I want to be rich

 

I have been musing about what the toughest mitzvah is to do. This morning’s research points to the last of the 10 commandments, Lo Tachmod (Tit’aveh). It means “don’t covet” and some reading in the classical commentaries makes it seem pretty reasonable. Don’t look at what someone else has and even think of ways of getting it from that person, legally or not. Sure, there are different levels of understanding about what it means to scheme to get something, pressure someone into giving it up, or make plans to buy it, but the bottom line is that you need to focus not on what someone else has and how you can get it but on your own life.

How tough could that be?

So I spent the morning dreaming about winning the lottery. It is a side hobby of mine (not even my main hobby!) to think about what I would do if I hit a HUGE lottery. Whom would I tell, how would I act, what would I do. All that stuff. And, according to what I was reading about that last (and according to some, most important) of the 10 commandments, just day dreaming isn’t so horrible. I’m not making any plans to take someone else’s winning ticket. Heck, I’m not even making any plans to go out and buy a ticket! Laziness, one, ambition, zero.

But there is another idea within Judaism that stays with me. In the Ethics of the Fathers there is a statement, eizeh hu ashir, hasame’ach b’chelko. Who is rich? One who is happy with his share. There is a lot to say about that phrase, but I want to focus on a couple of things. First and foremost, this saying is easily echoed by “money doesn’t buy happiness.” But so what? I also think of Moonlight Graham’s statement about his career path – he says, when Ray Kinsella says that being a big league ball player for a short time was a tragedy, “if I'd only gotten to be a doctor for five minutes... now that would have been a tragedy.” Doc understood what it means to be rich – respecting what really matters. Nice sentiment, but how does that relate to my happiness?

Then I think about all the horror stories I read about lottery winners. They get swindled. They lose friends. They go broke. They kill themselves. Apparently, they haven’t found the happiness that they thought money would buy. Being (monetarily) rich, it seems, is not what happiness is!

There is actually another commandment from the Torah – v’samachta b’chagecha, you shall be happy with/on/in your holidays. On one level that accords perfectly with the statement from the Ethics – our “lot” as a people is our commandments, including our holidays. We shouldn’t want to celebrate anyone else’s holidays, but should find happiness in ours! But this doesn’t make me not want to win the lottery. Then I thought about it: how can we be commanded to be happy? Much has been written about what happiness is and isn’t and about the various times we are told as a people and as individuals that we should be happy. Weird commandments, they. Am I supposed to feel happiness in my holiday because holidays are what make me rich? How do these things fit together?

I think that the hardest commandment is to be rich.

OK, maybe that jumps a step or two because the hardest thing in fact, is to be happy, mostly because we are all so confused about what that means, how we get there and how we know we are happy. We associate happiness with material possessions, so we think of richness as happiness. But the last commandment is pointing out that if we spend our time plotting about how to get riches, then we are pursuing the exact opposite of happiness. And, trust me, it isn’t easy being happy with what you have. But that’s the challenge; that’s the commandment.

Don’t look at what others have – count your own blessings. Don’t be simply satisfied with what you have, but find a way to feel actual joy in who you are and what you have. Don't daydream about the lottery, not because it violates the 10th commandment, but because it destroys any possibility of happiness. That is tough, I know. But if you can recognize, appreciate and enjoy what you have at every moment, then you will feel a true and sublime richness.

I want that kind of happiness and I want those riches and I struggle every day to get there.

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edit -- another thought popped into my head. On Sabbath mornings, we say in our Amidah service "yismach Moshe b'mat'nat chelko" that Moses was happy with the lot that he was given. Connect that to the Ethics of Our Fathers and we see the standard: we are to be happy to emulate Moses, and he was happy even though he didn't get to enter the land of Israel. He never won that lottery and yet he was still happy!

About face

 Let's talk about hypocrisy. Let's talk "double-standards" and let's talk about my favorite weasel response, "it's different."

And before I get started, I'm sure that my opinions are unpopular. That's how I know that they are right.

If you are a long time reader, you know that I put little faith in Hollywood and celebrity. The concepts make no sense to me. But I do respect actor as professionals, doing a job. So finding the right actor to do a particular job can't be easy and I understand that part of the job of an actor is to pretend. Great so far, right?

