How close do you want to get to God?

Da  lifney mi atah omeid?  Know before Whom you stand. These words, about the "nobody's God" whom  I so love, are carved above the ark in my synagogue and in many others. When my mind wanders at services, often they pull my eyes toward them like a magnet and bring my attention back.

But when I consider my relation to God--which I often do--the words come closer than any others I know to being more than a statement. It seems to me they also pose a question. A question it isn't easy to answer. Even though no one but God and I will hear my inner debate or my answer. My answer for that day, or perhaps only that moment. Is there an optimum distance between me and God? And, if so, who decides? God or me?  

It isn't an easy question to ponder. Ha! now that's an understatement (not my most recognizable style).  Becuase, of course, there is something to be said in favor of working toward intimacy with God, and there is a good deal to be said for "keeping one's distance," so to speak.

There are sensible reasons not to work to make my relationship with God more intimate. To get closer to  the God who brought us out of Egypt--smack into the desert?  Who drew Moses up to Sinai--only to lay down the Law?  Who never seems to pull out all the stops for us the way He did for Joshua?  Or try this one on for size: all Abram did was say Hineni, Here I am, and wiz boom bam, he and all his possessions were on the road to...where?  Even IBM lets you know where they're transferring  you  to.  And that was only the beginning of what God asked of Abram.  The cruel decisions He placed before him.  O, Hagar, beloved Hagar.  Threat to Isaac, real or imagined. Does Abraham (his Ellis Island name) tell Sarah he loves both his sons, and she should go take a bath and relax her fears? And then, of course, there's Isaac and the BIG test. Who passed that one, tell me. (I suspect it may have been Sarah, who followed them, and talked back to God so cogently that He backed off. I wrote a midrash with this scenario--still strikes me as realistic.)

So much for intimacy with the Man in the corner office with more windows than all other corner offices combined.

But, then, intimacy has its attractions.  Think the sexiest movie star of your choice, with the savvy of Solomon, the voice of Sinatra, the insights of Abraham Joshua Heschel, the kindness of  Rabbi Herschel Matt, the humble courage of Pope John XXIII--and a smile like...God's.  Just think about the prospect of having an intimate relationship with that God.

But we cannot know if God's traits are a combination of what distinguished those remarkale human beings--or a set beyond our imagining. More spectacular? Simpler? Quieter? Generally at peace with his/her creation or furious at having given us free will? Don't waste your energy guessing. We have to decide without having the answers at the back of the book. They're not all even in the body of the Book.
Living with uncertainty is the price of belief.

So: how close DO you want to get to God?       

Oh my

August 11

Have I been busy! Of course I know that's no excuse for neglecting my blog. What's more, writing it may help me clarify any number of things. So here are my current four tasks, for which I have neither sufficient hands nor head.

1. I have been organizing an auction for my synagogue since February, to take place October 29th. There is still much to be done. I ran my fourth and "last" one in 2005. Retired, publically, and in my head. But I know how to do it, and others don't have the experience or know-how--such as that it takes eight months to do well. Others tried to get one going. No go. So this past winter, I volunteered to do it again. It's harder work than I remembered. (My mother used to say that it was a good thing women didn't remember how much childbirth hurt, or no woman would ever have more than one child.)

2. I have been looking to move for a while now, to rent another apartment where this NYC-raised non-driver can still walk to my usual haunts (such as the Y). The right place in the right building turned up at, well, not the best time. I move september 15th. Decades of files and drafts need to be culled, the rest packed. This, too, is hard work.

3. I have had several health issues, which, rest assured, will not be detailed here. Besides, I hate to dwell on them long enough to write at all clearly about them. Suffice it to say that I have an unpleasant knack for getting unusual health problems. Know how many meds there are to treat high blood pressure? Me neither, but there are many many many. Know how many there are to treat abnormally low blood pressure? I'm on IT. I pray that my doctors to learn to collaborate. My current observation is that each one--and they are good physicians--tends to forget that a patient has numerous organs which interact, more than a single orifice, and is sometimes prescribed meds which don't "play well" with others.

