Post by Rabbi Neil on May 6, 2022 22:00:17 GMT
In Talmud (Shabbat 33b), Shimon bar Yochai criticizes the Roman Emperor who orders his death as a result of the criticism. Bar Yochai and his son hide in a cave where a carob tree miraculously grows and a spring miraculously appears so that they can survive for a long time. The two spend the day in total isolation from the rest of their community, buried up to their necks in sand while studying Torah, although when it comes time for prayer, they emerge. They stay in the cave for twelve years until the Emperor dies, which means that the death sentence is lifted. They leave the cave and for the first time see people engaged in plowing and sowing. They are disgusted with everyone’s lack of piety compared to their own. Bar Yochai complains, “They abandon life eternal and engage in life temporal!” and such is the intensity of his fury that whatever or whoever he looks at bursts into flame. God immediately intervenes, forcing bar Yochai and his son back into the cave for another twelve months.
I did not spend my Sabbatical buried in sand studying Torah. People in my post-Sabbatical presence have not tended to burst into flame, and I promise that I did not “lift up my eyes to the hills” (Psalm 121:1) and start the Hermit’s Peak or Cerro Pelado fires. Nonetheless, the story resonates strongly with me right now as I return after a four-month Sabbatical, particularly in the week of the Torah portion of Kedoshim. Kedoshim starts with God commanding the Israelites to be holy because God is holy, with the most common understanding of “holy” meaning distinct or, most relevant to me right now, separate. God commands us to be separate from the rest of the world in order to remain unique. God sees some form of separation as healthy, even essential, for the spiritual wellbeing of the community. A final text that comes to mind at this time is that of Hillel, who said (Mishnah: Avot 2:4) “al tifrosh min hatsibbur - Do not separate yourself from the community.” The Maharal of Prague writes (Derekh Chayim (2:40-44)) that the community has greater existence than the individual so separating oneself from the community means separation from that which is more real, or greater, than oneself. Rav Kook (Orot, p.144) goes so far as to say that in Judaism, the soul is drawn from the community itself, so one who separates themselves from it “severs their soul from its source of vitality.” And yet, that’s exactly what I did for the last four months, but it did not feel like severing my soul. In fact, if anything, I think I finally find my soul during that time.
What does that mean to me? I had originally intended to go to differing synagogues during my Sabbatical… possibly even differing places of worship of other faiths… to see how they might meet God, and each other. In the end, though, seventeen glorious Friday nights were spent around the Shabbat table with my family, singing songs, telling Jewish stories, listening to classical music, and singing the full grace after meals. Seventeen Shabbat mornings were spent not in formal worship but studying Pirke Avot with my kids, or playing Jewish board games like Kings of Israel or Biblical Epic Duels. I didn’t separate myself from Judaism but I did separate myself from past practices to see if others were more meaningful to me.
As part of that exploration, I thought that my spiritual practice during the Sabbatical would be hitbodedut, which is the Chasidic practice of going out into nature and talking to God. The idea was that instead of set liturgy which has guided my prayer for so long, I thought I would learn to find my own words. Instead, by separating myself from the community in prayer, I found something else. Almost every Friday night, after the kids had gone to bed, I would sit with the Shabbat candles in silence, sometimes for twenty minutes, thirty minutes, sometimes for an hour. Not a word would pass my lips. Imagine that, me sitting for an hour without saying a word. I’m not going to get all pious and say that like Elijah I found God not in the wind or the earthquake or the fire but in the still small voice (I Kings 19). But what I did find was silence and space, space which I have for much of my life filled with my own words out of fear of the discomfort silence existing. I learned to no longer be uncomfortable with silence.
Separating myself from the community also allowed me to work on my book, which after months of very intense effort, I now realize is very possibly a series of books. I took notes on 60 differing books – one a day for the first two months, bringing the total number of books read in my research to 214. Then, I organized thirteen years of notes, which I discovered with some horror came to over 4250 typed pages! So, during January, February and April, I finally finished the research and notes stages, and with at least 30,000 words written, I’m further along than ever before in this mammoth project. I’m excited to share my progress with the community over the coming months.
I didn’t mention March, though. March 1st, after four months of steady decline, our dog Parker passed away. That hit me very, very hard. I recognized that I needed to stop working on the book and instead take care of myself, which is interesting because I’ve come to realize that I’ve never been good at that. So, I picked up my paintbrush and started painting board game miniatures again. I started preparing for a forthcoming roleplaying game which I’m going to lead. I tidied the house, emptying out boxes of some things that I had held onto for over thirty years. We hung pictures that have sat in boxes for seven years, we even hung the mezuzot that I had been too mentally overwhelmed to put up since we moved to America. Realizing how long that had taken, and why, was transformative for me. Returning to my Friday night meditation, when I sat with two candles, very often one would burn brightly and vigorously compared with the other which would provide a calm and constant light. As the candle that burned with so much energy always burned down first, I found myself reflecting on the kind of Rabbi I want to be in the future – not one who burns out quickly, but one who calmly sits in the light of others, who sits comfortably in his own light, and who is able to do so for a long time.
