The first thing that I thought of as I read through the Rambam's fifth principle, was not necessarily that it seems strange that man should be able to talk to G-d, but that I have had to adapt to a different way of thinking now that I have begun to align myself with the Jewish faith. In Christianity, the idea that man has the privilege of going to G-d with absolutely any concern is extremely prevalent; in fact, it is one of the most emphasized facets of the faith.
Christianity stresses the idea that man can go to G-d with absolutely any concern; G-d concerns Himself with our needs and emotions. I grew up with this notion, and I still hang onto this idea that G-d is available to us, no matter what we need. However, I feel that in Judaism, I have been able to modify this idea so that I am more aware of G-d's holiness. Christianity, while it emphasizes the availability of G-d, does not emphasize the holiness of our G-d. It isn't that Christians don't believe that Hashem is holy--it's more that Jews recognize the very holiness of G-d's name. I love this about Judaism. Even the very name of G-d is considered too holy to say, except during prayer. The way that we approach G-d shows respect, and this is something different than I had experienced in the faith of my upbringing.
Should we have the right to approach G-d? I cannot answer this question. However, I do approach G-d: it doesn't matter who or what or where I am---I can approach the G-d that created me, that cares about me, that has my future in his palm. I love, though, the fact that I can bow before Hashem in the midst of all his glory...and tell him how much I love him.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
In the Beginning, G-d...
As I was reading through the Rambam's fourth principle, I couldn't help but think again back to what I had been taught growing up in the church. As Christians, we all believed that G-d had made himself into a man. Now, though, I see where the contradictions lie between this piece of central doctrine and what the Rambam says about G-d.
I wrote last week about the disparities between the Christian idea of the trinity and the Rambam's second and third principles; this week, I want to examine this a bit further by incorporating the fourth principle--that G-d is the creator of everything, that nothing existed before Him. This idea is not new to Christianity. It is well known that G-d is the creator of everything. However, if nothing existed before G-d, and if G-d has no beginning, how could he have become a human? Wouldn't that mean that he was created (even if by Himself)? How can this jive with what the Rambam says about G-d creation and timelessness? If G-d had become a human, wouldn't that have meant that He was subject to the confines of time and physicality?
It doesn't seem to me that, if we take into account what the Rambam has written, G-d could have created Himself. In fact, there was no point of creation for G-d. He simply was, and He simply is. (Actually, I think these verbs are too limited to even describe G-d. These verbs denote a sense of time, and G-d does not exist within the confines of time.) If G-d didn't create Himself--was, in fact, never created--it strikes me as unreasonable to claim that G-d created Himself later in the form of a man. Even if we were to assume that G-d in the form of man existed since the dawn of time, this still does not satisfy the second and third principles of Maimonides, the ones that discuss G-d's unity and formlessness.
To Christians, all of this might seem strange and foreign. I don't write these things to provoke anger, but rather to provoke thought. No matter what a person believes, the important thing is that one has come to a conclusion based not on the simple absorption of what one is told, but on a rational, logical, and even sometimes emotional response to investigation. What matters is that one can stand behind his or her beliefs with solid reasons.
I wrote last week about the disparities between the Christian idea of the trinity and the Rambam's second and third principles; this week, I want to examine this a bit further by incorporating the fourth principle--that G-d is the creator of everything, that nothing existed before Him. This idea is not new to Christianity. It is well known that G-d is the creator of everything. However, if nothing existed before G-d, and if G-d has no beginning, how could he have become a human? Wouldn't that mean that he was created (even if by Himself)? How can this jive with what the Rambam says about G-d creation and timelessness? If G-d had become a human, wouldn't that have meant that He was subject to the confines of time and physicality?
