of the mainline Protestant churches, has now become a diverse multifaith landscape. We are entering an era in which no one group is in the majority and where there will be new challenges for Jews. Unlike other eras in which we had to stay on the good side of the sultan, king, pope or czar, we’ll now have many relationships to maintain and bridges to build. Some of us may retreat even further into our own communities, but ultimately we will have to figure out how to thrive within an evolving system of what Rabbi Jonathan Sacks calls “religious biodiversity.” Instead of standing on the sidelines of this flowering of religious diversity, we might ask ourselves what we have to contribute to America’s next era of spiritual and moral development.
On Rosh Hashannah, we speak of teshuvah, which literally means returning. Returning to our ideals, to our responsibilities and ultimately to God. For me, reconnecting with Christians and others has been a type of teshuvah. I never would have imagined that a rabbi could do teshuvah by going off to join a Protestant seminary. But as Isaac Bashevis Singer once said: “It’s God’s novel, let him write it.”
- published in The Jewish Week
By Rabbi Daniel S. Brenner
In 5763 I worked in an office of orthodox rabbis who quoted Talmudic tractates and ate microwaved knishes. In 5764 I’ll be spending my days with Presbyterian ministers who quote John Calvin and eat cold shrimp salads. No, I haven’t found Jesus, or tasted shrimp, but after six years on the faculty of CLAL I’ve left to become the first rabbi to direct the Center for Multifaith Education at Auburn Theological Seminary in New York City. Auburn has strong Presbyterian roots, and my father-in-law jokes that I am “America’s first Presbyterian Rabbi”. Ugh. During the first week of my new gig, under the watchful eyes of the gargoyles peering down at me from atop Riverside Church I hung up a print of Tzfat sculptor Mike Leaf’s masterpiece “the Lubavitcher Rebbe, Bob Dylan, and the Mosiach on Harleys”. It was my way of claiming a bit of turf. I’m not sure what they think of it.
I imagine that for most rabbis the thought of working as an agent of a Protestant seminary would sound like a bizarre and ironic career choice, but for me this position is sort of a homecoming. As a son of the South I grew up in the Presbyterian stronghold of Charlotte, North Carolina – home not only to a large and thriving Presbyterian community but a Presbyterian hospital and college as well. My best friend in junior high and high school was Dwight Thomas Bridges III, a Presbyterian.
But still, there is something uncomfortable about a being a rabbi and working within the seminary of another religious tradition. The first time that I visited Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi, who teaches World Religions at a Buddhist university, I was a little freaked by the Buddhist icons and idols around campus and the constant bowing, to the idols and to teachers, that marked Naropa University’s spiritual approach. I knew that for every pioneer like Reb Zalman, there were many who turned in the other direction. When my best friend from college, a Jewish guy from an affluent White suburb, became a baal t’shuvah he confided in me that he had completely broken his ties with his non-Jewish friends. His rabbi had explained that we should not be fooled by gestures of goodwill – that the entire world was still out to get us, and that the Passover Haggadah’s words “in every generation they stand against us to wipe us out” are as true today as they ever were. I was very disturbed to think that my friend had abandoned the idea that there would be peaceful relations between Jews and any of the other peoples that inhabit the planet, and I vowed that I would always maintain my deep ties of friendship to people outside the Jewish community.
I had no idea how hard it would be to keep that vow. Ever since I entered rabbinical school my world has become increasingly monocultural each year. The three friendships from college with non-Jews that I tried to maintain were stretched thin as I immersed myself in Jewish life. In their place I met many new Jewish friends and once I got my family multiplying (My sweetheart Lisa and I are blessed with three little ones) I found myself gravitating to Jewish families and forming a chavurah. In our new home we had some Christian neighbors but only once did we invite them over for a Shabbat meal. When my two oldest started Solomon Schechter Day School I had formally moved into a self-imposed shtetl – in the phone list I kept in my Palm Pilot the only non-Jews were my plumber, my carpenter, and my roofer. I had seriously broken my vow.
