Did the Rabbis Believe Their Myths

I just came across a cool essay by Chaim Milikowsky, originally a 1997 lecture but published in a 2005 book, Ancient Fiction (available in its entirety on Google Books), about whether the Rabbis believed their stories. (He says no, but it's more complicated than that.) It's basically a rabbinic version of Paul Veyne's great book.

Religion and Ritual are Useless Words

A rant on various related topics:

The word "religion" doesn't meant much. The OED says the English word "religion" is of doubtful etymology but appears to come from the word for being bound (or even imprisoned, in some early usages). The modern Hebrew word for religion - "דת" - originally means law or practice. Nothing in antiquity - when, incidentally, Christianity, Judaism, and countless other "religions" grew up - was called "religion." There was no category into which you could put all the building blocks of religion, nor could this non-category exclude other elements of life. I don't know whether it was a medieval or modern creation, but the concept of "religion" doesn't draw much of a clear circle around any given set of... well, anything.

Nor, for that matter, does "ritual", another late-comer. And even if it could draw a neat circle around a certain set of practices, does a circle that includes brushing one's teeth right alongside child sacrifice really mean that much? Is it useful?

Of course, Departments of Religion at universities do make sense. One day, in fact, I would be happy to be hired by one. But that's pragmatic. Many academic disciplines are like that. We need some way of organizing subjects. And the colloquial use of the words religion and ritual is useful as well - it's not quite accurate but it's way quicker than spelling out all the details of what exactly we mean when that's not even relevant (or particularly plausible in a given setting).

What's important to me is that we don't actually think of all those things that make up "religion" (or a given religion) and "ritual" (or a given ritual) and their meanings as the meaning of every other religion and ritual. What is so glorious about embracing religion is that it doesn't - and could not possibly - mean just one thing or work in just one way.

And practices should be distinguished from one another - and prioritized over one another - based not on whether they are "religious" or "ritual," but on their individual content, and the other practices to which they're most related. (I feel like I'm railing against linguistic racism.)

There's a great line from the Simpsons in the episode where Lisa and Ralph date. Ralph is walking her home and doesn't know what to say to make conversation, so he says, "So, do you like... stuff?" When someone says "ritual is great" or "ritual is terrible" or I like or don't like ritual, they might as well be saying "stuff is great," or "stuff is terrible," or I like or don't like stuff. Almost everything can be called a ritual. So it's not a category.

People who describe religion or ritual as such are a priori incorrect in their descriptions.

And it's also why I think it makes perfect sense to think some rituals are great, and other rituals are stupid, and others are neither here nor there. "Picking and choosing" (so often criticized) is actually what discerning, thoughtful, good people do. There is no such thing as religion whole cloth, or ritual whole cloth.

Unless of course you're chareidi, and you think all the mitzvot came directly from God's mouth to the Talmud and medieval responsa and codes and into your chareidi rabbi's mouth, and should not be distinguished or measured or thought about. Sure, in that case, it makes perfect sense to talk about Jewish ritual as all one thing. But then you have to be chareidi, so I decline.

Ignorance, Doubt, Uncertainty

I've just finished Richard Feynman's book What do You Care What Other People Think: Further Adventures of a Curious Character. The last chapter is his lecture, "The Value of Science". In it, one of the very important things he says is this:

The scientist has a lot of experience with ignorance and doubt and uncertainty, and this experience is of very great importance, I think. When a scientist doesn't know the answer to a problem, he is ignorant. When he has a hunch as to what the result is, he is uncertain. And when he is pretty darn sure of what the result is going to be, he is in some doubt. We have found it of paramount importance that in order to progress we must recognize the ignorance and leave room for doubt. Scientific knowledge is a body of statements of varying degrees of certainty -- some most unsure, some nearly sure, none absolutely certain.

... What, then, is the meaning of it all? What can we say to dispel the mystery of experience? If we take everything into account, not only what the ancients knew, but all of what we know today that they didn't know, then I think that we must frankly admit that we do not know. But in admitting this, we have probably found the open channel.

And there is a difference between speculation and uncertainty, and between ignorance and humility. Science knows this. So do all philosophers after Kant, and if not by then, then certainly after Mill (if they bothered to read On Liberty with even one eye open). What drives me up a wall is when people think that uncertainty - the kind of doubt that Feynman talks about - is a bad thing, and a discredit to a good idea.

I do not know anything with certainty, but only because there is no such thing as certainty (though of course, I suppose I can't be certain that's the case). But I do know that suggestions that are worth it - and we can line up a whole slew of criteria for each area of thought - deserve the limelight. We can indeed be more sure of one thing than another.

Talking to a friend recently, she seemed to indict the suggestion that we try on (and I say buy in 10 colors!) gender equality in Judaism, due to the fact that we don't entirely know what the future of Judaism will look like under those conditions. Besides the fact that I do have a fairly good picture of it (since at least in my personal life I already live it), why would such uncertainty be a problem? We never know what the future will look like; everything is an experiment - a theory that we take on until some new data confounds it.

The gender equality thing is a no-brainer, to me at least. But Feynman's point that the embrace of inevitable uncertainty is a social value that we cannot do without is terribly under-appreciated in our culture(s). I don't valorize doubt (I once heard an entire High Holy Days sermon, and have heard of many others, about how doubt is a fantastic thing - to me that's all nonsensical apologetics); but I do embrace its inevitability and the humility that inevitability engenders. And the calm. And the sense of equality among human beings, and religions, and lovers.

I think.

The Obvious

A lot of my dissertation work right now seems superficial, because it all seems so obvious.  But nobody has said these things yet, so they haven't entered into the front-of-the-mind pool of things we draw on.  

Rabbinic epistemology is not very hard to plumb.  Part of my dissertation does this.  