During this time, I introduced the kids to Doctor Who, I taught them how to sit with and enjoy Classical Music, and, of course, played a multitude of board games with the family. I read the Book of Ecclesiastes not because I had to for a study session, but because I wanted to. It was March that was the most transformative month. I painted the miniatures that I wanted to paint, that brought me joy, that helped me be the most creative. As a colorblind child, I always avoided art but in the last five years since I’ve started painting, I’ve learned to find my own style, especially during my Sabbatical. In March, I learned to realize how important artistic creativity is for me personally. I’ve never had that before. So, in some sense, during this Sabbatical I became the artistic, meditating Rabbi, which I appreciate is the most stereotypically Santa Fe Sabbatical possible! I learned what I need to experience and do to enjoy my life.
In temporarily separating myself from the community, I also learned something else important – that if I don’t take care of myself, I can’t take care of others. I have for most of my Rabbinate made the community’s soul my own soul, and I now realize that it should be the other way round – that my own soul needs to be fully expressed so that it can contribute more honestly to our community’s soul.
When I returned, it was clear that the community has continued to thrive in my absence, and someone asked me how it feels that that happened. The truth is that it feels wonderful. It means that the last seven years of my work helping to form committees, sort out contracts, training volunteers, educating and empowering members, planning, consulting and helping implement the strategic plan - including hiring an ordained Cantor for the first time in our community’s history - all of that has led to a really wonderful place. It means that I can now focus on other things. Coming back out of the cave, Shimon bar Yochai gets it all wrong. He’s become so pious and so self-righteous that his response coming back into the community is extremely damaging. He believes that the rest of the world must meet him where he is. I’m not going to do that. My hope is to share the journey I’ve been on and over the coming weeks to see how the things I’ve learned about myself and my own spirituality might fit in with our community’s life. Hillel’s injunction was a warning about permanent separation from the community, and I believe he has a valid point - one of the chapters I’m writing is actually about the damage to the environment caused by the shift from communal identity to individualism. But I wasn’t doing that – I was just stepping back for a while to focus on myself so that I might return renewed, refreshed and with new ideas.
My act of temporary separation from the community will, I hope, help us in years to come to continue to move forward as a unique, distinct, very special community, embracing the holiness of our uniqueness and the uniqueness of our holiness. I am very thankful that I was able to step away, and I am very thankful that I am able to return. May this temporary separation ultimately bring us closer together, may we learn from it, grow from it, and be strengthened by it. Barukh atah Adonai, eloheinu melech ha’olam, shehecheyanu v’kiy’manu v’higiyanu lazman hazeh, Blessed our You, God, Guide and Carer of the world, who has kept us alive, sustained us, and brought us back together. Amen.
I did not spend my Sabbatical buried in sand studying Torah. People in my post-Sabbatical presence have not tended to burst into flame, and I promise that I did not “lift up my eyes to the hills” (Psalm 121:1) and start the Hermit’s Peak or Cerro Pelado fires. Nonetheless, the story resonates strongly with me right now as I return after a four-month Sabbatical, particularly in the week of the Torah portion of Kedoshim. Kedoshim starts with God commanding the Israelites to be holy because God is holy, with the most common understanding of “holy” meaning distinct or, most relevant to me right now, separate. God commands us to be separate from the rest of the world in order to remain unique. God sees some form of separation as healthy, even essential, for the spiritual wellbeing of the community. A final text that comes to mind at this time is that of Hillel, who said (Mishnah: Avot 2:4) “al tifrosh min hatsibbur - Do not separate yourself from the community.” The Maharal of Prague writes (Derekh Chayim (2:40-44)) that the community has greater existence than the individual so separating oneself from the community means separation from that which is more real, or greater, than oneself. Rav Kook (Orot, p.144) goes so far as to say that in Judaism, the soul is drawn from the community itself, so one who separates themselves from it “severs their soul from its source of vitality.” And yet, that’s exactly what I did for the last four months, but it did not feel like severing my soul. In fact, if anything, I think I finally find my soul during that time.
What does that mean to me? I had originally intended to go to differing synagogues during my Sabbatical… possibly even differing places of worship of other faiths… to see how they might meet God, and each other. In the end, though, seventeen glorious Friday nights were spent around the Shabbat table with my family, singing songs, telling Jewish stories, listening to classical music, and singing the full grace after meals. Seventeen Shabbat mornings were spent not in formal worship but studying Pirke Avot with my kids, or playing Jewish board games like Kings of Israel or Biblical Epic Duels. I didn’t separate myself from Judaism but I did separate myself from past practices to see if others were more meaningful to me.
