How Weighty is the Bible?

I’m on vacation in the Bible belt.  We have two very large vacation condos for three families of four: ours and my husband’s sisters’ families.  In each unit we found a “prayer for our guests” awaiting us and two copies of the New King James version of the Bible.

I awoke on our first morning here ready to exercise.  I’d brought my favorite exercise DVD and we had plenty of space in front of the living room television after I moved the coffee table aside.  But what would I do for weights?  A quick review of the options left me with a pot in one hand and a pan in the other.  My daughter considered this a prime photo opportunity, but I’m pleased to report that she was using our old camera that can’t capture anything indoors.

The pot and pan proved sub-optimal. Unevenly weighted and rather clumsily shaped.  As I struggled along with these, the thought came to me:  two Bibles in each hand.  That’s offensive, my husband said later when I announced my bright idea.  You’d never have let me exercise with the Bible in synagogue, my daughter objected.  (My son is wise enough to stay out of these conversations and look on with amusement.) Upon reflection, I found that the only strong sensitivities I have regarding the use of sacred texts involve placing them on the floor or in the trash. The disrespect of these actions has been ingrained in me, yet the notion of exercising with them fails to jar me at all.

I’d have had no problem with you using the Bible to exercise in synagogue, I told my daughter, but I’d have had a problem with you exercising at all in synagogue.  That’s when we started to think creatively. With Humash in hand, all that standing and sitting.  All that swaying and rocking.  It could look like intense davening (prayer), all the while a front for a great workout.  Spiritual and physical strengthening together; two for the price of one.

As for my sisters-in-law, for whom the Bibles in our condos are their Bibles, they found nothing offensive in the idea and were happy to donate their bedside volumes to my cause.  Then I came to another realization.  However weighty the content may be, or the philosophical argument about its appropriate use, the hotel edition of the New King James Bible simply does not weigh much at all.  Granted it’s got twice the Bible, with both the Old Testament and the New, but only the English text.  How I suddenly appreciated the weight of my Etz Hayim (Tree of Life) Humash, with the Five Books of Moses and the weekly Haftarah portions (selections from Prophets), all in both Hebrew and English, plus considerable amounts of commentary.  It gives me plenty to lift when in synagogue—certainly physically, as I’ve noticed on those Shabbat mornings when my back is out—but also intellectually.  Then there are the precious moments when the sensations of body, mind and emotion manage to align, and the lift becomes spiritual as well.

This morning I exercised again.  As weights I used a selection of the library books we’d brought for vacation reading.  The weight distribution was not as even as the four New King James Bibles would have allowed, but it was close and the books were considerably heavier—physically, that is.  I hope that no Dune devotees will be offended by the inclusion of two in that series; I am aware of the religious fervor these books can engender.  I’m just glad to be done with the pot and the pan.

Why We're There

My attendance rate at my synagogue’s Shabbat morning services, once probably in the 90^th+ percentile, has fallen so low that every time I show up I receive an aliyah (the honor of being called to the Torah), as though it's a big event to see me there.

I enjoy being at services.  It’s hard to explain why I don’t go.  When my father was ill, I was with him instead.  Family and extended-family events have called me out of town or to other synagogues. There are many excuses. But also I just wake up on Saturday morning and convince myself that I’m too busy. Or too tired.

This morning, I'd been mostly awake since 3 am battling a migraine and I was beginning to win at around 8:00.  The prior night had been pretty much the same, and between the two I'd had a Friday of work and preparing and sharing my family's Shabbat dinner.  I was too under-rested and over-medicated to feel very chipper.  Yet for some reason, this was the morning that I felt that old, unqualified urge to get myself dressed and to synagogue.  It seems inexplicable that my mind went in this direction, given how my body was feeling.

So I followed my mind.  And shortly after I’d sat in my usual spot in the sanctuary, a good friend arrived.  His mother had just died this week, and he’d been out of town for the funeral. My husband and I had planned to visit with him tomorrow.  But here he was.  Sitting alone. Crying.