Stating the obvious is underrated.  Scholarship - or important thought of whatever kind - is not always about making profound observations; sometimes it's about bringing to the fore what might otherwise be overlooked.  We overlook great things sometimes, so how much the more so do we overlook small things.  

Either that, or these are self-serving thoughts to justify a not-so-impressive dissertation.  Well, at least I'll have something to say at job interviews if I'm called out on this.

Wisdom Entails Consistency

A professor at the University of Oklahoma has written a brilliant book about Socrates' epistemological theory.  He might be all wrong, but he's a damn good writer and it's a well thought out and compelling book.  

One things he tries to prove is that part (or maybe most - I didn't get to the end yet) of Socrates' epistemology is that wisdom entails consistency.  That is, a person who has true wisdom will not have inconsistent beliefs.  That's why in the Socratic dialogues, essentially all he has to do is show that some of the interlocutor's own beliefs contradict some other belief (namely, the belief in question that is the topic of the dialogue).

This sounds pretty familiar.  The rabbis of the Talmud (early and late) had much the same epistemological theory!  That's why it bothered them so much if the Bible seemed to contradict itself, or if one rabbi seemed to contradict another.  If the Bible as a whole, and the rabbinic project as a whole, are to bear wisdom and truth, they cannot bear inconsistencies.  

It is a sound epistemological theory.  I shall write about it in my dissertation.

But.

It does not apply to emotional or practical life.  I feel two contradictory things at once -  nothing's wrong.  (Actually, something's right: I am not forcing one to acquiesce to the other.)  I make a decision today that does not accord with my decisions yesterday -  nothing's wrong.  (Actually, something's right: I'm able to live a full and experimental and adventurous life.)  

Epistemology is great.  But it should not confused with anything other than epistemology.  

Back to dissertation work.... Later alligators.  

Names

I've just read the first chapter of what appears to be a very cool book of essays: What do You Care What Other People Think: Further Adventures of a Curious Character,  by (and about) Richard P. Feynman.  In this first chapter he writes about how his father instilled in him a love for all things science (he was a Nobel Prize winning physicist - apparently a pretty important scientist).

At one point he explains the special kind of scientific thinking his father taught him by contrasting another child's experience of a nature walk with dad, with Feynman's own.  The other kid learned the name of the bird over there.  Feynman learned to notice what it's doing, and why it does it.  (It's picking at its feathers because of lice, or something like that.)  He says that his father taught him early on to distinguish knowing the name of something, and knowing something.

Yes and yes.  This resonated quite deeply.

But the more I think about it the more I also appreciate the other side.  Names do matter.  Sure, knowing the name and going no deeper than its pronunciation probably doesn't matter all that much.  Unless of course the pronunciation itself tells you something about it.  The name "Zalman" is a Russification of "Solomon," so I know something about this person's ancestry, or the people his parents admired, just by hearing his name.  Or when I meet someone named "David," I can learn a bit from how he says his own name: Duh-vid, Day-vid, Dah-VEED, Dah-weed."

And if it's a made-up name, say, in a book, I can learn something about what the author wants me to know about this person.  Like the two sons in the book of Ruth, Machlon and Kilyon (literally, disease and destruction), who die young and quite early in story.

And then there's context.  If a man buying chicken and rice from a street vendor is addressed right then and there as "Yossi," this might mean something to bystanders.  Perhaps he'll choose to go by "Joey" for the moment.  

I was once in a store with a guy named Shalom, who needed to give his name for an order.  "What's your name?"  "Shalom."  "Wow!  Talk about a Jewish name!"  "Yeah, and I'm not even Jewish."  "Really???"  "Just kidding, I'm Jewish."  "Hahahahah!" 

And then there's my name.  On the one hand, it's kind of a cheerleader name.  Jenny.  Once in college a friend said it was kind of a funny name for me.  I like the irony.  And on the other hand,  it's the name of my grandmother's beloved sister, whom my grandmother adored, and talked about as having such deep wisdom and such a gentle manner.  I hear both resonances when my name is spoken.

I suppose Feynman's right.  Just knowing a name is not enough, and it's certainly a far cry from knowing the thing, or the person.  But knowing why the name is the name, what it means and how it's pronounced, actually can be a big part of knowing a thing, or a person.

Shoot - I should be working on my dissertation.  

Dissertation.  Just the name makes it sound so....  Oy.

If Religion is an Expression of Love...

Skipping to the punch-line of a longer discussion, if the relationship between God and Israel is one of love and affection, and the acceptance of the Torah is an expression of that love, one glaring conclusion will be that rather than seek out the minimum necessary for us to do to uphold the Torah, we will seek out the maximum.  If my lover gives me a list of things that will make him happy, I will happily try to do everything I can and more.

But there is also this: Our lover will not demand of us more than we can do, and will understand when we fall short that we have done our best.  We will work out together how best to manage the love relationship, how best to satisfy each other's needs, and the extent to which we will accept compromise.  And disappointment. 

The challenge is this: Being honest about what we are capable of.  Being honest in our self-assessment.  Not tricking our lover into accepting less than is possible.  

So in the end, religion being an expression of love means two things at once: First, we will want to do as much as we can.  Second, it will be ok if we cannot - or simply do not - live up to the expectations set upon us, as long as we are honest with ourselves and with the Lord.  

Looking forward to Shavuos.

Shavuos

God said, "Be my people."

And we said, "Ok."

But then we said, "No wait, can we talk first?

And God sighed.  

We said, "We're just not sure.  Can we talk first?"

And God said, "Yes, my children.  We can talk."

So we stood there at the mountain, and we talked.  

We talked for hours.  Like old friends.

We talked about our relationship, about where we'd been together, and how far we'd come.

We talked about our future. And our fears. 

We talked about promises, and about uncertainties.

We cried some.  And a few times we laughed, but not in a silly way.  

