Always Read the Comments
And a note on the pandemic as a sort of religious experience for people.
The best part of doing this weekly essay for three months now is the comments section and the emails I get. It’s a funny reversal — the thing I used to always avoid as a reporter was that dreaded section, but this blog seems to bring out a lot of good. This week I want to share some.
This week is interesting, also, because it feels like a pivot moment in our home, and I assume you’re feeling it too. Vaccines are flowing — my parents are fully vaccinated, and I’ve gotten my first shot. The sun is shining — the hours set for summer. And the long dark cave-dwelling winter that was 2020 feels finally done.
Covid taught me how many people need religion in their lives. Because the virus became a religion. Or at least that’s how I saw it, among many in my circles both professional and social and in much of the writing I read about the pandemic. More than devotion to the covid rules, there was the shaming of anyone who joked about them (fine, yeah, I made some jokes, and I got yelled at!) or who dared be on a beach without a mask (also me, so many times).
Media types who could escape to second homes (or who could afford to break their leases and become nomads, as we could) spent a lot of their time on Twitter online yelling at middle class families who were trying to sneak an illegal hour in at a park.
Sometimes seeing how the passion consumed people scared me. I don’t know where that energy goes without the virus. Maybe it finds another illness. Maybe it goes back to politics.
But watching the mad reaction most people had brought me back to the central premise of this blog: The old religions recognize that we have these passions — this need to fear, this need to shame, this need to rage against the injustice and violence of living in a human body — and try to tame them. At their best, religion takes those furies and says: that’s ok, that’s human; the goal now is to moderate, the goal is to soften, the goal is to harness.
Rage and violence is our natural state. The whole game of civilization is to overcome our grubby nature. And so in this our grubby pandemic year, the writing I’ve loved most has come from those with a religious perspective. It’s come from Catholics and Mormons and the Eastern Orthodox — and, of course, my favorite writing of all has come from Jews.
Anyway, this week we take a breath chez Weiss Bowles. We let people sit inside, not just in the garden. We start to think about where we should go to shul, now that the world is coming back, and shabbat doesn’t have to always be on Zoom. And we look at the comments section.
Eden Cohen on the topic of Jewish identity and authenticity:
I was adopted at birth with my twin brother and we never knew anything but being Jews (chosen without a choice ;) ). I grew up to two Jewish parents in Pittsburgh, my mom is also the child of a Holocaust survivor (and my dad taught about the Holocaust in his free time).
No one ever questioned my Jewishness growing up and it wasn't until recently did I ever start to question what it even means to be a Jew. Our childhood (reform) rabbi suggested to my parents that as a formality, my brother and I go through a short conversion process before we were bar-and-bat mitzvahed, but I don't even remember much about it (other than going in the mikveh).
In adulthood, I have been approached many times by people who tell me I'm not really Jewish either because I wasn't born Jewish or my conversion wasn't up to code or I don't keep kosher or observe the Shabbat. The first time it happened, I dismissed it, but after becoming more involved with the Jewish world myself, I started to question it. I know that I've lived my whole life as a Jew, and I spend all my time fighting for the Jewish people, but the seed of doubt that was planted still disturbs me.
I've been thinking about going back through the conversion process (also because I know I would get a lot out of it regardless of my reason for doing it). Going through Hebrew school and Sunday school never taught me what it really means to be a Jew and to this day, I still can't quite grasp it. And despite what biblical texts/ religious authority or figures/ other people/history tells you about what it is and what it means, it is incredibly individualistic and emotional. I've realized it's important enough to me that I spend more time figuring it out (I also have several gripes re: American Jewish education, but that's a conversation for another day!).
Mary Grossman writes:
There is always the tinge of doubt about whether you are accepted as a Jew by those born Jewish (and perhaps ourselves).
Whether that doubt is real or perceived, it can be draining. I’d like to see you write about politics from the pulpit (something I find appalling but becoming brazenly more common in liberal shuls); the use of the word Shiksa and Goy (please let’s stop. Shiksa is demeaning and not funny); a “how to confront” that one Jew that likes to make sure you know you’re a convert and not totally in the Tribe (“Ugh, I love your shiksa hair.” Or making sure they recall their years and years of summer jewish camp or day school in your presence. ) Better yet, a how to guide for those who were born Jewish to be better allies to coverts; or let’s tackle that underlying doubt.
Alix writes on Kashrut:
Keeping Kosher is one of my favorite parts of Judaism. I read about being “Filet of Fish Kosher” the other day. That perfectly describes me.
I do the best I can in my home. I'd love to keep a Kosher kitchen like my friends in RSA do, but I live with a roommate who eats a pound of bacon or sausage for breakfast on the weekends. Just brining a new pot into this house treifs it up. Luckily, I've discussed it with the rabbi overseeing my conversion and he doesn't have an issue with it since I only eat Kosher meat, don't mix cheese and meat, and keep pescatarian in and out of the house otherwise.
