There is a recurring motif in the Torah in which people reveal and then conceal – or first conceal and then reveal. So the peekaboo aspects of the telling of the Purim story are really only an echo of themes we have heard a million times (Jacob/Esau, Jacob/Issac).
We hide from each other. We hide from HaShem. HaShem hides from us, only revealing one name, then another…the real names are concealed from us.
We are not allowed to know.
So we spend our lives playing hide and seek with our loved ones, with our communities and with ourselves. The holiday of Purim — with its costumes and masks…may tell us more about revealing/revelation in its hiddenness.
Purim happens in the late winter/early Spring, depending on the year. It is the time when the hiddenness of life only begins to be revealed…only a little. Even before we are aware that the sap in the trees is running, the bees are already gather pollen from the maples. The life force, previously hidden, meekly shows its lovely face.
Purim is the beginning of the revealing. Purim is the story which demands the end to the concealment.
Even if we begin by looking at the names we fine that the heroine “Esther” may share her name origins with “Hastir” which translates from the Hebrew to mean “Conceal”….and the story that we tell is told from the scroll called “Megillah” — but “Megalah” translates to “reveal”or “discover”.
We all wear masks in our lives…we play roles. We get to decide to whom we reveal our true selves and in the right circumstances.
What people wear, in fact, either reveals who they are or hides who they are. A black leather jacket can show someone’s ‘rocker’ personality or it can hide someone’s sensitivity. The ancient priests in the old temple wore specific robes – described very specifically in the Torah – which were designed to magnify their role as Kohanites.
In the story of Purim – Esther and Mordechai were clearly connected. Does she hide her identity as a Jew deliberately or is she blissfully unaware of who she really is until circumstances drove Mordechai’s motivation to finally tell her. Are we, in fact, sometimes blissfully unaware of who we really are until circumstances require that we rise to the occasion – on the occasion that the King raises his scepter.
No, that’s too much information.
We reserve the right to the privacy of our real selves. We reserve the right to reveal who we are…but be warned…sometimes life reveals who you are before you are ready.
This evening we began with the text study of Isaiah Chapter 56. Isaiah was thought of as the defender of the outsiders….eunuchs, foreigners, sexual outsiders….Isaiah was their champion. This passage, photographed below, is read twice per year…on the Fast of Gedalia and on Tishe B’Av. This passage is considered to be nourishment for the soul.
Rabbi Steinberger chanted this as Haftorah. It was chilling and magical.
In Verses 5 to 7 above, portions of this are posted on a plaque at Yad v’Shem, the Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem. Meaning that one has a name and a place — a soul needs a place to call home.
Souls that are wandering — they are outsiders. A soul needs a place to land. A field, a flower, a windowsill.
Souls that are unsettled often feel on the outside of life. Depression can cause this as well. Depression — the unsettling of the soul. Andrew Solomon wrote a book entitled “Far From the Tree: Parents, Children and the Search for Identity” — which is very interesting and could pertain here. Andrew Solomon also wrote “The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression” which is also recommended to us to read.
Now Allen Ginsburg, writer, born in 1926, was a man who cared for his mother who suffered from Schizophrenia. When he was twelve years old, he left her in a sanitarium. He wanted people to say of him “He is gifted with poetry, he has seen the face of the creator”.
He wrote a poem which was a string of aphorisms, born of his experience growing up…with his mother. It is called Sunflower Sutra. Read it BELOW:
I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the box house hills and cry.
Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of machinery.
The oily water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that stream, no hermit in those mounts, just ourselves rheumy-eyed and hung-over like old bums on the riverbank, tired and wily.
Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust—
—I rushed up enchanted—it was my first sunflower, memories of Blake—my visions—Harlem
and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes Greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the past—
and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset, crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye—
corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face, soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried wire spiderweb,
leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear,
Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul, I loved you then!
The grime was no man’s grime but death and human locomotives,
all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black mis’ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance of artificial worse-than-dirt—industrial—modern—all that civilization spotting your crazy golden crown—
and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what more could I name, the smoked ashes of some cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs & sphincters of dynamos—all these
entangled in your mummied roots—and you there standing before me in the sunset, all your glory in your form!
A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden monthly breeze!
How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your grime, while you cursed the heavens of the railroad and your flower soul?
Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a flower? when did you look at your skin and decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive? the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and shade of a once powerful mad American locomotive?
You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a sunflower!
And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me not!
