THAT "RED STUFF"
Our little ones always tell us the truth. My three-year-old granddaughter, Sophie, upon learning to read the word “fat,” proudly announced, “My zayde is fat!”
So far, my grandson, Sim, has been slightly more merciful. At the tender age of two, he had already told his friends that his zayde was “a good cooker.” I asked him what he liked best.
“That red stuff.”
What “red stuff” does he mean? Maybe it’s ketchup. “No, silly!” he says to his dumbkopf zayde. “You know, the ‘red stuff’ I put on everything!”
Finally, it strikes me. Sim already has a sophisticated palate. The “red stuff” is my fig conserve, a mélange of gritty-seeded figs, acerbic lemon zest and aromatic bay, reduced in a high-proof peach liqueur. It is intended as a sauce for halibut I make, which friends tell me “tastes just like lobster.”
I planned to try it out at Shabbat dinner, so I asked Sim if he wanted to taste some fish with “zayde’s special sauce.” The fish got only brief acknowledgement, but he licked the sauce off it until it looked like a science-fiction prop. Then came the chicken and more dipping in the sauce. Potato kugel dipped in sauce. Challah dipped in sauce. Cookies dipped in sauce. Then, finally, eschewing any semblance of manners, dipping his fingers and licking them clean.
The next Tuesday, Sim called and requested more sauce. “Do you want to share it with your friends?” I ask. “No, just for me!”
My mind is instantly drawn to theology: How different would the world be if the serpent had urged Eve to share the apple with Adam, and Eve said, “No, just for me!” A moment later, I am drawn back to simple economics: $20 each week for the four boxes of figs that it takes to produce a cup of the conserve. That’s over $1,000 a year spent on “red stuff” for Shabbat dinner. The zayde in me says, “Nothing is too good for your grandchildren.” But, the ogre in me responds, “$1,000 a year? Let him learn to eat his kugel with ketchup!”
September 30, 2005
September 12, 2005
WHAT DOES KATRINA (DIS)PROVE ABOUT HOMO HOMINI LUPUS? (9/14/05)
Homo homini lupus. “Man is a beast to his fellow man.”
The damning aphorism is associated with John Hobbes. Not a pleasant thought and certainly rooted a long litany of horrors: Crusades, Holocaust, enslavement of African Americans, Killing Fields of Cambodia, Saddam’s genocide.
Sometimes the lines of distinction become obscured through protest, civil disobedience, or military intervention. But sometimes, most vexing and conscience-shaking, are the instances in which heretofore civil people descend into bestiality when the values of decency are either stripped away or challenged to the nth degree by uncontrollable, immeasurable disaster.
Katrina presented such a quagmire of protracted, intolerable disasters. It vindicated Hobbes’s observation almost to the point of victory – but, thanks be unto God – not entirely. A man expropriating food from a supermarket to provide simple sustenance for his family. Bestiality? Waiting for more civilized distribution committees to be formed while children languish and die? I think not. Be that bestiality, then call me a beast.
Likewise, saving ones family before another’s. Bestiality? Could we accept that as the punchline of a sermon delivered by the most pious man of the cloth? Doubtful. Not sharing when sharing might mean death for everyone? A tough call. But, is the instinct for human survival necessarily an ipso facto sign of bestiality?
No, the real issue of homo homini lupus is about looting and sniping.
How easy and foolish it would be to say that the problem here is racism or classism or some kind of negative nurturing that happens before a child is old enough to defend against it. The common denominator of all these simpleminded explanations is that they are pernicious baloney.
This we do know: Bold, instantaneous, righteously indignant outcries “Stop this at once!” from spokespeople of morality – particularly clergy – were relatively tepid, few and far between. The outcries were unexpected as well, because we have heard so many otherwise articulate clergypeople consistently hammer home that salvation is entirely detached from honorable deeds.
Likewise, as the victims are stacked up liked cordwood, snipers are arrested, decent people are acknowledged and heroes are rewarded, we will discover only one transcendent truth: We will find a statistically equal distribution of beast and angel – black and white, privileged and underprivileged, Christian and Jew, churchgoers and atheists . . . ah yes, and open-minded and bigots.
Finally, upbringing will matter more than any other factor, but it won’t simply be at momma’s breast. It will be comprehensive. It will include the kind of neighborhood, even block, about which Dr. King spoke, where every mother was understood to be the guarantor, disciplinarian and tattletale of every other mother’s son and daughter. It will include schools that are not afraid of teaching values, despite the canards warning of a cabal of secular humanism. It will include churches and synagogues that preach as core doctrine that heaven derives from good deeds.