But what about when that pretending is aided by a good make-up department? Do I think that all the responsibility for becoming a character rests on the actor's shoulders? Is that fair? Would Chevy Chase's President Ford imitation be better served if he had donned a wig or fake glasses?

I read an article recently about Bradley Cooper. I like him as an actor and enjoy some of the roles he has played. He is filming a biopic of Leonard Bernstein, the composer who wrote such jingles as the songs in West Side Story and "I Hate Music: A cycle of Five Kid Songs for Soprano and Piano." To play the role, it has been reported that he has had an enlarged nose stuck on his face. This has brought up some questions. So let me break down the line of argument.

There are two kinds of characters which actors play, real people and fictional people. Mostly, the "real people" are interpretations of reality and the resulting portrayal is of a person based in someone's memory of reality but at least the person existed. Fictional people did not. If an actor wants to put on a nose in order to look like a particular real people, the argument goes, that makes sense. If he puts on a nose to look like a made up person, that might be wrong because, why does he need the nose. Bernstein was Jewish but he existed, so the nose is to portray Bernstein. But a fictional Jew needs no extra nose because that would be putting on Jewface, linked to a long tradition of using the stereotype of a larger nose to act as shorthand in presenting someone as recognizably Jewish. You can look online -- the stereotype is very, very old (mid 13th century, apparently).

Except for the hypocrisy.

1. Rostand created the character of Cyrano De Bergerac. Yes, he was inspired by a real swordsman but that person, at least according to Wikipedia, did not have a romance with Roxanne nor did he have an enlarged nose. To play Rostand's character is to play an imagined being so adding a nose should be wrong. But everyone does it (or uses some other shorthand for physical aberration, as casting Peter Dinklage in the role).

2. Cooper played Joseph Merrick, the "Elephant Man" in 2015. He did so without prosthetics. He would have been more recognizable as a misformed person had he, but he chose not to. So to play someone who existed, he decided NOT to add anything. So it isn't necessary to add on things in order to portray an historical figure.

So, so far we have a general rule that playing a person is different from playing a non-person. OK, what about the question of "must someone from a group play a member of that group?" That brings up the whole "must a Jew play a Jew" and the answer is "of course not".

But.

When playing a Jew, any actor must decide what in his performance must say "Jew." Is it the dialogue? The accent? The appearance? If it is any of these, and the actor is not playing a particular Jew upon whom to model, the actor is opting for something that is externally recognizable shorthand for "Jew." That thing requires looking into the author's vision of (and opinion of) Jewry and the audience's familiarity with tropes and cues to decipher a role as "Jew." So throw on the prayer shawl even if not in prayer? Have the role include some greedy actions or ethical blindness? Or play the righteous morality card and have the Jew be the ethical center. Either way, play the extreme to convince the masses because if you play a Jew as most Jews really are, the portrayal would be absent anything that makes the Jew any different from anyone else. You see, Jews are a sizable group with a range of physical and behavioral traits.

Where are we now with the argument? Ah, yes, playing a Jew requires that one adopt some sort of visible hint or marker of Jewish identity. But playing Bernstein isn't playing a Jew because there is no attempt to use that visible sign as a religious affiliation, just as a reference to the person. 

Except for the hypocrisy.

So here it comes -- the question of "blackface." Look, I know that there is a long history (though minstrel shows don't date back to the 13th century as far as I know. Wikipedia has the practice of wearing makeup to portray someone with darker skin as dating to the mid 15th century) and is associated with racist iconography. But so does the "Jewish nose"! Why would there be any problem with a white actor putting on blackface to portray a black character not because he is ridiculing the racial identity but because he is presenting the author's understanding of the character? Shakespeare invented the Jew Shylock, He invented the Moor Othello. Same author. Why is it OK to have a white, non-Jewish actor adopt Shakespeare's "look" of a Jew for one, but not the "look of a Moor" for another? Is either doing so in order to tap into a history of bias and racism? And, historically, both have been done, to varying levels of public censure or applause.