So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck it at my side like a scepter,
and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack’s soul too, and anyone who’ll listen,
—We’re not our skin of grime, we’re not dread bleak dusty imageless locomotives, we’re golden sunflowers inside, blessed by our own seed & hairy naked accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our own eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sitdown vision.
I have made the third stanza from the bottom into bold type — to make a point. Ginsberg is challenging the flower — who is feeling used up and grimy…to try to remember when it was young and fresh and beautiful….it is a flower. A glorious sunflower. A warning to all of us to not forget who we really are…
So…Ginsberg’s mother died in the sanitarium — and after she died, he found a letter which she had written to him: “The key is in the window. The key is in the bars in the sunlight in the window. Get married.”
Perhaps he saw this as the yellow sunlight, for him, for his mother, was a divine image….it was a vision of the face of the Creator.
He became suicidal. He read Blake’s poetry. He could hear Blake’s voice reading “Ah, Sunflower….” To Ginsberg, to his mother — everything outside the window looked beautiful and — and like G-d.
Then we had a change of activity and a treat — Sabrina Ross brought a portion of her play, Shalom Bayit, for us to read a chapter.
With Sabrina’s permission, here is a portion of the script:
She doesn’t like rugelach?! Vey is mir. You are a goy’s daughter aren’t you?
He’s converting you know.
Batya’s been telling me that for years.
He studies hard, Zayde. He reads the Torah. He even knows some Kabbalah. Do you know Kabbalah?
Shah, child. Why do you defend him? Being Jewish is more than knowing the stuff. It’s a matter of blood. And you don’t like kugel, you don’t like rugelach… you must not have enough Jewish blood in you.
I really don’t think that’s how it works, Zayde.
It’s a way of life, Rachie! Your father does not live like a Jew!
He keeps Kosher. He doesn’t work on Shabbat. He even yelled at me once for eating bread on Passover.
It takes more than that-
Even his clients thought he was a Jew!
It takes pain Rachel! It’s a burden!
His own sister called him a kike.
Rachel! Do not use that word in my home!
Oh Rachel. Don’t repeat such a word! It hurts me so to hear it.
ZAYDE puts his head in his hands.
I’ve spent so long forgetting the horrible, horrible pain that came with that word. You say it and it makes me remember. But I can’t let myself remember. It will kill me. It will kill me.
ZAYDE wipes his eyes and looks up.
Your Aunt Faith, I don’t know about her. I remember the day she said that word. It was the last day we saw her. I was so surprised, because she was always sweet to me.
Why did she call him that?
She said she saw him do a horrible thing.
What was it?
I will not repeat it to you. No good will come of it. Your mother said it was a disgusting lie to try and break up your family.
ZAYDE puts his hand over his mouth and looks away.
But now I don’t know. I just don’t know, after what your father just tried to do.
You don’t even know what happened that night.
Of course I do. Your mother told me.
But she wasn’t even there. I was the one who found him. She just called the police after.
She wasn’t even going to call them before I made her. She didn’t want people to see the siren lights in front of our house! Meanwhile my knuckles were bleeding from punching through the bathroom door to find dad passed out with a backpack full of-
Rachel! Did I ask to hear this? No. I cannot.
NOTE: Rachel’s play, Shalom Bayit, will be done in a stage reading on Thursday evening, May 4, 2017 in Madison, Wisconsin. Please email me at firstname.lastname@example.org for details.
At the risk of presenting this post as click bait, let me just begin with the fact that this particular evening in December my world turned upside down.
I was told that there was no Santa Claus. More importantly, I was taught that the story of the Chanukah Miracle that I always believed as a child (c’mon, fifty-five years of believing) was shot to youknowwhere by our own beloved Rabbi Andrea Steinberger.
Chanukah — a time when we have believed that we were lights looking for more light. A time when we thought that the Macabbean Magic was not just their victory but it somehow extended into the magic of lipids….the physics of how oil for one night can burn for eight.
Big Yuge Lie — or as we know them to be now: Alternative Facts.
And here is the truth…or the Alternative Truth, or Authentic Lie…however you want to characterize it…
In 167 B.C.E. King Antiochus IV — of the Syrian-Greek Army, attacked the Temple in Jerusalem. For the next three years they defaced the Temple. They desecrated it. Many Jews gave up their observances…they were disheartened.
There was a group of Jews who continued to identify as Jews….a small band of folks…Super Jews, you might say…Zealots…by the name of Maccabee. Matisyahu and his son Judah — of the Hasmonean Dynasty. The light was alive in them, as it were.
