Friday, October 1, 2010

Poems for New Beginnings

B'resheit (In the Beginning)
For the Dedication of Temple Sinai's New Chapel, October 1, 2010, Oakland, California


In the beginning

we read the words

“in the beginning”

and it was all good.

Before light, darkness,

before land, seas

before all Beings, a void.

then stars breaking

light across the planet,

stars and a great sun,

a splendid moon.

In the beginning,

a place of perfect

balance, a garden

of perfect sustenance

with all good in it.

A giraffe and a lion,

a palm for giving oil,

a palm for giving dates,

a palm for shelter.

In the beginning,

a home of balance,

a place of sanctuary.

In the beginning,

where we, each other, 
All and God 
called ourselves
One 
in the beginning
and it was all then,
as it is all now, 
all good.

Amen.
by Jannie Dresser, copyright October 1, 2010


Prayer

Asked to be the prayer
not the words that contain it
not the fumbling at the fringes of the tallit
or the pressing open the thin pages of the Siddur--
the thing itself
written on the walls of the heart
where morning light and sunset light
converge at this place of meeting    singing    praising.
Asked to be this, together, and then left alone
as the chanting ceases and silence comes in
through the window and the door
to take its place beside us,
as those standing re-seat themselves
as those worrying restore themselves
as those mourning take comfort.
We    each     together,
are alone again in the elegant moment:
prayer radiating from the beat and breath
of the pulse of the heart,
for memory’s sake and God’s completion,
asking to be the prayer
and the sayer of the prayer.

by Jannie Dresser, copyright October 1, 2010

THE CHILDREN’S MAP OF THE WORLD 
For my teachers and fellow students at Temple Sinai’s Shabbat Torah Study

The globe was made by many small hands;
suspended above our study tables it is imperfectly
perfect in cerulean irregularity.

Strong brown twine drops it from the ceiling,
under the skylight which lets in the light
and the vision of fog swirling outside shul.

I know preschoolers shaped it, cut it from
butcher paper: two spheres, jaggedy-edged,
pasted and colored around the rim.

Their brushes shaped oceans aqua-marine
and navy blue; for the continents
the children discovered vermilion, burnt sienna.

Here are lands where children are born,
and birds, beasts, and all manner
of creeping things arise into being.

Fishes too, phosphorescent in slimy orange.
On Shabbat, we grown-ups gather here
under this beautiful lopsided world.

We open our Holy Book to read, argue, and speak.
We offer the barucha for our time, for the book;
we offer thanks for water and bread.

by Jannie Dresser, copyright October 1, 2010

 
Inexhaustible
For Shekheina on Shabbat

I met her at the well where she drew
water of such blindness
that I was seen at once for who I am:
supplicant in yellow robes,
walking this alkali earth
in dusty devocation,
ullalating grief like a
war-torn mother.

Her hand was a dark brown reed
tending crimson rope.
On every finger she wore
a golden band which signaled
she was wife to many, lover only
to some. I watched as she pulled
with gentle force, earth-fingers
laced around the cord, then
she let it go.

I heard the bucket pound down
lightning strike to the pool below,
it hit bottom with inexhaustible blow.

When our eyes met, mine faltered.
I could not drink her gaze,
although I am certain it took hold
until I weakened, poured through
liquid diamonds of her breath,
her bosom, her boundless heart.

Then, with a touch,
so full of yearning, I felt
her kiss me
moistly
once.

by Jannie Dresser, copyright October 1, 2010


 
The images are Artist Trading Cards, copyright by Jannie M. Dresser, 2009.

Saturday, September 18, 2010

Out Beyond the Field of Right and Wrong is a Snake-Bitten Jew: Me

Today I am a bad Jew. It is Yom Kippur, the Holiest day in the Jewish calendar, and I am at home, not attending services and barely contemplating my “sins,” as they may be. My sister, Marianne, a convert to Buddhism (does one convert to Buddhism?), once wrote a piece about being a Bad Buddhist, so I can’t say my self-judgment as a bad Jew is anything original.

In Judaism, concepts of right and wrong do hold a central place in the religion‘s history--particular as it is filtered through the Deuteronomist priests who wrote some of the most important books of the Pentateuch (yes, I subscribe to the notion that the Bible was written by human hands, not God's--so sue me!).

My sense of much of Jewish law is that though it may have been relevant to Israelite practitioners several millenia ago, a lot of it is now out-dated, even unethical by modern standards (such as condemning homosexuality or prescribing that a witch be stoned to death, or considering cross-dressing a serious offense). I do ascribe, however, to the interesting concept (more rabbinic than of the Torah, per se) that we human beings have two inclinations: the yetzer ha tov and yetzer ha ra, the good as well as the bad (actually, ra is more frequently translated as "evil"). Unlike my more secular relativist friends, I do believe that good and bad exist.