As part of that exploration, I thought that my spiritual practice during the Sabbatical would be hitbodedut, which is the Chasidic practice of going out into nature and talking to God. The idea was that instead of set liturgy which has guided my prayer for so long, I thought I would learn to find my own words. Instead, by separating myself from the community in prayer, I found something else. Almost every Friday night, after the kids had gone to bed, I would sit with the Shabbat candles in silence, sometimes for twenty minutes, thirty minutes, sometimes for an hour. Not a word would pass my lips. Imagine that, me sitting for an hour without saying a word. I’m not going to get all pious and say that like Elijah I found God not in the wind or the earthquake or the fire but in the still small voice (I Kings 19). But what I did find was silence and space, space which I have for much of my life filled with my own words out of fear of the discomfort silence existing. I learned to no longer be uncomfortable with silence.
Separating myself from the community also allowed me to work on my book, which after months of very intense effort, I now realize is very possibly a series of books. I took notes on 60 differing books – one a day for the first two months, bringing the total number of books read in my research to 214. Then, I organized thirteen years of notes, which I discovered with some horror came to over 4250 typed pages! So, during January, February and April, I finally finished the research and notes stages, and with at least 30,000 words written, I’m further along than ever before in this mammoth project. I’m excited to share my progress with the community over the coming months.
I didn’t mention March, though. March 1st, after four months of steady decline, our dog Parker passed away. That hit me very, very hard. I recognized that I needed to stop working on the book and instead take care of myself, which is interesting because I’ve come to realize that I’ve never been good at that. So, I picked up my paintbrush and started painting board game miniatures again. I started preparing for a forthcoming roleplaying game which I’m going to lead. I tidied the house, emptying out boxes of some things that I had held onto for over thirty years. We hung pictures that have sat in boxes for seven years, we even hung the mezuzot that I had been too mentally overwhelmed to put up since we moved to America. Realizing how long that had taken, and why, was transformative for me. Returning to my Friday night meditation, when I sat with two candles, very often one would burn brightly and vigorously compared with the other which would provide a calm and constant light. As the candle that burned with so much energy always burned down first, I found myself reflecting on the kind of Rabbi I want to be in the future – not one who burns out quickly, but one who calmly sits in the light of others, who sits comfortably in his own light, and who is able to do so for a long time.
During this time, I introduced the kids to Doctor Who, I taught them how to sit with and enjoy Classical Music, and, of course, played a multitude of board games with the family. I read the Book of Ecclesiastes not because I had to for a study session, but because I wanted to. It was March that was the most transformative month. I painted the miniatures that I wanted to paint, that brought me joy, that helped me be the most creative. As a colorblind child, I always avoided art but in the last five years since I’ve started painting, I’ve learned to find my own style, especially during my Sabbatical. In March, I learned to realize how important artistic creativity is for me personally. I’ve never had that before. So, in some sense, during this Sabbatical I became the artistic, meditating Rabbi, which I appreciate is the most stereotypically Santa Fe Sabbatical possible! I learned what I need to experience and do to enjoy my life.
In temporarily separating myself from the community, I also learned something else important – that if I don’t take care of myself, I can’t take care of others. I have for most of my Rabbinate made the community’s soul my own soul, and I now realize that it should be the other way round – that my own soul needs to be fully expressed so that it can contribute more honestly to our community’s soul.
When I returned, it was clear that the community has continued to thrive in my absence, and someone asked me how it feels that that happened. The truth is that it feels wonderful. It means that the last seven years of my work helping to form committees, sort out contracts, training volunteers, educating and empowering members, planning, consulting and helping implement the strategic plan - including hiring an ordained Cantor for the first time in our community’s history - all of that has led to a really wonderful place. It means that I can now focus on other things. Coming back out of the cave, Shimon bar Yochai gets it all wrong. He’s become so pious and so self-righteous that his response coming back into the community is extremely damaging. He believes that the rest of the world must meet him where he is. I’m not going to do that. My hope is to share the journey I’ve been on and over the coming weeks to see how the things I’ve learned about myself and my own spirituality might fit in with our community’s life. Hillel’s injunction was a warning about permanent separation from the community, and I believe he has a valid point - one of the chapters I’m writing is actually about the damage to the environment caused by the shift from communal identity to individualism. But I wasn’t doing that – I was just stepping back for a while to focus on myself so that I might return renewed, refreshed and with new ideas.
My act of temporary separation from the community will, I hope, help us in years to come to continue to move forward as a unique, distinct, very special community, embracing the holiness of our uniqueness and the uniqueness of our holiness. I am very thankful that I was able to step away, and I am very thankful that I am able to return. May this temporary separation ultimately bring us closer together, may we learn from it, grow from it, and be strengthened by it. Barukh atah Adonai, eloheinu melech ha’olam, shehecheyanu v’kiy’manu v’higiyanu lazman hazeh, Blessed our You, God, Guide and Carer of the world, who has kept us alive, sustained us, and brought us back together. Amen.