What's in a name?

Philosophers, philologists, and sociologists (and, according to Genesis, Gd) understand the claim to ownership and power inherent in an act of naming. And while I dislike forcing organic phenomena into artificial pigeon holes, it seems useful at least to try to name—and, in the process, further describe for my friends—my understanding of Judaism. 

Some think they have a name for my Judaism; they call it "neo-Hasidism." But after trying on that name and wearing it for a time, I find it both too broad and too confining. 

So-called neo-Hasidism encompasses a wide range of theologies and practices rooted in, among other things, the:

• Thought of 20th century giants such as Martin Buber and Abraham Joshua Heschel
  
• Socio-spiritual teachings of ex-Hasids like Shlomo Carlebach and Zalman Shachter-Shalomi 
  
• Back-to-the-farm mystical Judaisms of Arthurs Green and Waskow and the Havurah Movement of the 1960s and 1970s

Now it's true that I share with various neo-Hasidisms a generic:

• Dissatisfaction with the dryness of modern Judaisms
  
• Love of old-school Hebrew liturgy and tunes
  
• Reaction to the anti-egalitarianism of traditional Judaisms
  
• Fascination with some joyous and mystical aspects of Hasidism 
  
• Frustration with the expensive, hierarchical nature of today's synagogues 
  
• Interest in complementary ideas often inspired by Asian philosophies and religions

But despite these commonalities, and while most neo-Hasidisms are avowedly egalitarian, the word Hasidism carries too much negative baggage for me and others, for whom it conjures visions of all manner of non-egalitarian orthodoxies. 

So here's a thought. Like Reform Judaism a century or so earlier, today's new Judaisms are born of the types of rifts in tradition that characterize modern history—they are born from modern humankind's urge to "do one's own thing." And precisely because this type of break is a recurring theme of Modernity, it should be possible to adopt and adapt a name for my Judaism that better describes where I come from and how I hope to be. 

The birth and rebirth of modern art remains the singular example of Modernity's self-consciously creative attack on tradition and itself. It comprises succeeding generations of young artists borrowing non-Western themes, sensibilities, and perspectives to break free from the Academy and each other. But the British punk rock explosion is the example that best serves the task at hand. It saw kids—musicians is too grand a term—rebel against a bloated rock and roll business that, by the mid-1970s, had lost sight of its inclusivity, its appeal to immediate experience, its disdain for authority, and its availability to the untrained. 

This punk rock attitude encompasses many of the concerns that drive my Judaism. It screams for a return to oft-forgotten or rejected roots in order to map more convincing and viable routes forward. And because the sublime system of thought undergirding all Judaisms understands the human animal as a necessarily social one, I know I can't map and travel those routes alone. So while some might find it more convenient and comfortable to call me a neo-Hasid—or even an oxymoronic "Traditional Egalitarian"—I'm happy for now being a Punk Rock Jew struggling to build a group. 

Earth Day celebrations—hangover or new beginning?

Sure it's easy to find your Tikkun Olam groove around Earth Day. But now we're eating vegetarian and composting raw food and garden scraps, coffee grinds, and more, we feel we're making tangible strides toward helping perfect—or at least protect—creation. We're nowhere near there yet—wherever "there" is—but we're better oriented than we were a year ago. 

I love how Kathy Freston reckons eating vegan impacts the environment: it does more to prevent global warming than buying a Prius. Simple. Here are some more of her many simple-but-telling comparisons: 

• Farmed animals excrete 60 times as much waste per day as the world's human population
  
• It takes 11 times more fossil fuel to make one calorie of animal protein than one calorie of plant protein
  
• Livestock worldwide consumes enough water in 24 hours for every human alive to shower eight times daily
  
• Farmed animals produce 40 percent more harmful emissions than all cars, trucks, planes, trains, and ships in the world combined

As composters, we are bumbling neophytes; proud owners of a shiny new Tumbleweed. It's light, was easy to assemble, and seems robust, and while we've not yet produced compost, I'm anticipating or have noticed at least three positive effects. Composting is good for our: 