We would hope that sooner, rather than later, we will ponder the what-if’s God or whatever natural force spins another Katrina our way: levees, pumps, evacuation routes, integrity of construction, emergency shelter and provisions. What about homo homini lupus? Will it become part of the agenda when we think about how to save lives when disasters kick us in the gut? Will Hobbes win the battle that evil can never be erased from human nature? Or, will taking potshots at firefighters and cops one day become just an ugly memory, because we have finally figured out ways to nurture our kids and not tolerate even the first time they act like a little beast?
Hobbes and I, I’m sorry to say, are still cynical. Please, please, prove us wrong.
Homo homini lupus. “Man is a beast to his fellow man.”
The damning aphorism is associated with John Hobbes. Not a pleasant thought and certainly rooted a long litany of horrors: Crusades, Holocaust, enslavement of African Americans, Killing Fields of Cambodia, Saddam’s genocide.
Sometimes the lines of distinction become obscured through protest, civil disobedience, or military intervention. But sometimes, most vexing and conscience-shaking, are the instances in which heretofore civil people descend into bestiality when the values of decency are either stripped away or challenged to the nth degree by uncontrollable, immeasurable disaster.
Katrina presented such a quagmire of protracted, intolerable disasters. It vindicated Hobbes’s observation almost to the point of victory – but, thanks be unto God – not entirely. A man expropriating food from a supermarket to provide simple sustenance for his family. Bestiality? Waiting for more civilized distribution committees to be formed while children languish and die? I think not. Be that bestiality, then call me a beast.
Likewise, saving ones family before another’s. Bestiality? Could we accept that as the punchline of a sermon delivered by the most pious man of the cloth? Doubtful. Not sharing when sharing might mean death for everyone? A tough call. But, is the instinct for human survival necessarily an ipso facto sign of bestiality?
No, the real issue of homo homini lupus is about looting and sniping.
How easy and foolish it would be to say that the problem here is racism or classism or some kind of negative nurturing that happens before a child is old enough to defend against it. The common denominator of all these simpleminded explanations is that they are pernicious baloney.
This we do know: Bold, instantaneous, righteously indignant outcries “Stop this at once!” from spokespeople of morality – particularly clergy – were relatively tepid, few and far between. The outcries were unexpected as well, because we have heard so many otherwise articulate clergypeople consistently hammer home that salvation is entirely detached from honorable deeds.
Likewise, as the victims are stacked up liked cordwood, snipers are arrested, decent people are acknowledged and heroes are rewarded, we will discover only one transcendent truth: We will find a statistically equal distribution of beast and angel – black and white, privileged and underprivileged, Christian and Jew, churchgoers and atheists . . . ah yes, and open-minded and bigots.
Finally, upbringing will matter more than any other factor, but it won’t simply be at momma’s breast. It will be comprehensive. It will include the kind of neighborhood, even block, about which Dr. King spoke, where every mother was understood to be the guarantor, disciplinarian and tattletale of every other mother’s son and daughter. It will include schools that are not afraid of teaching values, despite the canards warning of a cabal of secular humanism. It will include churches and synagogues that preach as core doctrine that heaven derives from good deeds.
We would hope that sooner, rather than later, we will ponder the what-if’s God or whatever natural force spins another Katrina our way: levees, pumps, evacuation routes, integrity of construction, emergency shelter and provisions. What about homo homini lupus? Will it become part of the agenda when we think about how to save lives when disasters kick us in the gut? Will Hobbes win the battle that evil can never be erased from human nature? Or, will taking potshots at firefighters and cops one day become just an ugly memory, because we have finally figured out ways to nurture our kids and not tolerate even the first time they act like a little beast?
Hobbes and I, I’m sorry to say, are still cynical. Please, please, prove us wrong.
September 07, 2005
REAL MEN DON'T SHOP AND COOK
After my second divorce, I moved to Atlanta to care for my parents. Each day meant trips to doctors, therapists, shopping and preparing three healthy meals. All this proved a mixed blessing for a somewhat eligible bachelor. Each woman I dated, of course, had her idiosyncrasies. Naturally, I had none.
Every time we went out to dinner, for example, Cindy’s son would call with an alleged emergency and demand that she come home. Carol’s son would always need me to help him with his homework. Laurie was a Maoist who would argue ideology even as we dined in the most bourgeoisie restaurants. Two things that my girlfriends did have in common, though: They appreciated that I was devoted to my parents and that I was a good cook.