But about the milk and meat: A month or so ago, I fixed a chicken thigh cholent overnight before Friday for a me and a friend who were doing services and dinner together that night. I tried a few bites of it and decided to make something else. Pity that 30 minutes later, I was at a bagel shop and went ahead and got a bagel with cream cheese. It wasn't until 8 hours later that I realized I hadn't waited the requisite time. (Insert facepalm here).
Daisy Bates
After I converted and married a former orthodox man we joined a conservative shul, and I kept a Kosher house, 2 sets of dishes, 2 dishwashers etc. I had not previously eaten pork, so that was easy, but when eating out, I found it so hard to give up my love of shrimp!
My rule was when eating out with with friends that kept Kosher homes, I was sensitive to what I ordered, no pork, bacon or shellfish. But with non Jewish friends, shrimp was definitely free game! I remember one time my orthodox cousin in law came to visit our initial home, pre conversion, and only ate lettuce for 2 days.
And then the faux pas that I made when my orthodox inlaws came to visit. They were impressed with my home and kosher cooking. On Shabbos we walked to the local synagogue. Sunday we had a fleishig lunch at home and then needed to pick up some groceries. As we rounded the deli section I sampled some of the cheese that was out.
My mother in law nearly passed out with horror. I had not waited 4 hours before eating cheese.
And then my dad, Henry Bowles
I was going to respond earlier but there are Frito chips all over my keyboard. Skipping pig meat is probably a good rule to follow though except for bacon slightly burned on very special occasions. Good article!
On Lashon Hara, Donna Robinson Divine writes:
Shavua Tov: I hope this isn't violating any rules if I post a comment from Tom Divine, my spouse:
“I didn’t miss the sour taste in my mouth from saying something nasty.”
What a wonderful insight – by implication, anyway – that different kinds of speech are associated with different tastes. Just think of all that follows. It allows us to ask what speech is uniquely associated with the salty or the sweet. And of what the source of the bitter? What cookbook or other religious text instructs us on the seasoning of a particularly luscious dish?
And of course there are combinations of tastes. Consider the lowly cabbage soup, lowly, perhaps in its list of ingredients, but complicated in its sweet and sourness.
At what dinner party do we serve cabbage soup, and what is under discussion at that party? Who is invited to that party? And, even more important, who not?
Who sets the agenda? And who originates the guest list?
In this way, the tradition moves from Lashon Hara to Hachnasat Orchim. Now there’s a journey worth considering
Lorraine from Pittsburgh on the Jewish sense of place:
Over all the moves we've made, including away from family to Pittsburgh 26 years ago, the transition has been relatively easy. The cast of characters might change (and leaving people is never easy), but the rhythm of our lives is exactly the same: Shabbat, holidays, weddings, bar mitzvahs, shiva calls.
I never thought of all that, the familiarity, as “home” before reading your piece. As you say, through millenia, the portable nature of Jewish life has saved the Jewish people. You're so right, any traditional Jewish home, or shul, in the world is home. Thank you.
Donna Robinson Divine writes:
Shavua Tov and another quick word on place. When Jews lost the Temple, they also lost the only structure they had for communication with God around which their continuity as a people depended.
Encouraged by the Rabbis in Roman Palestine, who reinterpreted Judaism to save its religious culture, Jews began bestowing holiness on places in other ways—a minyan for prayer, a seder with aspects of temple worship to remind Jews not only of the Pesach sacrifice but also of God’s role in redemption symbolized by liberation from enslavement in Egypt.
No wonder that מקום makom, the most common Hebrew word for place, is also a term for God.
And finally, someone who decided to comment under the name “Bagel Emoji,” on the topic of Shabbat:
Pre-covid, Friday night dinner and shul was the centre of my social life. Adjusting has been weird. Unplugging is hard, being alone with your thoughts is hard. I totally feel you!
I think I became religious because of a fundamental desire to feel less alone, but the irony is that during Covid, Shabbat (and living alone) has never made me feel more isolated and lonely. If you can spend time with other people, do it, because that's what we're supposed to do. When that's not possible: books, walking, learning, and food.
I also suffer from the desire to read about bidets and whatever random thing I'm interacting with. Being shomer shabbos turned me into a magazine reader. Like the whole magazine. Otherwise I flip between a bunch of books I have around because I can't concentrate on one thing. Something old (a literary classic?!), something new (a graphic novel!!!!?), something borrowed (a Goop cookbook I stole from my mom??!) and something Jew (Soloveitchik, Steinsaltz, Sacks, Kaplan or Heschel??!!??).
Eventually you get used to it. You'll look forward to putting away your devices. You'll look forward to the flow of your own undistracted thoughts. Don't put too much pressure on yourself!
Wonderful and thought provoking to read all the comments. Thanks.