The concepts of yetzer ha ra (the evil inclination) and yetzer ha tov (the good inclination) do not define individuals as All-Good or All-Evil, but rather judge actions and behaviors: condoning or condemning the deed, rather than the being. To the extent we ARE our actions and behaviors, however, we become good or evil people, and it is my understanding of Judaism that doing and being are intertwined as we become ourselves: I do this (i.e., study Torah), in order to be that (i.e., a good Jew). I'm just not sure how many yetzer ha ra's one must rack up before you are an evil person, and the system of atonement is a practice of reckoning up, forgiving and asking forgiveness, and cleansing oneself a year-at-a-time.

By such logic, not attending services and doing my annual atonement on Yom Kippur, would very well condemn me as a Bad Jew, at least give me a flying leap towards the yetzer ha ra as I begin the new year. (Maybe next High Holy Days, I’ll be able to balance the scale.)

As a Jew-by-choice who has taken her place in the most liberal of the Jewish denominations, the Reform movement, I hold individual conscience in high regard and must negotiate around halacha (the law) with a certain relativism. In truly Orthodox circles, I wouldn’t be considered a Jew at all, especially if they caught wind that I sat out Yom Kippur by working at home on my computer, writing, and enjoying a huge breakfast of bacon-homefries-and-eggs. (But then, they wouldn’t consider me a Jew anyway for a variety of reasons: 1) I wasn’t born of a Jewish mother; 2) I did not have an Orthodox conversion; and, 3) I married a Gentile and have disobeyed the commandment to "be fruitful and multiply" since I specifically chose not to have children.)
I was raised a-religiously, with a mother and father who only symbolically identified themselves as Christians, taking us to church for Christmas and Easter. My mother, the descendant of Presbyterian ministers, did send us to Sunday school a few times and once to summer Bible school, but she also said, on a quite regular basis, that she could pray just as well sitting on the pot as in a pew; my Southern dad made a big deal out of his Episcopalian heritage, but only when he was on a bender and rather perversely trotted us down the aisles of the upscale St. James Cathedral in our best Sunday dress. While I loved the pomp and music of the Anglican tradition, I felt out of place, ashamed and lonely in that cross-town church. Fortunately, Sunday church-going was never routine in my family.

When I formally converted to Judaism, one of the rabbis on my beit din (the council that oversees Jewish conversions) impressed upon me the importance of joining a people as much as joining a religion. I took this somewhat alien concept (to me) to heart and started synagogue-shopping, finally settling in at Temple Sinai in Oakland where I have been involved in an off-again/on-again fashion for nearly 15 years.

When I am “on-again,” I am very much devoted to my community, as an active member of the social action committee (where I helped launch a volunteer literacy program), and as a participant in our Temple's sisterhood and other committees. I am a regular at our weekly Torah class, and last year, I participated in a Shabbat Initiative program designed to make Shabbat more meaningful for Temple congregants.

In 2010, I participated in our Temple’s sisterhood Shabbat service, writing some of the liturgy, and I have joined a new committee taking on responsibility for providing ritual burial for our congregants. I've also organized several Shabbat evening celebrations for Temple members and continued my Torah study, occasionally giving the weekly drash, or Torah commentary. I’m hardly a back-bencher when it comes to community involvement. And, I think of myself, express myself, and engage in daily life as a firmly committed religious Jew, a committed Zionist in the sense that I believe in the right of a Jewish state to exist, and an outspoken member of my community, both within a synagogue's walls and without, frequently facing and defying the anti-Semitism I encounter due to the fact that I don't "look" Jewish and people will say things in my presence because they don't know that I am Jewish. I feel deeply committed as well, to learning Jewish history, studying Torah, and trying desperately to know God through this rich and varied tradition.

When I opt out of High Holy Days services, it is in part because ritual is the least important aspect of my Judaism. Although I love sitting in a room full of singing, praying, reading Jews, I grow weary after about an hour and often come home feeling drained. It is partly the result of being in a large crowd, meeting and greeting friends before and after the service, and having to sit in one place for three hours that wears me out. But it is also the consequence of my chronic depression and the low-energy I experience for social gatherings. Put me in a classroom or movie theater, and I can last a little longer.