But, then there was Rachel, a concert pianist. I attended a recital, and much to my folly, she cast her net to trap me. We dated pleasantly for about four months. She was, as you might expect, quite a prima donna, but I enjoyed her artistic ways and her kids.
Then, things started to go sour. On our next date came the moment of truth. She wanted, she said, “a real man,” not one who occupied his days “shopping and cooking.” She said that she had purchased an expensive Ermenegildo Zegna tie to reward me when I morphed into a “real man.”
I told her that I would take the matter under advisement. The only use that I had for her Zegna tie was to wrap it tightly around her neck. Finally, with my wits about me, I asked for another date. “Bring the tie,” I told her. “I’ve become a real man.”
I presented myself at her house carrying a bag. We proceeded to the kitchen table, as I announced, “No more shopping and cooking! I am now a real man!” I produced a loaf of bread and jars of peanut butter and jelly. “Now may I have my tie?”
Shortly thereafter, Linda came into my life. Now she shops and I cook, or vice versa. As for Rachel, I hope she finds her “real man,” and that he likes Zegna ties and she likes lots of peanut butter and jelly.
After my second divorce, I moved to Atlanta to care for my parents. Each day meant trips to doctors, therapists, shopping and preparing three healthy meals. All this proved a mixed blessing for a somewhat eligible bachelor. Each woman I dated, of course, had her idiosyncrasies. Naturally, I had none.
Every time we went out to dinner, for example, Cindy’s son would call with an alleged emergency and demand that she come home. Carol’s son would always need me to help him with his homework. Laurie was a Maoist who would argue ideology even as we dined in the most bourgeoisie restaurants. Two things that my girlfriends did have in common, though: They appreciated that I was devoted to my parents and that I was a good cook.
But, then there was Rachel, a concert pianist. I attended a recital, and much to my folly, she cast her net to trap me. We dated pleasantly for about four months. She was, as you might expect, quite a prima donna, but I enjoyed her artistic ways and her kids.
Then, things started to go sour. On our next date came the moment of truth. She wanted, she said, “a real man,” not one who occupied his days “shopping and cooking.” She said that she had purchased an expensive Ermenegildo Zegna tie to reward me when I morphed into a “real man.”
I told her that I would take the matter under advisement. The only use that I had for her Zegna tie was to wrap it tightly around her neck. Finally, with my wits about me, I asked for another date. “Bring the tie,” I told her. “I’ve become a real man.”
I presented myself at her house carrying a bag. We proceeded to the kitchen table, as I announced, “No more shopping and cooking! I am now a real man!” I produced a loaf of bread and jars of peanut butter and jelly. “Now may I have my tie?”
Shortly thereafter, Linda came into my life. Now she shops and I cook, or vice versa. As for Rachel, I hope she finds her “real man,” and that he likes Zegna ties and she likes lots of peanut butter and jelly.
September 01, 2005
A YOUNG REBBETZIN REFLECTS ON TEFILLIN
Most Unusual Impressions . . .
“Sensual.”
“Intimate.”
One almost wishes that English owned words that conveyed those emotions in a more sanctified manner. But, as the Biblical pesukim and passages from Chazal and Chasidus punctuated our conversation, one can have no doubt that our discussion of Tefillin was on the most sacred level.
Rebbetzin Miriam is still in her twenties and on shlichus with her husband Rabbi Mendel (names changed). She sat with me for two hours to respond to my questions on Tefillin from the perspective of a knowledgeable, devout Chasidah for whom the performance of the mitzvah is vicarious.
Born into a Lubavitcher family, experiencing Tefillin in childhood was a natural function of growing up in a religious home. Her first active encounter with the mitzvah came in pre-adolescence, when her father injured himself, and she was obliged to wrap the Tefillin around his arm. Yes, it was a privilege, she remembers. But, more than that, she said, the tactile sensation awoke and elevated her senses as only an intimacy with G-d could.
The awareness, however latent, became one and inseparable from Miriam’s spiritual growth. That growth naturally advanced as she studied the Biblical, Rabbinic and Chasidic insights into the mitzvah’s transcendent power.
Did this make her envious, even angry, that she had been denied that profound experience? “No,” she states emphatically. “Tefillin is part of ‘their’ path to intimacy with G-d. ‘We’ have our own.” More about that later.
Did her transformation to wife and mother affect her perception of Tefillin? Here again, her responses were unexpected as she describes her feelings in intimate, sensual terms:
“The first time that I saw Mendel in his Tefillin, we were still engaged. He came by after davenen to run an errand, and I could see the marks that the straps had left on his arm. Without thinking twice, I said to myself, ‘Now I know that my groom is not a boy or just one of the guys, but a real man.’.”