They won a military battle — a few against many. Miraculous. YUGE.
They opened a fast of kosher olive oil to rededicate the Temple after it had been cleaned and purified.
Now it is three hundred years later. The Talmudic rabbis decided that as we celebrate Sukkot for a week…that we could also celebrate Chanukah — meaning “Rededication” (of the Temple) – also for eight days.
The miracle of the oil actually lasting eight days when it was only supposed to last for one…well kids, that is a myth. A Freaking Myth.
Rabbi Steinberger noted that the subject of Chanukah really pushes her buttons. The Rabbis, historically, became obsessed with the miracle. The Manufactured Miracle. The Alternative Fact.
The Actual Fact was that the Maccabees were extremists. There was a YUGE issue of Particularism vs. Assimilation. The candle, in our observance of this holiday, is symbolic of triumph.
In Rome, there is a menorah in the Arch. A public display of the menorah.
The Actual Miracle of Chanukah is the resistance. The Miracle of Chanukah is the opportunity for us to show our strength when things get difficult. When things get tough, the tough get to work!
Lighting hearts and minds in Assimilated Jews…this is the miracle and the mandate of Chanukah.
Can we rise to that opportunity?
There is a tradition, also rabbinic, of putting the lights of the menorah in the window…it is said that the people of the marketplace should be able to see the lights…to see that you are not assimilated…in order to fulfill the mitzvah. It is about opening the light into the outside. Sharing the inside with the outside.
Becoming public with our inner selves. But truly, how much of our insides do we really show? If it is a mitzvah to put our Chanukah lights in the public window…is it also a mitzvah to show the world who we are??
Next Aviv shared with us a children’s show, Parpar Nechmad, which has been alive and inspiring young Israeli children for a long time. It is interesting to note how the symbols changed in 1983 representing Chanukah as just menorah and dreidel….to the more Machismo/militaristically-inspired symbolism of 1993. Watch here: Parpar Nechmad 1983 and Parpar Nechmad 1993.
And so, it seems that we struggle with Jewish identity. Like — who is a Jew? “Vos macht a yid”….what makes a Jew? And once you are a Jew….are you really anything else?
It used to be that Jews greeted each other with this phrase: Vos Macht a Yid? –another way of saying “hey, how’s it going?”. Or…the Jew is Me is Greeting the Jew in You.
This evening we explored Jewish Identity as Essential/Ontological. In the Babylonian Talmud, Sanhedrin 44a, R. Abba ben Zabda says: Even though [the people] have sinned, they are still [called] Israel. R. Abba said: Thus people say, a myrtle, though it stands among reeds, is still a myrtle, and so it is called.
This of course provides many conversations…that a Myrtle which wishes to be a Reed — wants to secularize into the Reed Community, will always be seen as a Myrtle by the other Reeds. (think “Ugly Duckling” story) No matter how much we polish our Reed-ness, we still look and act like a Myrtle to the other Reeds — and also to the other Myrtles. We cannot change our basic essence — and as is written in the Sanhedrin above, Judaism/Jewishness is part of our Essence.
You can take on Buddhism — and you are a Jewish Buddhist — a JewBu. You accept Jesus as the Mashiach and you are called a Jew for Jesus. The Jew In You cannot be extricated from your being. Even if you are exiled, you are The Jew in Exile.
Daniel Boyarin, a UC Berkeley talmudist. in his book “A Radical Jew” (University of California Press, 1994) has written “Jews in general feel not that Jewishness is something they have freely chosen but rather that it is an essence — an essence often nearly empty of any content other than itself — which has been ascribed — sometimes even imposed — on them by birth.”
This falls under the category of the UnNameable, the Unknowable, Shakespeare’s Hamlet saying “There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in our philosophy”.
But as Jews I think we are accustomed to the idea that something is just beyond our reach, just beyond our touch, beyond our understanding…and perhaps that Divine UnKnowable spark within makes us a Jew.
Or as I have written previously HERE: “And when we know this part of ourselves, our Divine spark, the for us, every bush, every bush is a burning one.”
So, Vos Macht a Yid? Is it that UnKnowable Essence? Is it kindness and awareness of social injustice and connection and risk-taking? Well, many think that in the world of art, that may be the Jewish calling card — if there is such a thing.
Robert Frank, a 1950’s photographer from Switzerland, came to this country and began to take a series of photographs, grainy in quality, with his Leica camera. Here are a few examples of his work…you can feel, in the pieces, the social commentary, the feeling. The pieces are evocative, provocative…and all at once gentle. In this group of photos…there are many commentaries which can be described on who is inside and who is outside…socially, spatially and emotionally in the photographs.