All that has changed in a month. Now I not only spend hours in dialogue with thoughtful Protestants, but I meet with Buddhists, Hindus, Catholics, and Muslims. My new hero is a seventy-eight year-old Catholic nun who has a sharp sense of humor and speaks of the virtues of silence and contemplative practices. In my new position I also get to meet with many Jewish thinkers and scholars – and invite them in to be part of the creative religious dialogues happening at Auburn.
So this is a tale of a homecoming – and like all tales of homecoming, not only have I changed but the place has changed too. America, which once was steered under the spiritual and moral guidance of the mainline Protestant churches, has now become a diverse multifaith landscape. We are entering an era in which no one group is in the majority and where there will be new challenges for Jews. Unlike other eras in which we had to stay on the good side of the sultan, king, pope or czar, we’ll now have many relationships to maintain and bridges to build. Some of us may retreat even further into our own communities, but ultimately we will have to figure out how to thrive within an evolving system of what Rabbi Jonathan Sacks calls “religious biodiversity.” Instead of standing on the sidelines of this flowering of religious diversity, we might ask ourselves what we have to contribute to America’s next era of spiritual and moral development.
On Rosh Hashannah, we speak of teshuvah, which literally means returning. Returning to our ideals, to our responsibilities and ultimately to God. For me, reconnecting with Christians and others has been a type of teshuvah. I never would have imagined that a rabbi could do teshuvah by going off to join a Protestant seminary. But as Isaac Bashevis Singer once said: “It’s God’s novel, let him write it.”
- published in The Jewish Week
22.9.03
Here's the Profile The Jewish Week Did on Me...
Fanfare for The Common Man (12/20/2001)
Rabbi Daniel Brenner sanctifies the simple gifts of Judaism & America.
Jonathan Mark - Associate Editor
Did Reb Nachman, back in 18th century Europe, ever notice the sky was Tarheel Blue? Maybe not, but God always knew of North Carolina and that rebbes can come from the Piedmont as surely as from Poland. Rabbi Daniel Brenner, native son of Charlotte, N.C., is a storyteller, as surely from the Southern tradition as from the Jewish one. A southern boy, no less a scholar for that, he has none of the aristocratic and academic affect that some rabbis adorn themselves with, as if pretense were fur pelts. No, this rabbi is about as majestic as Royal Crown Cola, as unpretentious as the rotary phone on his desk — yet conscious that this rotary phone speaks of something precious: a call from the past, a sense that any child of God ought see beauty in the commonplace, in a “Chew Mail Pouch” sign on the side of a barn every bit as much as in the glass case of Judaica chotchkes in the lobby of a temple. Rabbi Brenner, 32, says, “I’m drawn to something I’ve gotten from the South; the importance of being a common man and living a simple life. I think it keeps you rooted. I take great pleasure in those things.” As he says in one of his theatrical works — for he’s also a playwright and performer — he comes from a world that’s a montage of “red earth and frozen bagels,” yarmulkes “tucked quickly into pockets ... alcoholic neighbors who smoke long brown cigarettes, eat ham and cheese sandwiches on white bread while washing their motor homes ... and red-haired girls and proms and Bojangles, fried chicken, gentility — charming and false … manicured lawns, ACC basketball, and yes, real pit barbecue.” Rabbi Irwin Kula, president of Clal, the National Jewish Center for Learning and Leadership, says, “Daniel is among the most creative, playful and compassionate teachers and rabbis that I have ever met.” Rabbi Brenner, who teaches for Clal, is a nice fit for the think-tank. For though Clal’s original mission was premised on denominational and religious tolerance, it was always more than that. After all, tolerance evokes the word “tolerate” whereas what Clal really does is to celebrate; seeing the fingerprints of God where folks don’t think God’s been; telling the self-deprecating Clark Kent that he can have and use amazing powers by just imagining a deeper, if once secret, Jewish identity. Rabbi Brenner’s father was from New York City, says the son. “He had the rhythm of Brooklyn, so I’ve always been drawn to the city and to spend some of my life here. Clal is an extension of my hybrid identity. In New York I don’t have to negate any part of the Jew that I am or the American that I am.” Reb Zalman Schachter-Shalomi, one of the great rebbe-sages of the Jewish Renewal movement, says of Rabbi Brenner: “There are some people who when they ‘do Jewish’ forget American; when they ‘do American’ forget Jewish. There is such a beautiful blend, in which he brings the images of our tradition and the general culture together in an amalgam that is always inspiring and makes access easy.” Rabbi Brenner has crafted blessings and meditations to help Jews sanctify not only the Jewish holidays but every American holiday, Mother’s