Somehow, the act of donning Tefillin had instinctively affirmed that her groom had truly attained manhood, that he brought with him the qualities, maturity and spiritual groundedness to raise a family that would be healthy in all imaginable ways. (By the way, after seven years they seem to be succeeding beautifully!)
Coming full-circle, the Rebbetzin makes sure that I get the point: “Mendel contributes to the family through the man’s path. I contribute through the woman’s path. We are guided by the essentially different ways that man and woman attain intimacy with G-d and each other.”
This begs the question of Tefillin taking holiness to the point of spiritual overload. I ask her, “If The Rebbe is the ultimate symbol of holiness, then what sense of super-spirituality does one achieve by beholding The Rebbe adorned in his Tefillin?”
Here the Rebbetzin’s response is entirely unexpected and provocative. She says that she can barely force herself to look at pictures of The Rebbe wrapped in his Tefillin. In fact, she routinely skips over those pictures when they are in a book that she is reading.
“Why?” I ask.
“I don’t really know how to put it into words, but I feel almost like I’m intruding on a moment that’s too intimate, when The Rebbe communes with G-d that closely. It’s like peeking in on him in the most personal of times, like violating his privacy.”
“It’s strange, I know,” she continues without being asked, “but I feel the same kind of vicarious sensuality when Mendel helps a man leig Tefillin for the first time. That moment is the most intimate connection that a man can have with a mitzvah, a holy time that his bare skin comes into the closest contact with a manifestation of G-d’s power.
“This is not a simple matter of slapping some leather on a person’s arm. This is the most sensory encounter than a man can have with God, and my husband is the catalyst for it. It makes me proud, but I also realize that it forever bonds Mendel to him, mentor to disciple, in this first, most intimate, metaphysical meeting.”
Now, I am intrigued even more by her lack of envy at being an observer, not a participant, in the mitzvah of Tefillin. Again, Miriam emphasizes that it is not an issue of depravation. To the contrary, Tefillin and the other time-bound mitzvot are “man’s way.” Women’s mitzvot are “woman’s way.”
“What do you mean by ‘way’?”
“The ‘way’ to gain intimacy with G-d. G-d’s mitzvot fill the empty places in the soul. Man has desperately empty places when it comes to the holiness of time and the sanctity of tactile things. For example, man sees a field of wheat and instinctively thinks of how many bushels it will produce, not its beauty. Thus, man’s intimacy with G-d can come only through focusing on commandments that attune him to the sacredness of time and beauty of the tactile world. So much of this is embodied in mitzvos like Tefillin.
“Woman, on the other hand, is profoundly aware of the sanctity of time and beauty of the tactile world, much of which comes through the miracles of her physical cycles and childbirth and rearing. She beholds nature and instinctively perceives its majesty, not how much you can get for that dozen roses. She sees a man in Tefillin and perceives communion with G-d, not merely a collection of laws. She alone is G-d’s partner in declaring when the mundane, workaday world ends and when the taste of the World to Come, Shabbos, begins. This is the ‘woman’s way’ of gaining intimacy with God.”
“Sensual.”
“Intimate.”
Not exactly words that we contemplate when we consider the mitzvah of Tefillin. But, maybe it’s time to add a few new words to the lexicon we use to describe the richness of mitzvot. Better yet, let’s not think of “adding” the words, but simply “rediscovering” them, for there can be no doubt that the nearness of Tefillin binds more than leather to skin. How much more intimacy and sensuality, in their holiest sense, can they bring into our lives?
As we concluded our conversation, Rebbetzin Miriam looked as though she had said nothing particularly profound. As for me, a man, I was transformed forever. Not bad, Rebbetzin. Not bad at all.
Most Unusual Impressions . . .
“Sensual.”
“Intimate.”
One almost wishes that English owned words that conveyed those emotions in a more sanctified manner. But, as the Biblical pesukim and passages from Chazal and Chasidus punctuated our conversation, one can have no doubt that our discussion of Tefillin was on the most sacred level.
Rebbetzin Miriam is still in her twenties and on shlichus with her husband Rabbi Mendel (names changed). She sat with me for two hours to respond to my questions on Tefillin from the perspective of a knowledgeable, devout Chasidah for whom the performance of the mitzvah is vicarious.
Born into a Lubavitcher family, experiencing Tefillin in childhood was a natural function of growing up in a religious home. Her first active encounter with the mitzvah came in pre-adolescence, when her father injured himself, and she was obliged to wrap the Tefillin around his arm. Yes, it was a privilege, she remembers. But, more than that, she said, the tactile sensation awoke and elevated her senses as only an intimacy with G-d could.