I can’t feel too badly about being a Bad Jew this New Year. I intend to continue in my weekly practice of studying the Torah, applying its lessons to my life. I am committed to taking my 93-year-old friend Shirley to our Saturday Torah group most weeks and I am happy to organize Shabbat dinners. I have taken responsibility for drafting a Tahara manual for our Chevra Kadisha (the committee doing ritual burial), and have written drash’s and poems for service programs as requested. Yes, I even occasionally attend services and special events at the synagogues and love the music and the people, the rabbis and the food.

My parents treated their Christianity as a once-a-year kind of thing and were not at all community-minded. Their actions left our family in complete isolation as we experienced the roughest years of my father’s violent alcoholism, our financial struggles, and other nuclear-family traumas. While I have adopted my mother’s and father’s indifference to religious ritual, I’ve eschewed their indifference to being part of a community--both the giving to it and receiving from it. I am part of a large synagogue where I am known to many and feel love and nurturance whenever I am in a room with my Jewish family.

If I feel like a Bad Jew, it is usually on these high points of the Jewish ritual year. The rest of the time, I am rather consistently involved in Jewish community and activities. Perhaps, I am a better-than-average Jew, after all. What I hope most sincerely, is that in the eyes of God, I am seen as someone who deeply loves her community, its history and literature, even if I often opt out of the events that draw the largest crowds. Often those crowds are full of people I don't recognize because we never see them at shul the rest of the year. 

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Bamidbar: Take This Hammer (Pad it With a Silk Scarf)

Bamidbar (Numbers 1:1-4:20) is one of those Torah portions people like to skip. The word itself means "in the desert."It refers to the Israelites gathering and organizing themselves in their wanderings in the wilderness. Filled in its initial verses with genealogies of men organized into militias, the portion has an adamant left-brain energy. But at its conclusion, there is a description--one of many in Torah--of the portable tabernacle that accompanied the Israelites in their desert wanderings. This brief section is full of wonderments and sensory details of vessels and pans, colorful cloths and strange materiels. The writer of this section presses the point that only the specialist, the assigned priest, can enter the tabernacle, further elevating Bamidbar’s strangeness. I offer the following commentary about the building of the mishkan, the tabernacle, in a more poetic approach and ask readers to relax and receive it with a softened mind and ear tuned toward the Great Mystery. There will be no test at the end, except the one we are daily undertaking as we struggle to live meaningful lives.

The mishkan is unlike any other abode

with its gold, silver, copper pans,
with its blue, purple, crimson dyes,
with its goat hair and dolphin skins
stretched along the branch-lines of acacia
scented like baby’s breath, milky clean.


Yet, we have had to give up
even this shelter, to go within, to find
the true center, where the light
of the everlasting flame singes our hearts,
the way a spark scrapes the branch
into aromatic incense.

What shall we do after forsaking
the letting of blood, the gouging of the mollusk
to make our purple dye?
The torment of the sea-beasts to weave
fabric for our tent of meeting?

One must go out to come in again,
changed.


The pan of oil reflects the fire that burns within,
oil strained through goat hair and cloth,
the blood of ten-thousand generations.
The pan of copper mined in hard labor.

The closer we approach,
the more concentrated the fire,
the more consecrated the fire.


Fire of our souls awakened as in a dream,
gasping for breath like a new-born baby,
gasping for hope, reaching for God.

***
We released the Sky God;
he was only a blue balloon
held on a very flimsy wire.

We watched him slip through the hole
in the immense blue veil of ozone.

Goodbye Osiris, goodbye Baal, goodbye Zeus, goodbye Odin.


We had to forego the psalmist’s prayers for revenge.
Don’t you remember the disembodied tears raining down on us at the Sea of Reeds
when we shook our timbrels and chanted our victory song?

We followed an elusive rainbow, its glittering prism 
that seemed to shoot
in every direction except the one 
where we were headed.

God of the tabernacle, the sanctuary,
God of the Tent of Meeting,
God of the desert,
variegated smoke leading us on.


Some of our ancestors tried to give God a home,
a stone altar sprayed with sacrifice,
a Temple,
Yerushalyaim.

But the Temple become the mistress of the rulers
and their all-too-obedient priests.
The Temple, fixed to land, was burned to ashes,
the way our lambs and doves, sinew and fat, were burned;
the Temple was sacrificed to God.

It taught us: God is not in the land
     any more than God lives in the sky.

I tell you, it used to cost a fair shekel to visit the Holy Place,
and nobody could go inside.

This made God anxious;
our God will not be a kept God:

       we must go out to come in.

The tabernacle voyages with the people,
an ark, a ship of the desert,
a prairie schooner carried on our shoulders.

The tabernacle went with us,
to shtetl and farm, to factories and foreign lands,
to Shanghai and Manhattan and Palm Beach.