It doesn't seem to me that, if we take into account what the Rambam has written, G-d could have created Himself. In fact, there was no point of creation for G-d. He simply was, and He simply is. (Actually, I think these verbs are too limited to even describe G-d. These verbs denote a sense of time, and G-d does not exist within the confines of time.) If G-d didn't create Himself--was, in fact, never created--it strikes me as unreasonable to claim that G-d created Himself later in the form of a man. Even if we were to assume that G-d in the form of man existed since the dawn of time, this still does not satisfy the second and third principles of Maimonides, the ones that discuss G-d's unity and formlessness.
To Christians, all of this might seem strange and foreign. I don't write these things to provoke anger, but rather to provoke thought. No matter what a person believes, the important thing is that one has come to a conclusion based not on the simple absorption of what one is told, but on a rational, logical, and even sometimes emotional response to investigation. What matters is that one can stand behind his or her beliefs with solid reasons.
Coexist...
I should be posting on the suggested topic for my class, but I feel that I need to address something that has really been weighing on my heart today. It is, of course, September 11, and this day stirs up sadness, anger, hate, confusion, and so many other emotions in the hearts of Americans and others around the world. To remember what happened on this day eleven years ago breaks my heart, too. I am reminded of exactly where I was, of the thoughts rushing through my fifth-grade mind, of the fears and the sadness that seemed to drown everything else out.
My Facebook newsfeed is overflowing with photographs and statuses dedicated to remembering this day, and I think that the fact that people are remembering and honoring those who died in the attacks is wonderful. However, what is crushing my heart this morning is the number of posts full of hateful, angry comments about Muslims...and most of these comments have been made by my Jewish friends. I am ashamed, and I am saddened to see the disgusting attitudes displayed by my co-religionists. I realize, of course, that the September 11 attacks were carried out by radical Muslim terrorists, but in my mind it is absolutely unthinkable to blame the Islamic faith for that terrible day.
I think that, because I am a convert-in-process, I tend to have a more accepting view of religion. I have managed to break out of the fundamentalist viewpoints, and I can now see the bigger picture. G-d didn't create us to be in a state of turmoil with each other, and He didn't create us so that we could fight and hate and kill and point fingers. This semester I am taking Arabic at my university, and I have been so blessed to be able to become friends with some of the most wonderful, inspiring people I've known. These friends are hijab-wearing, Kurdish speaking, five-times-a-day-praying Muslims, and never once have I heard a hateful thing come out of their mouths. They know I am Jewish. I know they are Muslim. We are able to discuss religion freely, and we have found that although we disagree, we are still drawn to each other as people...because that's just it: we are people. I am not restricted to merely being a Jew, and neither are they to being called Muslim. We all have the same blood, the same emotions, the same facial expressions, and the same sorts of laughs.
So, if a Jew and a Muslim can be friends, why are we hating? Why are we attributing to all Muslims so many awful things and deeds? If to be a Jew means to hate the Islamic, Arabic-speaking world, I am intensely saddened. Today, let's remember what happened on September 11, 2001, but more than that, let's strive to make our world a better place, diminishing hate, and spreading peace.
My Facebook newsfeed is overflowing with photographs and statuses dedicated to remembering this day, and I think that the fact that people are remembering and honoring those who died in the attacks is wonderful. However, what is crushing my heart this morning is the number of posts full of hateful, angry comments about Muslims...and most of these comments have been made by my Jewish friends. I am ashamed, and I am saddened to see the disgusting attitudes displayed by my co-religionists. I realize, of course, that the September 11 attacks were carried out by radical Muslim terrorists, but in my mind it is absolutely unthinkable to blame the Islamic faith for that terrible day.
I think that, because I am a convert-in-process, I tend to have a more accepting view of religion. I have managed to break out of the fundamentalist viewpoints, and I can now see the bigger picture. G-d didn't create us to be in a state of turmoil with each other, and He didn't create us so that we could fight and hate and kill and point fingers. This semester I am taking Arabic at my university, and I have been so blessed to be able to become friends with some of the most wonderful, inspiring people I've known. These friends are hijab-wearing, Kurdish speaking, five-times-a-day-praying Muslims, and never once have I heard a hateful thing come out of their mouths. They know I am Jewish. I know they are Muslim. We are able to discuss religion freely, and we have found that although we disagree, we are still drawn to each other as people...because that's just it: we are people. I am not restricted to merely being a Jew, and neither are they to being called Muslim. We all have the same blood, the same emotions, the same facial expressions, and the same sorts of laughs.