• Yard, replacing expensive water-saving mulch and, over time, helping turn our Hill Country clay into quality planting soil
  
• Environment, helping us cut back massively on the amount of trash we send to the landfill 
  
• Kids, encouraging them to work in the yard, learn about the environment, and play at science 

Of course we also benefit personally from eating vegetarian and composting—we live more healthful, more interesting, and more joyful lives. But for us, performing Tikkun Olam—in these and many other ways—means carrying out mitzvot, and there's no reason carrying out mitzvot, and living Jewishly, should be anything but joyful. Talk about win-win.

Try to find the joy. Good shabbos.

Let's do Shabbat

You can talk and talk—or blog and blog—but it's doing that makes the difference. So here's some doing: to help build an egalitarian South Austin minyan, we plan to host two informal religious gatherings every month: 

• A family-centric Saturday evening Havdalah and pizza party
  
• A family-friendly Saturday morning learning service 

OK, enough with doing and back to the talk. How might these gatherings look and feel?

 

Havdalah is Havdalah is Havdalah. Kati can lead, I can lead, or anyone else can lead—please. But it takes no great planning and preparation. The service is short and sweet—really sweet; I love Havdalah—and provides the opportunity to share relaxed downtime with a hopefully growing circle of friends on a monthly basis. You bring the ruach, we'll buy the pizza.

 

Saturday morning services require more forethought. Here are some initial ideas—feel free to amend and append:

• Start short and sweet—45 minutes to an hour at most—with hope that interest engenders elongation
  
• Abbreviate the traditional Hebrew liturgy, building consensus around a few central Hebrew prayers—yes many new liturgies are at least in part bilingual and uniquely meaningful to their congregations, but the traditional Hebrew liturgy is an indispensible cultural glue that adheres Jews across space and through time
  
• Consider reading not singing prayers at first, allowing worshipers to learn not only to read and enact the prayers, but also to understand them
  
• Incorporate a brief reading from the week's Torah portion, perhaps even in English, and tie to topical issues
  
• Share responsibility for kids, with different parents volunteering for different services
  
• Make a simple vegetarian Oneg—we'll even provide the Manischewitz

Now is as good a time to start as any. We are happy to provide the impetus, but this must be a shared community in every way—unlike the dogmatic and fiscal autocracies that rule many synagogues. It will work only if everyone makes their voice heard respectfully and respectfully hears the voices of everyone else.

 

Your thoughts?

So we're not quite as crazy or alone as I thought

So we're not quite as crazy or alone as I thought. Not quite. Turns out our wonderfully rich vegetarian diet—rooted originally in cholesterol concerns, Kati's lactose issues (ahem), and our love of animals—serves not only as the practical and lazy way to keep kosher we thought, but as a theologically sound one too.

First, the practicalities. Eating vegetarian makes it easier and cheaper to observe kashrut for us busy and relatively isolated South Austin Jews. For example, we don't need to:

• Drive miles on overcrowded freeways to buy overpriced kosher meats
  
• Buy separate dishes and utensils for meat and dairy foods 
  
• Wait hours after eating meat before being eating dairy products—which we don't, but you get the point
  
• Store four sets of dishes, pots, and silverware—don't forget the Pesach thing

Second, I’ve learned there are several strong theological arguments for vegetarianism with no shortage of respected supporters: their many religious supporters include the Chief Rabbi of Mandated Palestine Abraham Kook and the Chief Rabbi of Britain Sir Jonathan Sacks; their cultural supporters include Nobel Prize winners Isaac Bashevis Singer and Albert Einstein, for whom “man was not born to be a carnivore." There are at least three religious arguments for vegetarianism as a valid Jewish diet:

• Gd prescribed certain sources of food for humankind: “See, I give you every seed-bearing plant that is upon all the earth, and every tree that had seed bearing fruit; they shall be yours for food" (Genesis 1:29)
  
• A meat-based diet—especially one farmed industrially—violates a series of biblical injunctions, including the: 
  
  • Humane treatment of animals
    
  • Stewardship of the planet
    
  • Protection of human wellbeing
    
  • Provision of food for the hungry
    
• The arcane process of Jewish ritual slaughter intends to make eating meat simply too bothersome—as Israeli Orthodox leader Rabbi Shlomo Riskin elegantly notes, "The dietary laws are intended to teach us compassion and lead us gently to vegetarianism."