Day, Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July among them. Ordained at the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College, Rabbi Brenner did chaplaincy and led a small congregation in New Jersey, where he lightly saw himself as “the chief rabbi of Exit Seven.” He remembers not only the people but also the “five-and-dime shop with dusty, nearly barren shelves holding eyeglass pads and athletic supporters. ... Being a rabbi in a small town has its advantages. You get to ride in the clergy float in the Fourth of July parade.” With a love for the theater, he turned these experiences into performance, a gentle humorous shmooze akin to Mark Twain or Garrison Keillor. He’s written and performed in plays about the ghost of an old bar mitzvah tutor; about desire, discipline and a kosher butcher shop. He participated in “From Slavery to Freedom,” a collaboration of African-American and Jewish writers retelling the story of Exodus. His autobiographical musings about the sacred and the surreal have been performed on campuses and in New York’s Goldman Theater. He’ll fuse his gift for teaching, writing and the rabbinate by reimagining a translation for the Kaddish, that describes his own soul as well as reinvigorating the old English, an attempt, he says, “to put the Kaddish into “slang, street.” “Make the God-name big. Big and holy. Do it in this world, ... Do it fast, soon, in our lives, in the days ahead, in the life of the people we call home. Everybody join with me: May the name be blessed forever and ever! Yes, blessed. Blessed, whispered, sung out, shouted, honored, this holy name. The name is beyond any song, poem, or comforting words we could ever speak. Everybody say: That’s the truth! ... Make that peace in the heavens, great Peacemaker, great One who brings wholeness to our people. Stop. Everybody pray: May it be true.” There’s power in common words, power even in his daddy’s way of looking at a Torah. “We hold the Torah like a baby, gently cuddling it to our breast. We dress it carefully; we touch it lightly. We honor it like an elder, standing before it, honoring its history. We treat it like a jewel, hiding it away except for special occasions.” At his home in Montclair, N.J., he sees his toddlers play with their blue stuffed Torahs. “And at times, when they are not whopping each other over the head with them, I see them using the objects as dance partners. They hum a chasidic-like melody that often spins off into a Barney tune, or march the Torahs around the room in a big circle.” You play with something as a child, you keep it forever. He carries with him the spirit of old comics — the world of “Raw” and Art Spiegelman. His computer’s “wallpaper” features the display ads such as were found in the back pages of comic books, items like “X-Ray Specs,” or a joy buzzer. “I like looking at this every day,” he says of his screen. At long last, have we found something, like a joy buzzer or X-ray specs, that are meaningless? Perhaps not. For those ads take us back to a different and distant time of endless afternoons, imagination and a juvenile’s wonder, a spirit of wonder that leads us through the desert like the pillars of cloud and flame. The grown man carries the child within. In Carolina, Rabbi Brenner remembers, “We were one of the most traditional families down there. One of the biggest influences in my life was Chabad. My mother’s sister became a baal teshuvah when she was in college and moved to Crown Heights. So, the first Chabad shliach [emissary] in Charlotte stayed over in our basement while he was getting set-up. “Our relatives lived on President Street. We’d go to 770 [Eastern Parkway, the Lubavitcher rebbe’s shul and headquarters] whenever we could. I remember the last time I saw the rebbe daven. He looked at everyone. I mean he looked at everyone. Never in my life had I seen anything like that; the way he could look into a soul. Chabad was such an important part of my childhood because it taught me Judaism did not have to be the boring experience it was in my shul back home.” Raised in a rainbow of denominations, Rabbi Brenner has a goodly worn ArtScroll prayerbook over his desk. “I can daven out of anything. I prefer to daven out of an old siddur.” He picks up a small book of Psalms. “This here, this Tehillim? This is the best.” It was printed in Vienna, 1927, and Rabbi Brenner found in a Philadelphia thrift shop. He was drawn to its hoary old brown cover, the frills and swoops in the design, the embossed Ten Commandments. “I’m crazy about that cover. And the thing about it is this was a book that people had. Even if they owned only two or three books, they’d have this Tehillim. If I really have to say something, this is the Tehillim to say it out of.” Ritual objects have power, he says. “We invest power in ritual objects; it has a history.” Daniel Brenner thumbs through the worn pages before coming to a favorite: “Psalm 30 is where it’s at. It’s the Psalm of someone who’s naturally cynical but then recognizes that there’s something beyond, that his life comes from some place beyond,” where souls are blessed, whispered, celebrated, and secret identities are revealed.