So, if a Jew and a Muslim can be friends, why are we hating? Why are we attributing to all Muslims so many awful things and deeds? If to be a Jew means to hate the Islamic, Arabic-speaking world, I am intensely saddened. Today, let's remember what happened on September 11, 2001, but more than that, let's strive to make our world a better place, diminishing hate, and spreading peace.
Monday, September 10, 2012
Steps and Boundaries
I find that all it takes to regain a step that you took backwards is to really start sprinting ahead; even if you slam into a brick wall after two feet, at least you're back to where you were before. I keep feeling like I'll be in a place to take small steps forward, and then something will happen, and I'll falter. It's so discouraging, and sometimes I just want to stop altogether and just stand still in one spot. The solution? As far as I can tell, immersing myself in a Jewish lifestyle is exactly what the doctor ordered. Spending a shabbat in Omaha at Beth Israel with nurturing friends and support circles works its magic every time, and I come away with a renewed motivation to stick with my Jewish lifestyle at home in Lincoln. Feeling as though you are being welcomed into a loving, close-knit family helps to ease some of the tension I find myself experiencing during my everyday week.
The funny thing is, that same tension is sometimes a help, also. If I allow myself to focus on the things that make me different now that I am on this path to conversion, I find myself bumping constantly against boundaries: ethnic ones, social ones, cultural and religious ones. The boundaries help, and I work to strengthen them, not because I want to isolate myself, but because they help to solidify the new sense of who I am. For example, I am almost constantly aware of my knee-length skirts and high necklines when I'm surrounded by girls in jeans and tank tops. At the beginning, I used to envy their fashion freedom, but I no longer feel that way. Now, instead of pining after a pair of shorts, I am comfortable in my skirt because it serves as a constant reminder of the life I am choosing. Something as simple as the clothes you wear can help to set you apart.
It's not that I see myself as any better because of these boundaries. It's not that I condemn girls who wear skinny jeans (quite the opposite, I absolutely adore skinny jeans and sneakers). It's simply that these separations help me to remember and nurture the identity that I am taking on through this process. I can't help but think that perhaps some of these mitzvot were put in place by Hashem for exactly this reason (although I don't claim to know His reasoning).
I was talking with my rabbi's wife this past Shabbos, about how long it took her to become frum after she started to make the decision. Her response surprised me because I'd been feeling like I was the only one plagued by a routine of forward steps and setbacks. When she told me that it took her about two years to really become very religious, I wanted to run across the kitchen and hug her! I guess I realize now that it's not something that's wrong with me, these steps forward and backward, but something normal and necessary that everyone faces. I call myself a Jew-by-choice, and in one sense I am. However, I think that in another sense, we are all Jews by choice. Being consciously, intentionally Jewish is a choice that we make every single minute of every single day, and even when it's hard sometimes to live in the tension, it is worth every struggle.
The funny thing is, that same tension is sometimes a help, also. If I allow myself to focus on the things that make me different now that I am on this path to conversion, I find myself bumping constantly against boundaries: ethnic ones, social ones, cultural and religious ones. The boundaries help, and I work to strengthen them, not because I want to isolate myself, but because they help to solidify the new sense of who I am. For example, I am almost constantly aware of my knee-length skirts and high necklines when I'm surrounded by girls in jeans and tank tops. At the beginning, I used to envy their fashion freedom, but I no longer feel that way. Now, instead of pining after a pair of shorts, I am comfortable in my skirt because it serves as a constant reminder of the life I am choosing. Something as simple as the clothes you wear can help to set you apart.
