You probably don’t know this about me, but I’m basically blind. Probably not legally, but I don’t actually know for sure. Maybe I’m exaggerating slightly. But only slightly. With the possible exception of my father, from whom I clearly got this, I am the most near-sighted person I know. Right now I’m wearing contact lenses that are minus-8.5 and minus-10, while most of the rest of the myopic crowd hovers somewhere between 1 and 3, maybe 4 if it’s really bad. And I hate my glasses. I mean, I hate my glasses. My featherweight lenses, the absolute lightest lens available when I bought them, are still as thick as ice cubes, so that I wonder if they would actually weigh my face down if they were of the normal kind. And whenever I wear them, there’s an insecure part of me that travels right back in time to elementary and middle school, when the typical “four-eyes” and “nerd” and “geek” and all of their mean-spirited relatives were thrown at me with upsetting regularity. I got the gift of contact lenses just before my bar mitzvah and, if you’ll pardon the pun, I haven’t looked back since. I pretty much avoid wearing my glasses in public at all costs. In fact, I’m guessing that virtually no one in this room has ever seen me wearing them. And now you know why.
So you can imagine my mixed reaction when I was reading through the amNY, my free paper of choice, and I came across this article. See, Google will soon be coming out with a special pair of glasses. According to the description, it is essentially an uber-smart-phone device, and the onslaught of information it deems relevant to what you’re looking at will suddenly appear perfectly in your line of vision, perhaps overhead, perhaps on the sidewalk in front of you. Wanna know where the nearest pizza place is and how to get there? Directions, distance, and arrows will magically appear in your lens, and within minutes you’ll be folding up that perfect slice. See a book or a shirt or a pair of jeans you like and you want to compare prices before you buy it there? Miniature screens will open up, as though from the corner of your eye, and you’ll know almost instantly if you should get it there or somewhere else.
I get it. If we’re already doing some or most of these things using our phones, looking down or away from where we probably should be, this would, in theory, cover all of those bases in the periphery, so that we can still walk to where we’re going. And plus, I have to admit, the technology of the whole thing sounds pretty awesome. You think about the changes our grandparents have seen in the way the world works over the course of their lifetime, and then you think about the world our children are being born into, it absolutely boggles the mind.
But there’s a problem here. And it’s a big one.
It’s not technology itself. It’s easy to hurl the blame squarely and entirely on the “evil machines.” Because if that’s the problem, then the answer’s even easier: just turn it all off. Unplug yourself from your electronics. But deep down we know that’s just not true. A recent article in the Atlantic cut right to the heart of the matter, saying that, while we think the solution is to try to divorce ourselves completely from our devices, if only for small pockets of time, that is, at best, an avoidance tactic for the modern world. The peace of mind we may achieve is short-lived and ultimately of little significance because, for better or worse, to be a functioning member of society requires our being plugged in, even when we make the concerted effort on vacation to be “off the grid.” Rather, what we need to do is to focus ourselves, to be purposeful in our use of technology, for the mental welfare of ourselves and our families.
So technology’s not the problem. It’s a matter of what we use those advances for, what we as humanity choose to do with this newfound and seemingly infinite power we’ve discovered. And like with any measure of power, the choices we make with it ultimately reflect back on us as a society.
And I’m no different than anyone else. I won’t lie: I’m a huge fan of my iPhone. One of our friends over for the Super Bowl wonders aloud how old Madonna is or where Tom Brady went to college? I’ll ask Siri. I’m out at a bar and that Gorillaz song comes on but I’m drawing a blank on the actual title, I open Shazam, hold my phone up to the speaker, and seconds later it reminds me that, for whatever reason, the song’s called “Clint Eastwood.” I’m sitting on the couch with Tali, watching television, but trying to stay clued in to what’s “trending,” finding interesting articles, sound bites, or trivia along the way. After all, how do you think I saw that Atlantic article in the first place? I have certain text alerts from ESPN, so as I was at home today, writing this sermon, at 12:56, I get a text saying that Ryan Braun will address the media at 1:00, and that I should tune in to watch. And you know what? I did.
So what does this invention, this pair of GoogleGlasses, say about us?
It says that we, as human beings, are completely insatiable. It says we are information-hungry, to the point of starvation, and it’s all stuff we need to know right now, because pausing to prioritize, would simply be a waste of time. It says our individual curiosity, the random question that pops up in our mind that we can’t immediately let go of, has to be resolved immediately, because it trumps whatever moment, whatever personal connection, is happening, or could be happening at that point in time.
And that’s the problem. Whether it’s iPhones, Blackberrys, Droids, whatever. The issue is that we make them extensions of ourselves, rather than merely incredibly capable and helpful tools. And when we do that, we make it all about ourselves. We see the world through something like Googleglasses, so that the world is a bubble with us and our wants at the center, and everything else—most notably personal connection with other human beings—is tossed aside, x’d out like the distraction of a pop-up advertisement.