Rabbi Daniel Brenner sanctifies the simple gifts of Judaism & America.
Jonathan Mark - Associate Editor
Did Reb Nachman, back in 18th century Europe, ever notice the sky was Tarheel Blue? Maybe not, but God always knew of North Carolina and that rebbes can come from the Piedmont as surely as from Poland. Rabbi Daniel Brenner, native son of Charlotte, N.C., is a storyteller, as surely from the Southern tradition as from the Jewish one. A southern boy, no less a scholar for that, he has none of the aristocratic and academic affect that some rabbis adorn themselves with, as if pretense were fur pelts. No, this rabbi is about as majestic as Royal Crown Cola, as unpretentious as the rotary phone on his desk — yet conscious that this rotary phone speaks of something precious: a call from the past, a sense that any child of God ought see beauty in the commonplace, in a “Chew Mail Pouch” sign on the side of a barn every bit as much as in the glass case of Judaica chotchkes in the lobby of a temple. Rabbi Brenner, 32, says, “I’m drawn to something I’ve gotten from the South; the importance of being a common man and living a simple life. I think it keeps you rooted. I take great pleasure in those things.” As he says in one of his theatrical works — for he’s also a playwright and performer — he comes from a world that’s a montage of “red earth and frozen bagels,” yarmulkes “tucked quickly into pockets ... alcoholic neighbors who smoke long brown cigarettes, eat ham and cheese sandwiches on white bread while washing their motor homes ... and red-haired girls and proms and Bojangles, fried chicken, gentility — charming and false … manicured lawns, ACC basketball, and yes, real pit barbecue.” Rabbi Irwin Kula, president of Clal, the National Jewish Center for Learning and Leadership, says, “Daniel is among the most creative, playful and compassionate teachers and rabbis that I have ever met.” Rabbi Brenner, who teaches for Clal, is a nice fit for the think-tank. For though Clal’s original mission was premised on denominational and religious tolerance, it was always more than that. After all, tolerance evokes the word “tolerate” whereas what Clal really does is to celebrate; seeing the fingerprints of God where folks don’t think God’s been; telling the self-deprecating Clark Kent that he can have and use amazing powers by just imagining a deeper, if once secret, Jewish identity. Rabbi Brenner’s father was from New York City, says the son. “He had the rhythm of Brooklyn, so I’ve always been drawn to the city and to spend some of my life here. Clal is an extension of my hybrid identity. In New York I don’t have to negate any part of the Jew that I am or the American that I am.” Reb Zalman Schachter-Shalomi, one of the great rebbe-sages of the Jewish Renewal movement, says of Rabbi Brenner: “There are some people who when they ‘do Jewish’ forget American; when they ‘do American’ forget Jewish. There is such a beautiful blend, in which he brings the images of our tradition and the general culture together in an amalgam that is always inspiring and makes access easy.” Rabbi Brenner has crafted blessings and meditations to help Jews sanctify not only the Jewish holidays but every American holiday, Mother’s Day, Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July among them. Ordained at the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College, Rabbi Brenner did chaplaincy and led a small congregation in New Jersey, where he lightly saw himself as “the chief rabbi of Exit Seven.” He remembers not only the people but also the “five-and-dime shop with dusty, nearly barren shelves holding eyeglass pads and athletic supporters. ... Being a rabbi in a small town has its advantages. You get to ride in the clergy float in the Fourth of July parade.” With a love for the theater, he turned these experiences into performance, a gentle humorous shmooze akin to Mark Twain or Garrison Keillor. He’s written and performed in plays about the ghost of an old bar mitzvah tutor; about desire, discipline and a kosher butcher shop. He participated in “From Slavery to Freedom,” a collaboration of African-American and Jewish writers retelling the story of Exodus. His autobiographical musings about the sacred