4. I have in recent weeks had several people about whom I care require serious surgeries. I pray for them, a lot, partly to cut my worry level down above sea level; partly in hopes of reminding God to keep watch over my friends and, especially, to take good care of the surgeons involved, without reminding Him/Her so often that I get on God's nerves.

5. Maybe simply writing these down as I just have will help me to manage my time and effort more productively. Maybe not. But it's worth a try.

God bless my friends, my therapist, and God Him/Herself for allowing me to trust that, when I pray, I'm not pissing in the wind.

Prayer Too

July 24

When the Answer to a Prayer Seems to be No

Last week, I was in the hospital for a few days. There, I had an interesting experience during a medical test. Some might say it was challenging.

I did not find it challenging. Frankly, it only occurred to me a couple of days afterward to think much about it. Right afterward , I was too pleased to be told I could go home.

The test was a tilt table test. I had no idea what it involved. I assumed there would be a table and, with me on it, it would be tilted. I imagined it would take a few moments.

My imagination was not up to par. When I was brought into the test area, there was indeed a table and I was instructed to lie down on it. Then I was--well, the word that comes to mind is “adhered”–I was adhered to the table by broad bands, which were then securely fixed. The broadness of the bands struck me as funny in a not-so-funny way. I inquired: Do you now administer a lethal injection? Look,. that’s how I react to anything that catches me off guard: I make a joke. But the fact is, the only time I had ever seen anyone held fast to a table with wide bands was on TV, when the next step was indeed lethal injection.

I was the only one who laughed–not a unique experience for me, but one which did not raise my comfort level.

I was told that the table (with me “adhered’ to it) would be tilted until I was upright. The test would take thirty minutes or a little longer, the technician said–a lot longer than I had imagined. Then the table was tilted to a standing position, and I set to praying. In front of me was a curtain with an unattractive print of regular, no-color circles. Time passed slowly. The technician and the cardiologist monitoring the test communicated with each other, but not with me. I said, It would be a good idea to paint smiley faces on the circles, to make them less boring to look at. I was told it would be good not to speak. I shut up.

And focused on my prayers, which no one but God would hear. I wanted God’s help to keep myself upright–which I’d figured out was the idea. The test. I repeated my favorite one-line prayer many times, and tried to visualize God behind me, holding me upright. As the minutes passed, my prayers seemed to be having some effect. .

Then, with only five minutes to go, a nitroglycerine tablet was put under my tongue. My mouth was dry–not from any degree of fear–by then I thought I had the test aced–but because I was thirsty. Being ridiculously honest, I reported that the tablet was not dissolving, and asked if I should suck it. Yes, they said. I sucked it. Whereupon I felt slightly lightheaded or maybe a little dizzy–am not good at telling them apart They asked how I felt, and I was trying to figure out which it was.

Next thing I knew I was un-tilted, supine again, and both the technician and cardiologist were very busy bringing me back. From pretty far.

When I was deemed well enough for him to leave, the cardiologist, who had not laughed at my two jokes, said, You may not think this is funny. But thanks for fainting, that’s the only time this test is interesting. Or unfunny words to that effect. He also said I could still go home as scheduled–the words I wanted to hear..

Not much more than half an hour later, I was back in my room. And two hours later, I was home.

Did God flunk the test, too? Just after I sucked the nitroglycerine tablet, did God get bored and take a break? ? First, of all, it never occurred to me to test God. I just don’t have other language to use right now. So: I don’t think God flunked the test–or failed me. I think the real purpose of my prayers was answered. God wasn’t there to fiddle with the test. God’s purpose was to stop me from feeling all alone during the test. When the technician and the cardiologist were doing their thing, God was doing that.

Being with me. That’s what God does.

Why I Believe God is Nobody's God.

July 11

I called my spiritual memoir Nobody’s God because it is an essential part of my personal faith that God doesn’t belong to any person or any religious denomination.