We looked into each other's eyes.  We imagined the Lord's eyes.  

And God said, "Be my people."

And we said, "Ok.  For now."

And we said, "We love you."

And God said, "I know."

And a few years later we had children.  And then some years after that, they had children of their own...

Yet another reason to love academia

The room I'm in right now, in Bobst Hall  at Princeton University, has four long tables arranged in a rectangle, with a podium behind the front table, the top of the rectangle.  About 25 people sit around, a bit less than half of whom are prominent professors in rabbinics (Yale, Princeton, U Penn, University of Chicago, Tel Aviv University, and JTS are represented), and the rest of whom are graduate students in rabbinics from around the world (America, France, Austria, Germany, and Israel).  This is a 2-day conference entitled, "The Rabbis and Others in Conversation" - meaning, the ancient rabbis of talmudic literature and the "conversations" represented in the literature  between them and various non-rabbis (right up my dissertation league).  

There are as many women as men.  

Everyone is polite.

There is fervent discussion of everyone's ideas, agreeing, disagreeing, suggesting further research, asking and answering questions.

Many of the women are beautiful, and they are also full-voiced and smart, and many of the men are soft-spoken.

The ages span from about 25 to about 70.  

Some are religious Jews, some are secular, and some are Christian.  And some are something else.

Over breakfast, lunch, and dinner we discuss the papers, or Hebrew grammar, or sports.

No one is belittled.  No one is exalted.

But mainly it's the women.  They are beautiful and smart and strong - old and young - and that's just the way it is.  It is all as it should be.  There is a fantastic feeling of equality and freedom.  Gender is in the room in a comfortable way, not in a way that puts any of us into a box.  Smart women are not desexualized, and intelligent men are not macho.  It is not all about power - who has it and who doesn't and how it's wielded.  This room is about collegiality and learning.  And there are an equal amount of men and women, scattered together around the table.

This is not how it always feels in academic environments, and certainly not in the field of rabbinics.  But sometimes it feels this way, and today is one of those days.  It never feels this way in other environments though, at least not in Jewish ones.  I love academia.  I love being a part of this world.  This is the world in which to cultivate the freedom and equality, particularly regarding gender but also regarding religious orientations and other matters, that I've described at this table in Bobst Hall at Princeton.

Hoorah!

Right, Wrong, Convincing, Compelling, Interesting, Important

What does it mean to do a good dissertation in the Humanities?

For certain subjects it's clear: Prove that something existed that nobody has noticed so far.  Answer a question that has bothered us for decades.  Introduce an entirely new hermeneutic to your field.

You heard it here first: I am NOT going to do any of those things.  I have a perfectly fine sense of my own capabilities, and they are not nill, so I do not mean this self-deprecatingly, but I am not one of those who will write a ground-breaking, stop-the-presses dissertation.  (And incidentally, I'll be perfectly satisfied and proud of a career that includes nothing of the sort.)

But I do want to write a good dissertation.  I'd kind of like to write a damn good one.  It's just very hard to figure out what the criteria are, and then how to achieve that.  

I know I don't want it to be "wrong."  That would be awful.  Gotta not be wrong.  But not being wrong doesn't exactly lead to being "right."  I'd like to make a "compelling" argument, but if I succeed at that, it doesn't necessarily mean my argument is "convincing."  And even if I'm both "right" and "convincing," my work might still not be "interesting."  And even if it's "interesting," that doesn't mean it's "important."  

Oyoyoy!

Then there's this problem, especially when working with midrash.  Let's say I'm commenting about a given story in rabbinic literature.  Then someone comes along and says, "Meh, it's just a story.  It's a good story!  But stop making it into such a big deal.  It's clearly just about [fill in the blank]."  A major scholar at this graduate student conference at Princeton that I'm at right now has essentially done that to both me and another student.  How do you counter that?  

Here's my advice to myself: What do you do? You make suggestions and see if they resonate with colleagues and teachers.  You don't assume you can prove anything, and you dismiss those who would dismiss you because of that.  You find your voice, knowing that while yes, there are a million things that could be said about this stuff, you have something of your own to say.  You accept that, inevitably, some people won't like your work.  And inevitably, some people will.  You try to decide whose opinion matters to you, and you refuse to be paralyzed by insecurities, fears, and ego.  

At least you try.  And sometimes you remind yourself: It's just a job.

Gratitude

Well Passover was nice.  Happy hametz!

One thing to share from our seder this year.  We were with  my grandparents in Florida and Mommom (my grandmother) had a lot to say about gratitude.  

After Dayeinu I said that obviously the point is just that we're grateful for every little step of the way - each gift we're given is a gift in its own right, besides being part of a larger picture.  So when we say that "it would have been enough - dayeinu - if God had taken us across the Sea, even if God didn't give us manna to eat in the wilderness, on a literal level it's of course not true, because it wouldn't have been worth anything if we had just died in a few days on the other side; but on an emotional level, it should be true, because the gift of crossing the Sea safely should overwhelm us with gratitude in that very moment, despite whatever future challenges lie ahead.

My grandmother talked about how deeply that resonated with her experience.  When they were on the train out of Germany in January of 1939, headed towards France and a boat towards a new life in Bolivia (followed by a new life in New York), when they crossed that German border into France, Mommom said that the train erupted in such applause and cheering and crying and laughing that it must have been audible for miles around.  And no one gave a single thought to what would be next.  It was enough to be out of Germany.  And the same on the boat ride, with nothing in their pockets, seasick the whole time - nothing in front of them mattered; all that mattered was the salvation they were experiencing in that moment.

Then of course Mommom got mad at the Israelites for making the golden calf.  Some gratitude!  The shits they were!  "Ve vas more grateful zen zem!"  True that.

Later during Had Gadya, Mommom played both the cat and the fire, and worked very hard trying to remember which came when, and Poppop played a glorious shoychet, as always.