It's not that I see myself as any better because of these boundaries. It's not that I condemn girls who wear skinny jeans (quite the opposite, I absolutely adore skinny jeans and sneakers). It's simply that these separations help me to remember and nurture the identity that I am taking on through this process. I can't help but think that perhaps some of these mitzvot were put in place by Hashem for exactly this reason (although I don't claim to know His reasoning).
I was talking with my rabbi's wife this past Shabbos, about how long it took her to become frum after she started to make the decision. Her response surprised me because I'd been feeling like I was the only one plagued by a routine of forward steps and setbacks. When she told me that it took her about two years to really become very religious, I wanted to run across the kitchen and hug her! I guess I realize now that it's not something that's wrong with me, these steps forward and backward, but something normal and necessary that everyone faces. I call myself a Jew-by-choice, and in one sense I am. However, I think that in another sense, we are all Jews by choice. Being consciously, intentionally Jewish is a choice that we make every single minute of every single day, and even when it's hard sometimes to live in the tension, it is worth every struggle.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Timeless, Formless, Matchless
The most glaring difference between Christianity and Judaism is, of course, the dissenting views on the person of the historical Jesus. Obviously, this was something I'd thought long and hard about going in to my conversion process; however, what I hadn't thought so much about was what fathoming a G-d without form would be like.
Don't get me wrong--Christians believe in the trinity. They believe in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, and of those three parts, two of them are formless. It wasn't that the idea of a bodiless G-d was new to me, it was rather that I had to adjust to thinking of G-d as only formless. Lots of times, when Christians are going through rough times in life, they will comfort themselves by remembering that Jesus knew firsthand what it was like to suffer as a human as well. They compare their temptations to his temptations, their physical pain to his physical pain, and their loneliness to his loneliness. It is, actually, an incredibly comforting thought, and some days I struggle to connect to Hashem, this formless G-d that my human mind can't even fathom.
I've realized, though, somewhere along the way, that my connection to G-d is not based on similarities, but rather on differences. I can trust Hashem not because I know that He has experienced my pain, but because He is so awesome and wonderful and terrifyingly mind-blowing that nothing my human emotions stir up could ever even compare with how amazing He is. Because He is without physicality, He is beyond anything I can dream up. Because He is matchless in power, I have nothing to be afraid of. And because He is timeless, I know there's nothing that can slow Him or stop Him. My fears of being somehow disconnected from a formless G-d have been realized--but it's that same acknowledgement of such an incomparable G-d that is so comforting. He is One, He is second to none.
.שׁמע ישׂראל, יי אלהינוּ, יי אחד
Don't get me wrong--Christians believe in the trinity. They believe in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, and of those three parts, two of them are formless. It wasn't that the idea of a bodiless G-d was new to me, it was rather that I had to adjust to thinking of G-d as only formless. Lots of times, when Christians are going through rough times in life, they will comfort themselves by remembering that Jesus knew firsthand what it was like to suffer as a human as well. They compare their temptations to his temptations, their physical pain to his physical pain, and their loneliness to his loneliness. It is, actually, an incredibly comforting thought, and some days I struggle to connect to Hashem, this formless G-d that my human mind can't even fathom.
I've realized, though, somewhere along the way, that my connection to G-d is not based on similarities, but rather on differences. I can trust Hashem not because I know that He has experienced my pain, but because He is so awesome and wonderful and terrifyingly mind-blowing that nothing my human emotions stir up could ever even compare with how amazing He is. Because He is without physicality, He is beyond anything I can dream up. Because He is matchless in power, I have nothing to be afraid of. And because He is timeless, I know there's nothing that can slow Him or stop Him. My fears of being somehow disconnected from a formless G-d have been realized--but it's that same acknowledgement of such an incomparable G-d that is so comforting. He is One, He is second to none.
.שׁמע ישׂראל, יי אלהינוּ, יי אחד
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)