The awareness, however latent, became one and inseparable from Miriam’s spiritual growth. That growth naturally advanced as she studied the Biblical, Rabbinic and Chasidic insights into the mitzvah’s transcendent power.
Did this make her envious, even angry, that she had been denied that profound experience? “No,” she states emphatically. “Tefillin is part of ‘their’ path to intimacy with G-d. ‘We’ have our own.” More about that later.
Did her transformation to wife and mother affect her perception of Tefillin? Here again, her responses were unexpected as she describes her feelings in intimate, sensual terms:
“The first time that I saw Mendel in his Tefillin, we were still engaged. He came by after davenen to run an errand, and I could see the marks that the straps had left on his arm. Without thinking twice, I said to myself, ‘Now I know that my groom is not a boy or just one of the guys, but a real man.’.”
Somehow, the act of donning Tefillin had instinctively affirmed that her groom had truly attained manhood, that he brought with him the qualities, maturity and spiritual groundedness to raise a family that would be healthy in all imaginable ways. (By the way, after seven years they seem to be succeeding beautifully!)
Coming full-circle, the Rebbetzin makes sure that I get the point: “Mendel contributes to the family through the man’s path. I contribute through the woman’s path. We are guided by the essentially different ways that man and woman attain intimacy with G-d and each other.”
This begs the question of Tefillin taking holiness to the point of spiritual overload. I ask her, “If The Rebbe is the ultimate symbol of holiness, then what sense of super-spirituality does one achieve by beholding The Rebbe adorned in his Tefillin?”
Here the Rebbetzin’s response is entirely unexpected and provocative. She says that she can barely force herself to look at pictures of The Rebbe wrapped in his Tefillin. In fact, she routinely skips over those pictures when they are in a book that she is reading.
“Why?” I ask.
“I don’t really know how to put it into words, but I feel almost like I’m intruding on a moment that’s too intimate, when The Rebbe communes with G-d that closely. It’s like peeking in on him in the most personal of times, like violating his privacy.”
“It’s strange, I know,” she continues without being asked, “but I feel the same kind of vicarious sensuality when Mendel helps a man leig Tefillin for the first time. That moment is the most intimate connection that a man can have with a mitzvah, a holy time that his bare skin comes into the closest contact with a manifestation of G-d’s power.
“This is not a simple matter of slapping some leather on a person’s arm. This is the most sensory encounter than a man can have with God, and my husband is the catalyst for it. It makes me proud, but I also realize that it forever bonds Mendel to him, mentor to disciple, in this first, most intimate, metaphysical meeting.”
Now, I am intrigued even more by her lack of envy at being an observer, not a participant, in the mitzvah of Tefillin. Again, Miriam emphasizes that it is not an issue of depravation. To the contrary, Tefillin and the other time-bound mitzvot are “man’s way.” Women’s mitzvot are “woman’s way.”
“What do you mean by ‘way’?”
“The ‘way’ to gain intimacy with G-d. G-d’s mitzvot fill the empty places in the soul. Man has desperately empty places when it comes to the holiness of time and the sanctity of tactile things. For example, man sees a field of wheat and instinctively thinks of how many bushels it will produce, not its beauty. Thus, man’s intimacy with G-d can come only through focusing on commandments that attune him to the sacredness of time and beauty of the tactile world. So much of this is embodied in mitzvos like Tefillin.
“Woman, on the other hand, is profoundly aware of the sanctity of time and beauty of the tactile world, much of which comes through the miracles of her physical cycles and childbirth and rearing. She beholds nature and instinctively perceives its majesty, not how much you can get for that dozen roses. She sees a man in Tefillin and perceives communion with G-d, not merely a collection of laws. She alone is G-d’s partner in declaring when the mundane, workaday world ends and when the taste of the World to Come, Shabbos, begins. This is the ‘woman’s way’ of gaining intimacy with God.”
“Sensual.”
“Intimate.”
Not exactly words that we contemplate when we consider the mitzvah of Tefillin. But, maybe it’s time to add a few new words to the lexicon we use to describe the richness of mitzvot. Better yet, let’s not think of “adding” the words, but simply “rediscovering” them, for there can be no doubt that the nearness of Tefillin binds more than leather to skin. How much more intimacy and sensuality, in their holiest sense, can they bring into our lives?
As we concluded our conversation, Rebbetzin Miriam looked as though she had said nothing particularly profound. As for me, a man, I was transformed forever. Not bad, Rebbetzin. Not bad at all.
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