Happy hametz!

Jolly Jim the Judge

For nearly four years I have had a neighbor that I refer to as Jolly Jim the Judge.  

I met him the summer I moved here.  I was carrying a whole stack of Artscroll Talmuds for a student I was tutoring, and I arrived home with them at the end of an exhausting afternoon.  When the elevator opened, there was this big man with grey hair and a cain standing there, who said with a jolly smile, "Oops - Going down!"  Then while waiting for the door to close again, he spotted my books and said, "Are those law books?"  I didn't quite know what to say, since I realized, well, kind of they are, so I said, "Um, not exactly."  I let the elevator close and hoped that he wasn't there when it came back up, because I was just way too tired to deal with that friendly a person, and especially too tired to talk about Talmud.  And yet, when the elevator came back, there he was, jolly smile and all.  He looked at the books and saw the big word "Talmud," and said, "Ooooh, a different kind of law!"  I smiled and said, "Suppose so."  He asked what I do, and I said I'm a grad student.  "In what?"  I pointed my eyes down to my books.  "Ah, of course."  So I said, "What do you do?"  And he said in the jolliest friendliest tone, "I'm a judge."  "Wow!"  I said. " Cool!"  Ya don't really expect that.  Turned out, he lived right across the hall from me, and said, "If you need anything, never hesitate to come by."

That was the beginning of a great neighborly relationship.  Around the holidays he'd always put a card or a note under my door.  For Chanukah one year he actually bought me this great mug with a menorah on it, and when you put hot water in it the candles light up!  When I went to Florida I brought him back some of my grandmother's rugelech.  When we went away on vacation we brought in each other's mail and newspapers.  We chatted downstairs where he loved to sit outside on sunny days.  One time, the elevator broke, and I helped him slowly and laboriously up 7 flights of stairs. ( It was really lucky I came home just as he was arriving too.)  He wanted to come over and chat about my trip to Germany in November, but times got busy and I said we'd sit and talk eventually when things lightened up.  Never really did.

A few weeks ago I ran into Caroline, his fiance.  When I asked how she was, she said, "I've been better.  Jim is very sick."  Pancreatic cancer.  It had already spread to his liver and I can't remember where else.  

Last night my neighbor Zack came by - he had just heard and thought I might know more.  We said we'd keep each other posted if we heard anything.

And this morning he kept up his end.  There was a note under my door telling me Jim had passed last night.  He was 62 years old.

Jolly Jim the Judge is gone.  Very sad.  I thought the least I could do was write a little about him.

ברוך דיין אמת

Nicht oyf Shabbos geret

Having conversations that we're not having.

It's a great trick.  

On Shabbat, we're not allowed to talk about after-Shabbat.  Gotta be in the moment.  Being in the moment is key.  So we say, "Nicht oyf Shabbos geret - not to be spoken on Shabbos - but, what time are we meeting for the movie later?"  We haven't left the moment, but we manage to mention a moment that's coming later.  Sometimes it's really important, "Nicht oyf Shabbos geret, I lost my cell-phone so you won't be able call me later, so we need to set up a time now."

Sometimes there are moments that are coming that we're not yet in, nor ready to be in.  Tomorrow.  The next day.  The next year.  And we're not ready to enter them or imagine them fully.  But we might need to mention them.  We might need to acknowledge that being fully in the moment right now can't always mean forgetting that there will be other moments to come.   Because if that unspoken of moment is just looming there, hovering and growing heavier and heavier, it can take over this present moment, unless we just mention it and put it back in its place, for off in the future.

Nicht oyf Shabbos geret, as it were, if in six months.... 

Nicht oyf Shabbos geret, as it were, if you come tonight....

Nicht oyf Shabbos geret, as it were, when the time is right....

Selling a car on Shabbat is a bit much ("nicht oyf Shabbos geret, I already sold it!"  ["...47!.... Some people just don't know how to tell a joke"]).  But from time to time....  I'm just saying.  It's a pretty nice trick.

Slowing Down

My guitar teacher Seth is teaching me to play the songs I'm learning on my guitar  

v e r y   s l  o   w    l     y.  

It's pretty striking; you go super slow, and then when you go normal speed you're all solid and apace.  

My friend RF is the most productive person I know.  CL points out that she never ever moves quickly; she walks, gathers her things slowly, takes her time to tie her shoes, and she is the most productive person I know.

My friend Rabbi JK teachers her students that in order to learn Talmud effectively you have to slow down.  

I don't like slow.  Slow is boring, and time consuming.  I know it's important.  So fine, I'll go slowly.  I'll play Blackbird with my metronome at 90, and I'll take my time getting out my metro-card, and I'll take my dissertation one day at a time, all because I know that it'll allow me to reach my goals, large or small, more effectively than if I rushed.  But let it be known:

Going slowly is SO ANNOYING!  

Well, most of the time.

Walks in the park - slow is pretty nice.

Confidence and Humility

My friend DAS gave a sermon / led a discussion in shul about humility and confidence.  He began with a text from Vayiqra Rabbah (5th century Palestine) that describes Moses's humility:

At the burning bush, Moses felt unworthy and hid his face and said that someone else should go.  And God said, "No.  It's you.  If you don't do it, no one will."

At the Sea, Moses stood off to the side.  And God said, "No.  It's you.  If you don't do it, no one will."

At Mt. Sinai, Moses stood off to the side.  And God said, "No.  It's you.  If you don't do it, no one will."

And finally, the midrash reaches our parshah: At the Tent of Meeting, when it was time for God to deliver the instructions for all the sacrifices and rituals, Moses stood off to the side.  And God said, "Moses, how long will you humble yourself, while the moment is waiting only for you!"  

Of course, God loves Moses's humility.  So do the rabbis, who talk constantly about the importance of humility.  But God - and they - are exasperated by excessive humility.  He thinks so lowly of himself that he is in danger of neglecting tasks that only he can do.  