In this week’s portion, Parashat T’rumah, the Israelites are given the initial instructions for building the Mishkan, the portable synagogue for the wanderings of the desert, and the first sanctuary in our history. And in what is probably my all-time favorite piece of Torah, we read the details of how the cover of the Ark of the Pact—the front of basically the holiest chamber that has ever existed for the Jewish people—is to be made. God says, “Make one cherub at one end and another cherub at the other end, and have their wings spread out above, shielding the cover. They shall confront each other, both of them face-to-face with the other." They're not looking up, they're not looking out at you. They're looking at each other. "There, from above the cover, from the exact place right between the faces of the cherubim, there will I meet with you.”
Being with each other in the moment, meeting on a deep, intimate level with another person, looking him or her in the eye and feeling that undeniable, almost mystical sense of connection—that, my friends, is the stuff of life. That is why God created us and, ultimately, why we are here in the first place: to use our eyes, to use our glasses, not to further our individual selves, but to look deep and look hard to see what really matters. And that, at the end of the day, is our relationship, our connection, with each other.
AMEN.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Friday, February 17, 2012
Kicking It Upstairs - Mishpatim 5772
As I was studying this week’s parashah, Mishpatim, I found myself thinking of Christo-phah. Remember Christo-phah? Not Christopher. Christo-phah. If you’re asking, “Christo-phah who?” then the answer’s no, meaning you probably weren’t a big fan of the Sopranos. But in any event, Christo-phah is a wiseguy, a soldier working his way up through the Mafioso crime family headed by his uncle Tony. And as a soldier, slogging his way through the day-to-day operations of the family, Christo-phah has a big problem. He starts to resent the fact that he’s doing so much of the work, yet getting very little of the reward. He is embittered when the capos rack up restaurant and bar tabs in the thousands of dollars and he’s stuck footing the bill. Even knowing that that’s the system, that that’s just how it works, that if and when he makes it up the ladder, he will be on the receiving end of the hierarchy, this awareness does nothing to blunt his resentment. Christo-phah wants the goodies for himself. He doesn’t want to kick it upstairs.
And that’s what they call it: kicking it upstairs. You see it in Godfather, Goodfellas, Donnie Brasco, and the Sopranos. The concept of remembering who came before you, who put in the work and paid their dues to sit where they sit, at the head of the table, and to remember why they’re there in the first place, is not such a bad thing, removed, of course, from the Mafia context. At the end of the day, I’m guessing that a lot of the organizations and businesses in which we work and spend so much of our lives function in a similar manner.
So if that’s true, if that concept makes sense to us with regards to human beings, shouldn’t it be all the more so with God?
The Torah says “yes.” Over and over again. And we find it here, among the many laws and ordinances prescribed in Parashat Mishpatim. In Exodus 22:28 and 29 we read, “You shall not put off the skimming of the first yield of your vats. You shall give Me the male first-born among your children. You shall do the same with your cattle and your flocks; seven days it shall remain with its mother; on the eighth day you shall give it to Me."
While modern scholars may be uncertain as to the execution of this mitzvah, the underlying concept is crystal clear. And that concept is of such significance that it appears, in various permutations, dozens of times throughout the Torah. We might easily dismiss it, throw it on the heap of biblical commandments and constructs we conveniently consider “outdated.” But this one, to be sure, is anything but.
Your first child, first calves of the herd, first lambs of the flock, first fruits and grains of the harvest, even, as we see here, the first yield of your vats—all of it, we kick upstairs. Why? Because it doesn’t matter how hard we’ve worked to farm the land, or take care of the cattle and the sheep; it doesn’t matter how well we did with our report or case or presentation or lesson. Sure, we may have done the work on the ground, on the front lines, so to speak. But who is it that makes all of it possible? Who miraculously created the entire world and everything in it, most especially the extraordinarily talented human being? That’s right: God! Adonai Eloheinu, Ribono shel olam, the Alpha, the Omega, the Master of the Universe, known to some of my rabbinic classmates as Sweet Holy Ha-Shem. And not one kind, important word we say, not one good deed we’ve done for ourselves or others, not one triumphant moment we’ve shared or experienced—absolutely none of it would ever have occurred if it weren’t for God. Even if you call yourself an atheist, or you don’t like using the word “God,” I sincerely doubt that you really take all of the credit for the things you do well, and naturally at that. At least I hope you don’t. Because if you really think about it, those skills and talents that seem to have come from within you, that more often than not simply cannot be taught in a classroom or a seminar, they point to something beyond our physical selves, something that accounts for their existence, regardless of what you choose to call it.