The Temple demanded that we come to it,
made us alien to the center
of our own holiness;
it kept men on retainer, men who wore magical vestments and gems,
who spoke in code.

The tabernacle let us know
we had a center where ever we roamed.

***

We Jews have given the world
the important gift of knowing
that wherever we live
God dwells among us, within us, around us.

But old habits--slow to accrete--take as long to discard.
We Jews have learned you must become a
resilient
flexible
portable
prepared
people.


We Jews have learned
to take comfort
in strange lands;
we are still learning
that hospitality is the pathway to peace and prosperity,
that culture is a two-way street
that must be paved with mutual respect.

We Jews have learned from others:
how to make new menus from strange foods to sustain life
how to make new medicines from barks and herbs to heal disease.

We’ve learned new words from our foreign hosts:
like “trust in God but tie up your camel first,”
like “be sure to read the small print,”
“a penny saved is a penny earned,“
“silence equals death.”

    like you must go in
    to come out.


Sometimes you have to abandon
family, spouse, children, friends, pets, house, your country.
Sometimes you must allow
family, spouse, children, friends, pets, house, country
to take their leave of you.

***

In haste, lech lechah, we are told
to pack
to go
to flee

to take that new opportunity
to head west, north, south, east
to Africa, Argentina, Canada, California.

Yes, we have to go very deep within
to find the honest road that can take us farthest out.
We may lose track of everything that
was once important:
    it wasn’t.

We must discard what cannot accompany us:
    everything but our truth must go.
We say goodbye for the moment:

    It will be there;
    it is always right where we left it,
    in the last place we look.


Through the archways and the drawn curtains,
through the long empty passageway,
the column of our souls
where smoke lingers,
where all the encumbrances

between soul and God


are stripped bare
leaving us space for our safe
our very safe
return.

Jannie M. Dresser, copyright May 2010

Sunday, March 28, 2010

Zechariah: The Rancher Prophet




The best way to read Scripture is as a Rorschach of our own mental, emotional and spiritual state, as well as for its history of generations of people in Western culture -- Jews, Christians and Moslems alike -- who have all been inspired by the Bible and have attempted to create themselves in response to, and through the creation of, this grand literary amalgam.

Literature is never purely entertainment; we go to it to stimulate our imaginations as much as for relaxation; we go to it for transport out of the ordinary of our daily lives. The wisdom literary traditions (the Hindu Vedas and Upanishads, the Greek pre-Socratics and birth of Western philosophy, the Tao te Ching, the Bible and Koran, etc.), are all sources human beings have created and turn to for guidance and meaning. But to a great extent, the pond we look into reflects back to us our own image: a Christian reading a Bible verse is prone to seeing it as Christ-centered, apocalyptic and church-relevant; a Jew sees the mythical and very real history of her people and nationhood, as it unfolded in a relationship with God. An atheist may just see a chaotic but interesting tale.

The only way we can come to grips with Who or What is God has been through our literary traditions and personal, sometimes intuitive and mystical, encounters which are as varied and fascinating as human beings themselves; I love hearing and reading conversion stories and Bible interpretations, and can only wonder at the vast range of meaning-making we have generated out of our encounters with one another, the planet and its living beings, and that great Source, what some experience as a Holy Being or Divinity.

When “interpreters” take on a voice of authority and proscribe their meaning onto these fantastical and challenging works it creates distance between us, particularly when that authority is rigid and didactic, certain of its own claim to meaning. Out of this we get the Crusades, pogroms, the Inquisition, and suicide bombers.

Zechariah is a relatively late book in the Hebrew Bible, post-exilic which means it was recorded after the Jews had been captured and exiled by the Babylonians. The marker for this period in Jewish history is 586/587 BCE when the Temple--the center for ancient Israelite ritual life. The book of this prophet has led to many wild interpretations and attachments of meaning, as a book of prophecy is often wont to do. In Torah class, a student commented that “We are projecting our own idea of God back on an earlier society.” Ah yes, and the fact is that the canonized scriptures were also a projection of an idea of God layered over earlier ancient religion. In each generation, we take the raw materials of our culture and come to terms with their value for bringing us closer to each other, our selves and our souls, and our idea of God.

As a daughter of the American west, growing up around farms and cattle ranches with livestock and horses, it is not surprising that I “project” my interpretation of Zechariah as a rancher. Here’s the background and the initial images of this book, written around 520-518 BCE.

The Jews of ancient days were roustabouts by their own choice and the choice others made for them. In fact, the Bible stories have sometimes been seen as a representation of a society moving from one phase of its development as nomadic herders to an agricultural, therefore more “grounded” one.