DAS read another text, this one from an 11th century Spanish text, חובות הלבבות (Duties of the Heart), which said we should acknowledge and be thankful for the talents that God gave us, and that far from being a mark of arrogance, this will actually increase our humility.

It's a fine line, but a terribly important one to work out for ourselves.  Confidence - and gratitude - can so easily lead to arrogance.  And excessive humility can so easily lead to inaction and indeed a whole range of problems, quite wisely pointed out by DAS's congregants.  There is no erring on one side or another.  We must delineate the line.  We must keep our eyes on the line.

DAS is an incredible model of doing that, and I am lucky to know him.  

But that's actually not the main thing I wanted to write.  I wanted to write about something J said to me right afterwards.  DAS ended our learning in shul by having everyone close their eyes (somehow, he managed to do this in a totally un-corny way - another great talent of his), and to think of something in our lives that we're too humble about - something that we need to increase our confidence about, so that we can appreciate and use that gift, and of something in our lives that we're arrogant about.  While we closed our eyes and thought of those things, we sang (though I just listened) the melody of b'shem hashem, which was very soothing and nice.

Afterwards, J turned to me and said, "You know, it's funny; my thing that I was too humble about and my thing that I was too arrogant about were the same thing."  And I said, "You know, mine started out different, but then as kept thinking about other things, also for me - they were the same thing."  And I guessed that that was probably the case for a lot of people.  

It's quite striking, and I'm not sure really why that happens, but it was unmistakeable for me, and apparently for J.

Anyway, I don't really have a closing thought.  But there ya' have it.

שבוע טוב

Comments

How come no one comments on my blog?  

One friend told me she's too shy.... this from a woman who herself spills her guts on her own blog!

Others have no clue how to post. 

Maybe others don't realize that I'd like comments.

Well here I am to respond to all three.

1) If you're shy, that it silly.  Just be anonymous.  (But don't be anonymous; at least make up a name.)

2) At the bottom of each post, it says in light blue "0 comments" or however many there are.  If you click on that, then you can comment.  You can identify yourself as anonymous, or a name with no link, or a blogger name, or whatever else.  Clicking on that "0 comments" (or however many) link will also allow you to read other people's comments.

3) I like comments.  I like to hear what the people have to say!

Now, I foresee an onslaught of comments on this post.  But there isn't much to respond to this post, I think.  This is a meta-post really.  (Well, of course, you could comment on how impressed you are with my neologism.)    But that is not my point.   My point is for real posts.  You understand.

לילה טוב

Law.... yawn.

Turns out, I am not interested in law.

I really thought I was.  Maybe I genuinely was for some time.  But the more I listen to lectures (or participate in seminars) about rabbinic law and legal theory and how it all works, the more I realize, it turns out, I'm just not interested.  

I think it's that I'm interested in culture in general, and law is definitely a part of that, but I get bored once you separate out all of the other interesting things - literature, poetry, philosophy, humor, creativity.... and just talk about law (as though there's this separable entity called "Law.")  That's why studying Talmud is great; law and everything else are all bound up with one another.  Which matches reality.  (Also Ronald Dworkin is great to read, but mainly the stuff about interpretation, which is so much broader than just law.)

I suppose it's inevitable and likely profitable to separate out law from culture at large and study it.  In fact, I know it is.  But I realize I don't want to be part of that.  (Dad - don't worry; by this point, I wasn't going to law school eventually anyway.)  And it's not going to be a direction I take my scholarship.  

Now I just wonder why this is the case.  Dunno.  Will mull it over.  (Aaron - you're on!)

Shabbat Shalom

PS - I got new books in the mail today!  For free!  From a friend shedding some of his old books.  Shilat's "Al Harishonim," Krochmal's Yerushalayim haBenuya, Epstein and Melamed's Mekhilta d'Rashbi, and Mikra'ot Gedolot - Chamesh Megilot.  So excited!

I Love Knowledge

I do. I just do.

When people ask, "Why do you study this or that?" I used to have a million answers about the practical usefulness of knowing the things I come to know by studying. They are still true, those million answers. But the real answer is coming into very clear relief: I just love knowledge. I love acquiring it, I love knowing that it's out there, and I love having it in my head (or my foot, for that matter; I don't care where it gets stored really). And I know I am not alone in this love. The very word "philosophy" means love of wisdom. Maybe that's not the same as knowledge, but close enough.

And I don't understand why anyone wouldn't love knowledge. It's an end unto itself; it's just great. Yes there are practical, spiritual, psychological and whatever other kind of consequences of having it that justify its pursuit, but Knowledge needs none of those supports to hold it up in all of its noble glory.

So why are so many people worried in graduate school about why they're pursuing this or that field of knowledge? Why the hell NOT pursue it???

Am I nuts? Is this like Hillary's thing about Everest?

Maybe that's it. Maybe some of us are just wired to want to gobble up knowledge and just hug it and kiss it and pass it around for everyone's enjoyment, (better doing that to knowledge than to... well, whatever), and maybe some of us are just wired to want to climb mountains. I for one am glad that I am in the former group.

(Re the latter group, I HIGHLY recommend Jon Krakauer's book, Into Thin Air.)

UPDATE: Ok, I posted that yesterday after a lunch with other graduate students.  Then, over dinner, I participated in a discussion/seminar with the dean of University of Chicago Divinity School, Richard Rosengarten, who completely vindicated everything I just wrote!  Of course, he did it in a way more sophisticated way, having been thinking about it for several decades longer than I have, which made it even more gratifying.