And that’s how it is for me. I confess that Tali hates it when I occasionally come home from teaching or giving a sermon and I say something like “I think I did well tonight” or “I feel really great about how that went.” But for me, while I certainly feel it’s important to have a sense of self-worth and self-esteem, I’m okay saying those things because they’re not really about me. They are, ultimately, a tribute to God. At the end of the day, I chalk it all up to the Holy One, the Source of any talents and gifts with which I have been blessed.
More than that, I can’t tell you how often, in just these first few years of my rabbinate, that I’ve found myself in challenging, deeply intense conversations with many of you—about life and death and illness touching your lives, things you’re struggling with that keep you up at night—where I just don’t know what words I can possibly offer to be of help or guidance. Yet, somehow, some way, something comes out of me. And somehow, time and time again, it’s just right, and people will tell me later that I said just the thing they wanted and, more importantly, most needed to hear.
My friends, that’s not me. That’s ruach Elohim, the spirit of God, coming over me, speaking through me. And without that, without God, I am nothing but dust and ashes. Without God, what I achieve in this world amounts to precious little.
So unlike Christo-phah, I have no problem kicking it upstairs. And maybe, just maybe, you won’t either.
SHABBAT SHALOM.
And that’s what they call it: kicking it upstairs. You see it in Godfather, Goodfellas, Donnie Brasco, and the Sopranos. The concept of remembering who came before you, who put in the work and paid their dues to sit where they sit, at the head of the table, and to remember why they’re there in the first place, is not such a bad thing, removed, of course, from the Mafia context. At the end of the day, I’m guessing that a lot of the organizations and businesses in which we work and spend so much of our lives function in a similar manner.
So if that’s true, if that concept makes sense to us with regards to human beings, shouldn’t it be all the more so with God?
The Torah says “yes.” Over and over again. And we find it here, among the many laws and ordinances prescribed in Parashat Mishpatim. In Exodus 22:28 and 29 we read, “You shall not put off the skimming of the first yield of your vats. You shall give Me the male first-born among your children. You shall do the same with your cattle and your flocks; seven days it shall remain with its mother; on the eighth day you shall give it to Me."
While modern scholars may be uncertain as to the execution of this mitzvah, the underlying concept is crystal clear. And that concept is of such significance that it appears, in various permutations, dozens of times throughout the Torah. We might easily dismiss it, throw it on the heap of biblical commandments and constructs we conveniently consider “outdated.” But this one, to be sure, is anything but.
Your first child, first calves of the herd, first lambs of the flock, first fruits and grains of the harvest, even, as we see here, the first yield of your vats—all of it, we kick upstairs. Why? Because it doesn’t matter how hard we’ve worked to farm the land, or take care of the cattle and the sheep; it doesn’t matter how well we did with our report or case or presentation or lesson. Sure, we may have done the work on the ground, on the front lines, so to speak. But who is it that makes all of it possible? Who miraculously created the entire world and everything in it, most especially the extraordinarily talented human being? That’s right: God! Adonai Eloheinu, Ribono shel olam, the Alpha, the Omega, the Master of the Universe, known to some of my rabbinic classmates as Sweet Holy Ha-Shem. And not one kind, important word we say, not one good deed we’ve done for ourselves or others, not one triumphant moment we’ve shared or experienced—absolutely none of it would ever have occurred if it weren’t for God. Even if you call yourself an atheist, or you don’t like using the word “God,” I sincerely doubt that you really take all of the credit for the things you do well, and naturally at that. At least I hope you don’t. Because if you really think about it, those skills and talents that seem to have come from within you, that more often than not simply cannot be taught in a classroom or a seminar, they point to something beyond our physical selves, something that accounts for their existence, regardless of what you choose to call it.
And that’s how it is for me. I confess that Tali hates it when I occasionally come home from teaching or giving a sermon and I say something like “I think I did well tonight” or “I feel really great about how that went.” But for me, while I certainly feel it’s important to have a sense of self-worth and self-esteem, I’m okay saying those things because they’re not really about me. They are, ultimately, a tribute to God. At the end of the day, I chalk it all up to the Holy One, the Source of any talents and gifts with which I have been blessed.
More than that, I can’t tell you how often, in just these first few years of my rabbinate, that I’ve found myself in challenging, deeply intense conversations with many of you—about life and death and illness touching your lives, things you’re struggling with that keep you up at night—where I just don’t know what words I can possibly offer to be of help or guidance. Yet, somehow, some way, something comes out of me. And somehow, time and time again, it’s just right, and people will tell me later that I said just the thing they wanted and, more importantly, most needed to hear.
My friends, that’s not me. That’s ruach Elohim, the spirit of God, coming over me, speaking through me. And without that, without God, I am nothing but dust and ashes. Without God, what I achieve in this world amounts to precious little.
So unlike Christo-phah, I have no problem kicking it upstairs. And maybe, just maybe, you won’t either.
SHABBAT SHALOM.
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