It seemed, every time we got a bit settled down, some power came and upset the apple cart. First the Egyptians and their Pharoahs, then the Assyrians, the Babylonians, the Hellenistic-Syrians, and finally the Romans. The first five books of the Bible tell how ancient Israelites became a relatively settled people who made a covenant with one particular God whose name is unutterable.

Alas, the ancient middle/near east was not a quiet place and the land was coveted by others. The Babylonians became a great power and conquered Judah, destroying the Temple and carrying off the population to Babylon. Years go by, Jews survive, that’s what we do. Quite a few were comfortable and thriving in the Babylonian centers. But another power arose: this time, the Persians, who were both liberators and instigators for Jews to return to the Holy Land. There is some evidence that not everyone wanted to go back.

Darius appointed Zerubbabel as governor of Judah. Jews were allowed to return and to rebuild the Temple, thus restoring the priesthood and the old religion. Zechariah and Haggai arise as prophets during this time and share the job of exhorting the Jews to return and rebuild Jerusalem. But, traumatized people don’t usually want to move: they hunker down, dig in, try to keep their heads down and their movements circumspect. Zechariah, one of the last in a series of prophets in the Hebrew scriptures, is considered by many as a prophet of restoration. His name means “God has remembered” and his preaching is a kind of “round-up” of recalcitrant Jews not so eager to go home.

Zecharias’ book begins in medias res, as the prophet converses with an angel; the prophet sees a man on a bay-colored horse, with three horses standing beside, bay, sorrel and white. “What are these, my Lord?” he asks and the angel/man standing among the myrtle trees, tells Zechariah, “They are the ones who will go throughout the earth.” In fact, they tell the angel/man (it isn’t clear if there is more than one “man,“ or if the angel is a man, or if the horses are also doing some of the talking) but the reply comes: “We have roamed the earth, and have found all the earth dwelling in tranquility.”

The angel speaks out and asks God how long He is going to be angry with his people. Adonai, Lord of compassion says that he is very angry with those who punished Judah and promises to restore Jerusalem. There is a bit of irony to this since the exile, as seen in the story of the Bible, was punishment for straying from God‘s rules; it was as much an instrument of God’s wrath as the oppressors themselves. But, here at least--whether God is showing signs of remorse or the overlords screwed up on God‘s Stanley Milgram experiment--we now see that God’s plan is to restore us to our beloved Jerusalem.

Zechariah sees “four horns” which are explained as the horns that scattered Judah, Israel, and Jerusalem. Next Zechariah sees four craftsmen who have come to terrify the “horns of the nations that scattered Judah” and who will now be punished in their turn. A man/angel being appears, bearing a measuring line and says he is going to measure Jerusalem; he is reminded by an angel that the new Jerusalem will be a place without walls because there will be so many people in it, and that God  Himself will be a ring of fire around Jerusalem.

Messianic religion takes prophecy as a signal for the rebuilding of the Temple and the coming of the Messiah (in Christian terms, the Second Coming of Christ). In Zechariah, there is a foreshadowing of this given by the report of the man on the horse who found peace and tranquility throughout the earth. For Jews, the Messiah will only appear when the earth is at peace and all humankind is perfected; this is a quite different vision from the world of chaos and destruction imagined in the Book of Revelation as the precursor of the return of Christ.

Zechariah 3 presents the prophet’s vision of the high priest Joshua; he is wearing filthy and torn rags and Satan, the Accuser, is standing beside Joshua and attempting to restrain him. God rebukes Satan, pointing to “a brand taken from the fire.” The angel affirms that if the prophet and the people walk in God’s ways, they will be restored to Jerusalem and to God living among them.

The imagery of Zechariah 1:1-3 is of someone familiar with horses, horns (as on bulls), and brands. That’s why I think ol’ Zechariah just might have been a rancher or cowboy. His job is to round-up the disparate Jewish from their places of exile and corral them back in Jerusalem which will be “fenced off” by the flames of God’s spirit.

Zechariah claims he is from a line of priests, but in exile, priests had to turn to other professions. Is it possible he took up ranching? What I love about this idea is that ranchers make uneasy truces with the wild: they work with domesticated animals but fear the predators that still share the wild pasturelands; they keep fences but must turn their herds onto untrammeled fields to gain the nutrition they need; the act of branding binds an animal to them, reflects their ownership, but to brand an animal is to inflict pain and wariness on the very ones you seek to possess and protect. The prophet speaks in beautiful natural imagery, of horses, horns, brands and myrtle trees. In my view, these early chapters of Zechariah, the restoration prophet, God can be understood as the first steps of an exiled people being ranged in and returned to their Home on the Range.