He said many things, but one thing I thought was particularly helpful to me was this: 

While knowledge is Good in and of itself, we have to constantly remind people of its fruits, because they simply won't accept it otherwise.  But we had better believe that knowledge is Good in and of itself, because those fruits are often not going to be very apparent in our day to day (and sometimes even year to year!) lives as scholars.  Despite the utility of scholarly pursuits, we need not - nay, should not - be utilitarian in our relationship to them.

He seemed more at peace than I (again, he is several decades my senior) with the reality of people's need for fruit or utility or justification or whatever we might call it.  I am frustrated with it.  And especially with Jews who can't just accept that knowledge of Torah is good, even if it's not "relevant" or "practical" or what have you.  Knowledge is "a tree of life to those who embrace it!" Proverbs 3:18.  We sing it every week in shul!  Asking whether that learning you just did made you grow (as a person, as a Jew, whatever) is just infuriating.  If you learned something, you grew; plain and simple.  

Then he said this most encouraging thing to us PhD students whose endeavors are so often under-appreciated by a society that doesn't acknowledge how deeply valuable is the life of the mind: "Don't let anyone say that you're hiding your light under a bushel because you're doing this."  

Thank you Dr. Rosengarten! 

The Tragic Plight of Idioms in Translation

Oh translators.  

Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Bava Metzia, 35b.  A complicated story to explain without annoying legal background, but in the end, a certain guy could get more money in restitution for his dead cow if, rather then accept the oath of, let's say, George, he went and dealt with, let's say, Harry.  The guy is depicted saying to George: 

"דל אנת ודל שבועתך" - which ends up being translated into English by Soncino as "Take yourself off with your oath," and into Hebrew by Steinsaltz as "הוצא את עצמך והוצא את שבועתך" (take out yourself and take out your oath).  

Really of course, what the dude is saying is: "Screw you and your little oath, George!  I'm going to Harry!"  

Of course, no one's going to translate the Talmud as saying "screw you."  I get why not.  But really - the Talmud is waaaay more colorful than translators allow it to be.  

And so I say, woe to the translators of idioms.  Woe to the translators of Talmud.  Hoorah for dramatic readings!

And have a very nice day.

Purim Jokes

Jen Cohen is the coolest!   This was the best Purim joke I have seen in ages (since Ehud and Ethan's trivia game a few years back, which of course cannot be beaten):

Jen's cantorial internship

Purim

It strikes me that not everyone is as comfortable as I am with the idea that the Bible contains a joke book.  I'm speaking of course of the Book of Esther.  

Achashverosh has a 180 day drinking party; he decides it would be a good idea to have his gorgeous wife Vashti prance around in front of his drunken friends; and since she doesn't, he takes the advice of a nut-job advisor who says this gorgeous wife should be kicked out; he can't so much as open a can of tuna fish without his advisors; all the women that come for his beauty contest spend 6 months in this oil and six month in that oil (do you have any idea what that would do to your fingertips???); Haman ends up in several Three's Company scenes; Achashverosh keeps giving people permission to slaughter each other, and then is shocked when people die; there are some 10 drinking parties throughout the book.... it goes on and on.  It's funny, and ludicrous, and satirical, and great.

My friend Rabbi S points out, "Just because it's satirical, that doesn't mean it's not sophisticated."  Of course he's right.  There are some brilliant allusions.  My favorite is the fact that this book, which takes place during the Babylonian exile after the destruction of the First Temple, employs language that is only otherwise used with reference to the Temple - the fabrics, the utensils.... it's all an amazing flip: What if all of that glory and majesty were put in the context of silliness and drunken upside down kingdoms devoid of God's (explicit) presence.   I'm not really sure if there's anything very poignant about it, but it's kind of like a really good roast I think.  Which is enjoyable, and cathartic.  And the six months in this oil and six months in that oil - Rabbi S says that's got something to do with Ezekiel or something, and yes, that's cool too.

And there are even dead serious parts, or at least straight-forwardly meaningful parts.  Like when the Jews (as told in the Book of Esther itself!) mark this day of salvation from certain death by a holiday on which they (and we too today) give treats to friends and gifts to the poor (and parties too, of course).  That is beautiful.  And one of the most important lines in the Bible - if you ask the Talmud - appears at the end: "קיימו וקבלו היהודים - the Jews established and accepted it," which the rabbis take to refer to the free-will acceptance of the Torah by the Jews (as opposed to the not-s0-open-ended choice given to them in Exodus).  And that Mordechai is described as "דובר שלום לכל עמו - one who speaks peace to all his nation" - that is a great reason to love a guy.

So comedy and poignancy, partying and beauty, are not mutually exclusive.  The framework for a story that begins and ends and is filled in between with drinking parties is, I believe inescapably, a fun and funny book.  

Now, why I love that fact: 

GOD WANTS US TO BE HAPPY AND HAVE FUN!  (For those who don't know me, I'm not really saying I know what God wants.  Or what God is.  Or that God has human emotions like wanting.  It's a metaphor to me, and one I like very much.  Anyway, as I was saying, God wants us to have a party!)  It would be crazy to spend every day just goofing around and laughing non-stop.  Productivity and progress require a good amount of seriousness and focus.  But once a year, for a day or two, we jump full on into this most sacred part of life: senseless, relentless, selfless joy.  It's not the kind of joy that comes from looking into your newborn's eyes, or from the performance of God's commandments on a daily basis.  It's the crazy joy that feels so good precisely because it's so superficial and light.  Your whole serious life is suspended, and you get to be light.  