Everyone loves to say "but it's different." Except that once you break it down, it isn't. If an actor can assume anything external in order to be identified as a character, living or fictional, but without the intent to tie into any negative history of that practice, then it should be OK for all. And if it isn't, then it shouldn't be. Simple as that.

I'm not advocating blackface. I'm advocating consistency in applying rules and expectations and I am criticizing the case-by-case judgments that people make because they want to assuage the sensibilities of one group but not of another. If Cooper needs a nose to be convincing as Bernstein, but nothing to convince as Merrick, then there is something wrong. If Cooper can put on a nose to play Bernstein, and Richard Mulligan can stick a beard on to be Lincoln (great movie by the way) then I won't look at anyone putting on blackface and ask "where do we draw the line" -- instead I ask "why do we draw a line?" If an actor is tasked, as a professional, with the responsibility of playing a black person who actually existed, why wouldn't the application of cosmetics to darken the skin be as desirable as amore accurate, enlarged nose for a Jew from history? I have yet to find anyone who can give me an answer which accounts for actual history and which cannot be subverted by the many exceptions which are right under our...well, you know.

The Gold-Dan rule

 While I put off grading tests, I figure I will set down an idea that developed over this past Sabbath/Shavu'ot holiday. Now, in the spirit of a good play, I begin with an apology.

Sorry.

I might be completely wrong with this one -- it relies upon a particular knowledge of biblical Hebrew which I don't have, won't get and don't have. So if you want to poke holes in my thesis, feel free. I won't be any more offended than I already am.

There is, according to some (and I have done a lot of reading on this...the best I can surmise is that everyone argues with everyone else about this) a peculiar feature of biblical Hebrew. The prefix indicating a conjunction ("and") is indicated by the letter vav (or "waw" for some traditionalists). Put it in front of another word, and voila, you have "and" in front of that other word. So far, so far, or so they say.

But that vav prefix has, in certain situations, another power. According to those some, it changes the tense of the verb that follows it. So when the text reads literally "and I prayed" it means "and I will pray" (though I have heard those who say that sometimes the "and" disappears when we read the vav as changing tense.) I'm ok with this. It presents a lot of problems and questions and there is a lot of subtlety in terms of the vowels and the stresses on the words, but the bottom line is that sometimes, according to some people, some words change their tense. But that change (to my young and innocent senses) should just be a simple flip, past to future or future to past. And yet, in at least one very important situation, people assume that other stuff happens.

There is a central idea in Judaism, and in fact, it is central, in one form or another, in many religions: the "golden rule." One source for it is from the verse in Leviticus (19:18) which reads (courtesy of Sefaria)

(יח) לֹֽא־תִקֹּ֤ם וְלֹֽא־תִטֹּר֙ אֶת־בְּנֵ֣י עַמֶּ֔ךָ וְאָֽהַבְתָּ֥ לְרֵעֲךָ֖ כָּמ֑וֹךָ אֲנִ֖י יקוק

Leviticus 19:18

(18) You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against your countrymen. Love your fellow as yourself: I am the LORD.

The phrase that pays is וְאָֽהַבְתָּ֥ לְרֵעֲךָ֖ כָּמ֑וֹךָ which is translated here as Love your fellow as yourself. There are a lot of translations out there (https://www.biblestudytools.com/leviticus/19-18-compare.html) but they all seem to do the same thing: they change the tense and also switch the form into a command. A command! The tzivui form (the imperative) makes a demand on the person. So the Hebrew word "and you loved" becomes "you SHALL love". But why? Why would the form change along with the time-tense?

I would like to suggest that it doesn't. Yes, I know that the Rambam counts this as a commandment so it should be thought of as a commandment. I can't argue with the Rambam. But still, no. The way I see it, if the Torah wants to tell us to do something, it has a perfectly good imperative form to work with (cf the commandment "Honor your father and your mother" which uses the tzivui verb in the Hebrew "Kaved"). So why here, where people love to see it as a commandment, is there no choice to use an imperative form of "love" (like aheiv or something)? I know that some commentators struggle with the idea that one can be commanded to love. Love is a feeling, a sense, and not something you can turn on or off, or which cleanly translates to discrete actions.