I left my usual spot and went to him.  We hugged.  We talked.  We davened.  After a while, another friend of ours arrived to lend him “synagogue support,” as she put it, and we flanked him, each with an arm across his back, as he recited the mourner’s kaddish through tears.

Nothing in my belief system suggests that a force greater than I prompted me to go.  It was entirely fortuitous that I made it there when I happened to be needed. I was not so compassionate as to have thought ahead to be there for my friend, unlike the woman who quite consciously and compassionately came for that express purpose.

Yet the privilege of doing so belonged to each of us, because—however it came about—each of us was there.  And what greater reason to be there, at synagogue each week, than to be in community? To lend support? To learn who in the congregation is ill or in mourning, or otherwise in need of our collective care?

I think I’ll be there more often.

The Great Religious Struggle

[NOTE: This is a re-post of the May 14, 2010 entry to my form Open Salon blog.]

For the first 17 years of my now quarter-century marriage, we were an interfaith couple: I was Jewish and my husband was Protestant until he chose to convert to Judaism in 2001.  So you’d think I might know a little something about managing competing religious commitments.  But nothing could have prepared me for the conflict between maintaining our home-based Jewish Shabbat rituals and observing the religion known as The Philadelphia Flyers.  

On Friday nights, we gather around the Shabbat table together.  My son—my youngest child—is home from college for the summer, and he knows well the expectation regarding this each week.  We light the candles. Hug and kiss each other and wish each other Shabbat Shalom (a peaceful Shabbat). Recite the blessings over the wine and homemade Hallah (ritual bread).  Eat a large, festive meal.  And spend time reflecting on our week of activities.

On this Friday night, The Flyers are playing in the 7^th game against the Boston Bruins, having come back from a three games to zero deficit in the playoffs.  On such nights, in this religion my son devoutly follows (with my husband not far behind), they gather around the television set.  They light the room with the TV’s glow. Loudly bless the feats of The Flyers (and curse the inroads of the Bruins).  Spend time reflecting on the extraordinary road to Game Seven.

How to rectify these two great religious rituals, when they are scheduled to compete with each other?  How indeed, in a household where there is not even a television set on the first floor, so the altar of The Flyers is uncomfortably far from the altar that one creates by breaking bread together at the Shabbat table?

This great religious struggle began late this afternoon, while I was in my office in center city Philadelphia.  My cell phone rang.  It was my son.
What time is Shabbat dinner?
I haven’t even left work yet.
I know, but you know The Flyers play tonight.
I know.  What time do they play?
Around 7.
I’ll try to time it for between periods.
Between periods is only 20 minutes.
I know.  I can only do my best.

I try to listen for the yells that emanate from upstairs, as I prepare our dinner, set the table, set out the ritual candles, wine glasses and Hallah plate.  It is an attempt to interpret the religious experience in the TV room, understanding as best I can by the yells, jumps, stomps and moans whether they indicate blessing or curse … and how far we may be into first period.  I ring for dinner (yes, we actually use a dinner bell) and hear not the sound of feet on the stairs, but the bellow of “five minutes.”  So I cover the hot food with foil and I wait until one religion is ready to give way to another.

My son is remarkably patient.  We complete the blessings, serve the food, enjoy conversation about our week.  I learn that, in fact, these two religions must not mingle. As I begin to mention The Great Flyers Comeback, I am told that such things are not to be uttered until the game is over.  Clearly, the mysteries of this religion elude me.

Our lovely Shabbat nourishes us with ritual, food, drink and conversation as it does every week … for exactly 20 minutes.  Then my son politely says May I go back now? And he returns to the other altar.  He is a loud and appreciative congregant.  And he is not alone.  When I finally rise from the table, my husband—who has been remarkably patient and calm as he struggles with what must be a roiling internal conflict—truly sprints up the stairs to join the Great Observance in front of the TV.

Between the 2^nd and 3^rd periods, with the score tied, my son does re-emerge long enough to tell me that, should he be quiet for long, I should come check on him to ensure he hasn’t had a heart attack.  Great religious experiences can have intense physiological manifestations, after all.
 As I finish this, The Flyers have just pulled ahead.  Thank God.