One of my favorite stories in the Talmud (Bavli Taanit 22a):

Rabbi B'rokah was in the market in a town called Bei Lefet, and Elijah the Prophet is hanging out with him there.  As they are walking, Rabbi B'rokah asks Elijah, "Is there anyone here in this market who is assured a place in the world to come."  Elijah replies, "Nope."  But then as they're walking along, Elijah says, "No wait - that guy over there.  He's assured a place in the world to come."  Eager to find out on what merit the man has acquired such a distinction, Rabbi B'rokah approaches him and says, "Excuse me, sir, but can you tell me what you do?"  It turns out he is a Jew who poses as a Gentile jailor, and protects the Jews who are imprisoned.  Quite a noble pursuit - risking one's life to protect one's people.  Rabbi B'rokah returns to Elijah and as they continue walking along, Elijah says, "Those two guys over there - they're also assured a place in the world to come."  Eager again to find out what noble pursuit distinguishes these two men such that they stand to receive the greatest reward imaginable, Rabbi B'rokah approaches them and asks what they do.  They reply: "We are comedians, jesters.  We go around cheering up sad people."  That, according to the Talmud, is one of the noblest pursuits there is.  

The Bible is a collection of books that have a wide variety of personalities.  The five megilot (Ecclesiastes, Esther, Ruth, Song of Songs, and Lamentations) are a particularly great group.  Angst and depression, joy and lightness, devotion and commitment, erotic love, and traumatic pain are all part of the biblical tradition, a tradition adopted as the starting point for understanding human experience.  If we cannot embrace this one - lightness, partying, fun, and satire - we are in dire straights.  

Oh man, now I wish I'd taken a picture of myself in my Purim costume to post here.  I was the color red.  It was great.  But I didn't have red shoes, so I wore black shoes, and when I said to my 5 year old friend Noam, "I'm all in red!  Head to toe!"  He looked me  up and down, and when he got to my feet he said with utmost seriousness, "No."  

PS - Menachem Mendel has a post here about Esther in the Dead Sea Scrolls.

Doubt

I never really relate to problems of doubt people have with faith.  People doubt the existence of the thing they have - or wish to have - faith in.  I have never been plagued by that, perhaps because I don't particularly desire to have faith in things I don't think exist.  Since the goal for me isn't faith, doubt's not really a problem.

Which is only a negative when people talk about how uplifting and inspiring it is to overcome doubt, accepting it as part of one's faith.  It's a very pretty concept, and I have heard many a lovely sermon on the topic.  But it never spoke to me.  I almost - almost - longed for doubt that I could struggle with.  That's how beautiful they make it sound.

Today I realized that there is another form of doubt that I do in fact relate to, and am currently finding uplifting and inspiring.  It's not doubt about whether or not God exists; it's doubt about where one's relationship with God is going, and how one really feels about God.

It's like a romantic relationship in that way.  In the beginning, there's no telling where this path will lead, what emotions will develop, and what joy - or pain - the relationship will bring.  But we engage; despite our doubt about how good, or how strong, or how right it is or will be, we accept the relationship for what it is so far, and we decide that, for now, it is worth the investment - in time, energy, vulnerability, and whatever else.  

The glaring difference is that in a relationship, if it turns sour, we can just end it.  Human relationship are essentially experimental.  But with God, there's no bowing out.

Unless there is.  What if our relationships with God were truly open-ended.  When the relationship is bad, we needn't simply accept it.  We might pull back a little bit.  (God has promised to always take us back!) Or we might try harder to make it work - out of choice, and love.  And when the relationship is good, we can know that we have chosen this, and we have cultivated it, so that we can truly own it and enjoy it. 

That is what I was thinking about today. 

"The Best of Both Worlds"

That is a bad slogan.

Towards the end of my last semester at Barnard College, I sat in Butler Library for hours upon hours reading Aristotle.  Most of the rest of my time was spent in the beit midrash with whatever masekhet of Bavli I was learning that semester, and working on my senior thesis at the Jewish Theological Seminary.  The slogan of the Double Degree Program between Barnard and JTS is: "the best of both worlds."  But all I could think of that semester was: It's just one world.  The thrill of studying Aristotle was the same - in degree as well as in kind - as the thrill of learning Gemara.  The library and the beit midrash were separate physical spaces, but they were the same place.  Whether through the prism of Aristotle's philosophy or Hazal's dialectics, sitting there with those books was like basking in ziv haShekhina.  Maybe the slogan of the Double Degree Program should be: "Come to our school(s) and bask in the glorious light of the Divine."  

Ok, I see how that might not work for everyone.  Fine, leave it as it.  But don't say I didn't protest (at least to the ether).

Clothing

I had my usual reaction to Parshat Tetzaveh (Exodus 28) today in shul: The message is that clothing is important, and that seems to be true.  The work of the kohanim must be done in proper clothing; how could it be otherwise?

Clothing should be something that reflects what you intend to do in it.  Clothing should match a person's personality.  And if one is in touch with one's personality, it should be easy to find the right clothing.

Shouldn't it.  Just like the kohanim.  

Thank you very much to the clothing industry for undermining this simple and potentially graceful and expressive part of human life.  Thanks a ton.  

זה אלי

Mekhilta d'Rabbi Yishmael, Massekhta d'Shira, Beshalach, Parashah 3, p. 127:

"This is my God" 

When they saw the Divine revealed at the sea, they didn't have to ask, "Which one is the Ruler?"  As soon as they saw the Divine, they knew.  And they opened up and said, "This is my God."  

They didn't have to ask.  They just knew.  They knew. 

Verses and their Teachings

I thought of this image today while teaching at Drisha, to describe (part of) the rabbinic approach to deriving meanings from verses and attributing verses to teachings:

Every verse is like a package.  You open it up and there's a teaching inside!  And the teaching comes right out (נפקא) to you!  If at times there's an empty package, that's ok as long as there's a good reason for that. 

Then I thought of this image:

The verses are like very needy friends.  They really need to be needed (מבעי ליה).  

Then I thought of this image:

The verses and their teachings are like monogamous relationships.  If one verse is already teaching one teaching, it can't just go off and teach something else at the same time!  And if one teaching is already attached to one verse, it can't just go off and attach itself to another verse as well!  