Maybe it is because the verb/verse is speaking of inevitability. If you follow the other rules then the natural conclusion will be a purer understanding and love of others. The first part of that verse is a clear commandment -- DO NOT take revenge and DO NOT hold a grudge. So what happens when we follow and obey those laws? The natural consequence of appreciating each other and loving others as we love ourselves. A new reality of seeing ourselves in others and others in us. But we don't need to be commanded to do this because it is the most logical conclusion which will inevitably come to pass if we follow those things which we are, explicitly, commanded about.

Maybe we shouldn't be trying to force love, but instead, try to be more conscious about the actual things that we can control and the love will happen organically afterwards.

Storytellers

Stories are lies. As Tim O'Brien wrote in The Things They Carried, true stories are lies also. And moreso.

That's because story telling is lying, even if the story is true. Ultimately, it boils down to the truth that story tellers are liars. Unpack that one.

The story teller looks you in the eyes and bares his soul. He makes you feel that he is speaking only to you, yes, YOU, and when he turns his back and walks towards someone else, you are convinced he is still thinking of you. He has you wrapped up and rapt, the balance and flow of his words moves you in a way that has you held fast.

He is at once a child -- a voice innocent, walking into the world for the first time, seeing it as you do, fresh and adventurous and fearful, and still the sage, with the wisdom of experience and the experience of wisdom, comforting you that the world goes on. He reminds you that the whole world is a story, a lie, a blanket and he suffers it and celebrates it with you.

The story teller spins a tale when there is no one there to hear it because the story must be told and the lie waits for no audience. The story teller needs to tell his story more than he needs anyone to hear it so he finds his medium wherever it lies.

More important than the look in the eye of a listener is the setting free of a story to breathe on its own. So the story teller speaks to the void because with his stories he is never alone until he is.

To know that every moment is a story for tomorrow and that each second is a first step forth, the story teller collects and arranges and breathes feelings into narrative. Where there was only life, now there is soul. 

He measures words understanding that the life of a lie hangs in the balance of each phrase. He risks losing the ears and hearts so each syllable has to be considered and each pause, an effect.

But later, when all is quiet and the story has ended, the story teller is empty. His story is no longer his and he belongs to no one. He is the lie of his story. When that story becomes the province of the world he finds a life in having given himself over and his lie, shared with all, has the chance to define a new truth for them to tell to others.

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Inspirations

The Things They Carried

A word is dead

Constantly risking absurdity

Julius Caesar

Another random Torah Thought

 This is an extension of something I wrote almost 8 years ago here.

The shabbat morning amida begins its central section with the phrase yismach Moshe b'matnat chelko. Moses was happy with his portion. The nest phrase is "ki eved ne'eman karata lo" because (or when) you called him a loyal servant.

That seems strange to me -- the wording is flowery and its biblical reference isn't clear. But then I remembered what Ben Zoma is quoted as saying in Pirkei Avot, the Ethics of the Fathers 4:1 "אֵיזֶהוּ עָשִׁיר, הַשָּׂמֵחַ בְּחֶלְקוֹ" Eizeh hu ashir? Hasame'ach b'chelko. Who is rich? He who is happy with his portion.

The wording in the prayer isn't random - it is a specific call back to this definition. Moshe, who knew he would not enter the land of K'na'an, who would be buried in a secret grave, who would hand over the priesthood to his brother, be insulted by his sister and would have people challenge him at every turn still was satisfied with his role and his portion in life. He typifies this incredible wealth through happiness. Even when an entire nation challenges you, if you have faith that this is the portion you are supposed to have, you attain richness. But beyond that, Moshe didn't do one specific thing. He never asked "what's in it for me?"

The Ethics also have a statement (1:3) from Antignos from Socho (who heard it from Shimon the Righteous): "do not be like servants who serve the master in the expectation of receiving a reward, but be like servants who serve the master without the expectation of receiving a reward". What portion is the most coveted, the one that Moshe seemed to crave? To be a loyal servant (hence the "because" connecting the two phrases in prayer). And how could he be that? By not asking for personal reward as a condition, or even an expectation of his service to Hashem.