and the surreal have been performed on campuses and in New York’s Goldman Theater. He’ll fuse his gift for teaching, writing and the rabbinate by reimagining a translation for the Kaddish, that describes his own soul as well as reinvigorating the old English, an attempt, he says, “to put the Kaddish into “slang, street.” “Make the God-name big. Big and holy. Do it in this world, ... Do it fast, soon, in our lives, in the days ahead, in the life of the people we call home. Everybody join with me: May the name be blessed forever and ever! Yes, blessed. Blessed, whispered, sung out, shouted, honored, this holy name. The name is beyond any song, poem, or comforting words we could ever speak. Everybody say: That’s the truth! ... Make that peace in the heavens, great Peacemaker, great One who brings wholeness to our people. Stop. Everybody pray: May it be true.” There’s power in common words, power even in his daddy’s way of looking at a Torah. “We hold the Torah like a baby, gently cuddling it to our breast. We dress it carefully; we touch it lightly. We honor it like an elder, standing before it, honoring its history. We treat it like a jewel, hiding it away except for special occasions.” At his home in Montclair, N.J., he sees his toddlers play with their blue stuffed Torahs. “And at times, when they are not whopping each other over the head with them, I see them using the objects as dance partners. They hum a chasidic-like melody that often spins off into a Barney tune, or march the Torahs around the room in a big circle.” You play with something as a child, you keep it forever. He carries with him the spirit of old comics — the world of “Raw” and Art Spiegelman. His computer’s “wallpaper” features the display ads such as were found in the back pages of comic books, items like “X-Ray Specs,” or a joy buzzer. “I like looking at this every day,” he says of his screen. At long last, have we found something, like a joy buzzer or X-ray specs, that are meaningless? Perhaps not. For those ads take us back to a different and distant time of endless afternoons, imagination and a juvenile’s wonder, a spirit of wonder that leads us through the desert like the pillars of cloud and flame. The grown man carries the child within. In Carolina, Rabbi Brenner remembers, “We were one of the most traditional families down there. One of the biggest influences in my life was Chabad. My mother’s sister became a baal teshuvah when she was in college and moved to Crown Heights. So, the first Chabad shliach [emissary] in Charlotte stayed over in our basement while he was getting set-up. “Our relatives lived on President Street. We’d go to 770 [Eastern Parkway, the Lubavitcher rebbe’s shul and headquarters] whenever we could. I remember the last time I saw the rebbe daven. He looked at everyone. I mean he looked at everyone. Never in my life had I seen anything like that; the way he could look into a soul. Chabad was such an important part of my childhood because it taught me Judaism did not have to be the boring experience it was in my shul back home.” Raised in a rainbow of denominations, Rabbi Brenner has a goodly worn ArtScroll prayerbook over his desk. “I can daven out of anything. I prefer to daven out of an old siddur.” He picks up a small book of Psalms. “This here, this Tehillim? This is the best.” It was printed in Vienna, 1927, and Rabbi Brenner found in a Philadelphia thrift shop. He was drawn to its hoary old brown cover, the frills and swoops in the design, the embossed Ten Commandments. “I’m crazy about that cover. And the thing about it is this was a book that people had. Even if they owned only two or three books, they’d have this Tehillim. If I really have to say something, this is the Tehillim to say it out of.” Ritual objects have power, he says. “We invest power in ritual objects; it has a history.” Daniel Brenner thumbs through the worn pages before coming to a favorite: “Psalm 30 is where it’s at. It’s the Psalm of someone who’s naturally cynical but then recognizes that there’s something beyond, that his life comes from some place beyond,” where souls are blessed, whispered, celebrated, and secret identities are revealed.
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