Take a look below!
And, as a final note, Lenny Bruce on who and what is Jewish and who and what is Goyish.
This evening we began our exploration of different types of boundaries which we have encountered/enjoyed/struggled with. Each of us brought an example or a story of a boundary.
Steve brought milkweed seed pods — which he collects every year…for him…it is not just the beauty of the seed pods…but the juxtaposition of bringing something from the outdoors…subtending the boundaries to the indoors.
Sabrina described her history with choosing to wear a headscarf…and that sometimes, for her, this provides a way of protecting herself when she is feeling vulnerable.
Suzanne brought this Native American photo from National Geographic. Photographers, she described, are really outsiders, but try to be insiders.
I have been fascinated for a long while with the work of Anselm Kiefer. This piece, The Breaking of the Vessels (1990, St. Louis Art Museum) is my first love of his work. Here the vessels holding Divine Light have been crushed by surrounding ancient tomes, and in breaking, the inside and the outside have mingled.
Isabel described metaphorical boundaries — those that exist in our own minds…and how difficult it is to fight boundaries within ourselves.
Rena described their experience with wearing a kippah — and their decision to begin wearing one on November 8, 2016 (election day). The gender suggestion of a kippah may seem obvious, it is clearly a “masculine object”. In choosing to identify as “other”, one also subtends many boundaries. In a secular context, Rena explained, the kippah separates them; it carries great weight — both with Jews and with others who wear different types of head coverings. In taking the name “Yehuda” — a masculine Hebrew name, one jumps from inside to outside and to inside again in so many ways.
Lucy has been exploring opportunities to take action, also since November 8th. She has realized that language is a boundary when working with different communities….communties of color, differing demographics, etc. She has been thinking about how many negative words are used to describe different communities — and how language barriers can be presented visually….how communication and relationship can be affected in our conscious use of positive versus negative language….
Pam brought in an armband which she wore a few decades ago…in a strike for peace and freedom. Again, boundaries subtended, inside and outside and inside again…
Hagit is a poet. She has translated her work from the Hebrew and she had brought two poems to share with us. She described that inside/outside — another layer to explore — is being an outsider to the English language. She read from her fourth book in Hebrew…and then in English. The works: “I drew a circle” and “Like a baby“…
Of course, in scripture, an obvious Inside/Outside reference in our history/story…tells of Adam and Eve.
So many different representations in art of their exile…from when they were in Gan Eden…to when they were not. Some of the following images are different iterations of Adam and Eve…
As with all new beginnings of groups, we had some new folks and some veterans — and we were grateful to be back all together with new stimuli and creative minds and collaborators. This year we begin with a new theme and the addition of a few new cities: see masthead above for complete list of cities!
We will be studying “Outside/Inside: Exploring Boundaries and Otherness”.
Of course there are a zillion different ways in which we can explore all these…in terms of the material, the spiritual, societal rules and norms, gender, religion, political, cultural, spatial…but for us, tonight, we began with a story circle. And what, do you ask, is a story circle? Well, as everything begins, a story circle begins with a spark, a prompt. Our sparks for the evening:
(1) Are you a Jewish Artist? Tell a story about how your self expression came out…
(2) What makes art Jewish? Tell a story on how this challenges you….
(3) Tell a story on how an interaction with a Jewish artist was especially meaningful for you.
And so we began. The story circle was a beautiful opening. It represented a gentle unfolding of ourselves to each other — and to ourselves. We weave the stories of our lives — of our hearts — into our work, into our art, whether we are aware of this or not.
Interesting ideas which came out of the evening — Archie Rand describes Art as Midrash — and to me, I am thinking that we are the art — that we are the midrashim.
Rabbi Steinberger described for us the idea of HaShem — God — as Artist. In the creation story all is carefully crafted, molded, sculptured, breathed-life-into….
Imagine the world as a gallery — God as Artist painting the clouds onto the sky, adding light here and there as final touches…adding texture to the buffalo and the hedgehog with an impasto knife…composing the silent but staggering music that is heard when the sun breaches the horizon — or when we witness the aurora borealis for not just the first time — but for every time.
And for the world as art installation — where are the boundaries of the created and the framed….in other words…where does the piece of creation end and the framing of it begin? Are there really any boundaries to a particular creation…or does it go on and on…?