Moshe was humble but he knew a serene level of joy, a transcendent understanding of his place and the true value of service. By celebrating the sabbath not in terms of what it can give us, but in terms of how we can serve God through it, we can emulate Moshe's selflessness and maybe get a fraction of his happiness and "wealth."

Rolling the Dog

 I was struck today by how things that, at one time, seemed new, different or unusual, have become commonplace. I was also able to see things through the eyes of others, to whom what I have now come to accept is still strange.

Some background. Sparky the angry, blind dog is, indeed blind. He has been less angry recently but, alas, still cannot see. People come over to me and ask if my dog is really blind, so I hold two fingers up in front of his face and ask "Sparky, how many fingers?" When he doesn't respond, I say, "He can't see my fingers at all so he can't tell me how many I am holding up. He's blind!"

This usually buys me enough time to walk away.

Occasionally, people persist and want to talk about it. After I get them softened up by waxing poetic about perseverance and the can-dog spirit, I sigh and say "It's sad that we wasted all that time teaching him ASL."

Sparky, along with being blind and sometimes angry, is also lazy when it comes to me. Others can get him to walk, but he knows that I'm an old softie (and I'm emotionally weak, which goes along with my age and texture) so he can manipulate me into carrying him or pushing him in a stroller when we take in the airs. So there we go, dog sitting in a place where one would usually see a baby (or a midget smoking a cigar, pretending to be a baby in a cartoon), and the two of us sauntering down the street.

Originally, this seemed to me to be weird and, as the young people say it, awkward. I mean, he is in a stroller and he is a full grown adult! Cray, cray. But as the months and strollers have rolled on, I have become so accustomed to this that it seems strange to see other people NOT pushing their dogs in strollers.

Today, on one of our outings, we were passed by a car (we don't walk quickly). As the car passed, it slowed down and the driver gawked. Full on, complete gawk mode. A twisted smile, eyes bugging out and even a little point of the ol' finger. Now Sparky is blind, but he knows. He knows.

What struck me, though, was that I thought of the driver as the one acting strange. All I'm doing is wandering down the street with a dog in a-

oh

I flipped the scenario on its head and realized that, while from my perspective this is all fine, dandy and skippy I have to remember that to the majority of the rest of the known world, a dog in a stroller is probably unexpected and, yes, a tad eccentric looking.

When did I stop seeing it as the exception, but as the rule? How long does it take for any new behavior to be the only way to be? When does "new" stop being "new?"

Don't ask Sparky -- he's blind, so he cannot answer. 

Why Matzah?

I'm working on a Torah idea so I'm just going to float this out there:

 

There is a bit of a confusing mixed message in the Hagaddah -- the matzah is listed in one place as commemorating the bread we ate on the way out of Egypt when we had no time to wait and let the dough rise, and yet, earlier on, it is spoken of as being the bread that our forefathers ate while still IN Egypt.

So which is it? Is something special about the lack of rising time? Wouldn't be something they had gotten used to eating while slaves?

The way I see it, they ate it in Egypt because they had to. They had little and were not given time to enjoy eating food, so, as poor people with a paucity of ingredients, they ate matzah. It was a bread of poverty and affliction, and someone else's control over their time.

One would think that the Exodus would solve that! God says, "I'm getting you out, so relax and have a real slice of bread..." but the people, carrying that mentality of servitude run for the hill and now make matzah because they didn't know HOW to wait. They were conditioned. Unlike their dough.

Fast forward to the desert and the construction of the tabernacle. God commands that 12 loaves of showbread (lechem hapanim) are in the tabernacle each week. They are matzot (chabad.org has a nice article on them) but now they signify time and servitude to God, not man.

So at the seder, we eat them to bridge this gap. We WERE slaves to Pharaoh and eat the matzah that he forced us to eat, but then we left to serve God and channeled that sense of rushing not away, but towards, using the weekly Shabbat as a way to turn the bread of affliction to a demonstration of loyalty to Hashem.

We can take even a mark of our lowest descent and use it to signify our wish to rise to the highest heights.