Then I made a barely intelligible flow chart, which my students graciously obliged, and the sugya all worked out in the end.  

An afternoon well spent.

Titles

Titles are hard to come up with.  I used to think I was great at it, and I should get a job titling other people's books.  It's harder when you're trying to come up with a title from the inside out.  

What would you title your autobiography?  

I was just watching Boston Legal and Alan Shore said he'd title his, "Within the Margin of Error."  I wonder what I'd title mine.  I think it's a good question.

Or maybe not.

Bible Criticism

Tzemah has opened his website, www.BibleCriticism.com, and it looks great!

Dissertation Title?

I need a title for my dissertation.  Here's a working subtitle:

"The Impact of Dialogues with Non-Jews on Rabbinic Intellectual Culture in Late Antiquity"

That says it all.  But it's too long to be the entire title.  I need a starter.  Problem is: I don't want to say "Non-Jew" or "Dialogue" twice.  And I'd kind of like to avoid using "Non-Jew" in the main title altogether.  

Any ideas?

Identity and Accomplishments

We are not are accomplishments.  We are not our awards or degrees or publications, victories or even failures.  We are proud of these things; we seek them out, and we would feel slighted if they went entirely unnoticed.  But we are not our accomplishments.

We are, perhaps in part, the qualities that earned us those accomplishments.  But more importantly, we are the qualities that we value.  We are, I hope, the qualities that mean something to God.

And, in my humble opinion, the Lord almighty does not care a whit about Harvard Theological Review.  

Building the Mishkan

This year, I really like Parshat Trumah.  

It's nice to have a rest sometimes from the heavy stuff (figuratively speaking) and just talk about, well, physically heavy stuff.  Building something.  

Of course, it''s the most important thing in the world to build, and it lays the groundwork for what is to become the epicenter of Israelite and then Jewish life for centuries upon centuries.  But all we have to do is just build it.  Not sit in introspection, not help out someone we despise, not rage over injustices or sing about our lofty invisible God.... just build.  Pick up a slab of wood, and build.  That is our main religious imperative this week.  It's nice that not every second of Torah is emotionally and spiritually taxing.  Terumah - just some physical labor, and it's no less essential to Torah.  Purim too - just have a party, and it's no less essential to Torah.  I don't have the energy this week for any parsha besides Trumah.  Lucky how that worked out I guess.

שבת שלום 

Why I love Colbert

Oh the many reasons why.

But tonight, it's for the laugh he gave me as I trudged through more dissertation thinking on paper ("paper" of course meaning computer screen that is messing with all the muscles in my poor neck).  About the stupid members of Congress twittering during Obama's address. Apparently Obama was twittering too:

OMG Totally addressing Congress!

LOL Mitch McConnell looks like a turtle.

לילה טוב

Isolation and Imagination

Here's my question: 

If an individual or a community existed in total isolation, without seeing or hearing about outsiders, would they have the ability and/or interest to imagine an outsider's perspective of them?  

How much is that kind of imagination contingent upon the plausibility of others actually noticing us?

Before we had a concept of Mars, and life on Mars, could we ever have imagined how life on earth would look to Martians?  Obviously, at a certain point we developed a concept of "things fundamentally different from us," so now we can create all sorts of Martian-like beings and imagine how they'd see us.  But is the concept of "things fundamentally different from us" innate, or did we develop it as we naturally found such things all around us?  If the latter, how would that be different in a totally insular community? 

First post

Welcome to my blog.  And חודש טוב - a happy Adar to one and all.

What is on my mind today?  Well I'll tell you.

Turns out, the Hebrew verb ד.ח.פ., which in its active form means "push," only appears in the Bible in one book: Esther.  (Ok fine, it also comes up once in 2 Chronicles, but whatever.)  It appears in Esther three times, and only in the passive (twice in נפעל and once in פועל), and it doesn't mean "push" at all.  Despite it's passive construct, it means "hurry," and is a synonym of "ב.ה.ל." (as in מבוהלים ודחופים). Haman hurried home, pissed because of Mordechai.  The messengers hurried off with the king's message.  (It sort of comes up in Psalms 140:12, but in a convoluted form meaning something like "to his overthrow" or "such that he be thrust down" or something like that.  Fine, so it comes up in more than Esther, but only in K'tuvim and mainly in Esther.)

In rabbinic literature its active form is quite common, whether in the context of pushing someone off a rooftop in order to carry out his biblically mandated death sentence, or pushing a priest into a cemetery.  But the passive form comes up only twice, both times in Vayiqra Rabbah.  In 21.7 it means something like "to be exiled" or "sent away," because God tells Moses to tell Aaron that he shouldn't come into the Kodesh.  That same meaning is used in the active form in Pesiqta d'Rav Kahana, referring to God's future expulsion of the angel of Edom from God's quarters.  But in Vayiqra Rabbah 4.6 it means something else entirely, and how we translate it affects our view of the scene there.

A non-Jew comes and asks Rabbi Yehoshua ben Korhah a question.  The rabbi answers, but in doing so he sort of humiliates him.  Then it says, about the non-Jew: "נדחף והלך לו".  That could either mean "He was exiled, and he left," or "He hurried off."  The difference between the two meanings affects how we understand the rabbi's role.  Did he kick him out of the room, or did he just insult him a bit.  I think he just insulted him a bit.  There are no other examples of "נדחף" used without a clear agent, and the rabbi's agency here is far from clear.  So it turns out that while the rabbi was rude (and rabbis in the Talmud are rude to plenty of people, not just non-Jews), he didn't kick the guy out of the room, nor perhaps even expect him to leave.  I don't blame the non-Jew; I'd have left too.  But still - it really matters how we translate that word, and it doesn't necessarily mean what we thought it did!  

Welcome to Lav Davka.  My posts will not necessarily all be like this, but this is a dissertation day, so there ya have it.