While all three arguments hold water, any one is sufficient to establish vegetarianism not only as a valid Jewish diet, but perhaps as the only way to eat Jewishly; the only way to achieve what many call "ethical kashrut." I love the simplicity of the third argument, but you’re safe choosing any or all. And if you’ve never before considered this topic, now might be a good time to start—it’s perfect for a South Austin style Shabbat reflection. You might find these links useful: 

• http://www.shalomveg.com
  
• http://www.jewishveg.com
  
• http://www.goveg.com/kosher.asp
  
• http://www.ivu.org/jvs

Meanwhile, I'm off to kill some tofus. Good shabbos.

Building a New Shul—B'yachad

Judaisms, like most religions, stake out the future by claiming the past. Each denomination claims its vision is most faithful to tradition. Some—called orthodoxies—claim to own and protect original "truths." Others, including the progressive religious Judaisms and political Zionisms born in modern Europe, claim to discover or recover some original spirit, meaning, or place.

As a kid, I moved easily among Judaisms, feeling as comfortable in a Modern Orthodox school as a Reform service or a secular Zionist meeting. Now I am comfortable with none of these. I love Orthodox liturgy, but can't get beyond the way orthodoxies refuse even to contemplate that women, homosexuals, and others similarly marginalized are fully equal before Gd. I respect progressive inclusiveness, but the liturgies leave me cold. And I love Israel and support her future as a secure home for Jews, but I recoil from her increasing parochialism and poor political and moral choices.

Data suggest that more and more 20 through 40-somethings are lost from these competing visions. Some reject Jewish religiosity as dry. Others grew up "Jewish" but with no real religious background. And others still grew up outside any organized Jewish community. However, an adventuresome few are out there creating their own Judaisms: blogging and tweeting, publishing magazines like Heeb, worshiping collectively, and fulfilling commandments in their own ways.

For a while, we found spiritual comfort in the form of Scottsdale, Arizona's New Shul. Led by Rabbis Elana Kanter and Michael Wasserman, it is a creative, nurturing, and egalitarian community of modern Jews tapped into the historical and cultural cohesiveness of a traditional Hebrew liturgy. (The New Shul uses an Art Scroll siddur.) But since moving to Austin, Texas, I've found no real replacement. We were active members of Congregation Kol Halev, a diminutive and friendly non-denominational synagogue led by the tireless Rabbi Kerry Baker. However, while we love the friends we made there, Congregation Kol Halev's physical homelessness, frequent poor attendance, and lackluster bilingual liturgy left me wanting.

Here in South Austin we are separated from the majority of Austin's Jews by a dammed up river. Jews and non-Jews down here are different than those living north or west. Demographically, we trend slightly less wealthy and far more liberal. Most importantly, we are separated geographically—the JCC is north of the river as are all the city's synagogues, none of which offers the traditional-egalitarian ethos of the New Shul, the neo-Hasidism of LA's Shtibl Minyan, the modern ruach of New York's Romemu, or the communal creativity of Seattle's Kavana.

What to do? Some initial ideas:

• Network and use Web-based social media to find, reach out to, and engage South Austin Jews interested in organizing an egalitarian community
  
• Meet regularly with these families and individuals to share interests, needs, and concerns
  
• Explore, adapt, and adopt meaningful traditional Jewish solutions to those needs and begin loosely codifying them by consensus
  

From there? Let's find out together—b’yachad.