I’ve met many people who disagree with me about this. I think numerous denominations, especially those which are right of center theologically, teach that the path to God is narrow. It seems to me that the higher the toll on this road, the more invested its adherents are in its being the “right” path. They argue passionately for their position. I find their passion admirable if a bit frightening, but too. . well, narrow.

The road to God I see is wide. What’s more, it has not one but many divergences, some well-traveled, others less. But my experience of God (which is of course limited to my experience of God) tells me that most if not all those byways lead to God. Moreover, if we could venture even briefly from our own path to another, we might find the paths to be more similar than dissimilar.

Know why I think that? Because I believe this: God wants us to reach Him–and Her. To get to that marvelous place where love goes both ways.

What's in a Name?

Names are a big deal. In Genesis, as God creates things, He names them. Indeed, naming them is critical: it is the final step in bringing them to life. I don’t like my name. More accurately, I avidly dislike it. Toby Stein a clunky, chunky name. It just sits there. Plain, homely, useless.

Except that if it were truly useless, I’d be happier. For both “Toby” and “Stein” are both vessels from which one can drink beer. And I was stuck with both. ?

The fact is, my parents named me Tybele (three syllables), which is the Yiddish diminutive of “dove”–a name with wings. However, an English name was required for the birth certificate, and so, at only a few days old, I became Toby.

Over the years, I tried to edge away from Toby by spelling my first name in numerous ways: Tiby when I was past toddler age, because that would signify I wasn’t a baby any more. When I was first published (in my college’s literary magazine), I elected to spell it Tybie, which was fancified Tiby, I guess. Years later, because close friends tended to shorten Toby to Tob, with a long “o,” I took to spelling it Tobe because that didn’t require an explanation.

If Toby wasn’t–or shouldn’t have been–my first name, Stein shouldn’t have been my surname. My father’s name was originally Ochs. It wasn’t changed by some guy on Ellis Island. My father never passed through Ellis Island. He sneaked across the Canadian border to find an older brother in Detroit. When he joined that brother’s jewelry business, it would have raised too many questions for the brothers to have different names, and my uncle Sam had (for some reason not only unknown but unimaginable to me) already changed his name from interesting Ochs to heavy-handed Stein.

When I got married, I grabbed my husband’s name in a tight embrace. Not only was Kilfoyle a lovely, a musical name (accent on the last syllable, please), but Toby Stein Kilfoyle was more than a name. It was a conversational gambit and I got a kick out of that.

And yet, and yet, one day in 1977, in an American courtroom, I asked to have Stein back as my legal name.

It was the day of my divorce proceedings. My first novel was in production, and when I excitedly told my editor that my divorce was actually about to take place, she informed me that my book jacket was about to go to press and I had thirty-six hours to decide what name I wanted on it–and on any other book I might write from then on. I did the sensible thing. I called my two closest friends to ask their advice: keep the lilting Kilfoyle or go back to Toby Stein? I don’t remember their advice; it turned out not to matter. Not once I heard my question: “I have to decide whether or not to take my name back.” My name.

That was the day I stopped hating it. Toby Stein: my exodus name.

Speech and Silence

June 19

There are two settings in which I feel especially comfortable. One revolves around conversation, the other involves silence. T he first occurs any time someone is up for a conversation about God. The second is when there is an open-ended silence.

I like participating in a conversation about God because, almost always, I learn something. At the start of such a conversation, I never know if I am bound for deep water or a peaceful twirl around the lake; but the chance of adventure improves when my partner in talk has a seriously different a view of God from mine. Often, as our talk pulls away from shore, I feel a frisson of excitement, aware that I may be offered an insight which never occurred to me, or be gifted with an anecdote that touches the place inside me where my faith dwells. In sharing perspectives, in exchanging views, I often find nourishment for my own–or a brand new way to turn the kaleidoscope. A good rolling conversation may make me stronger or softer or braver.

Sometimes, if I bring up the subject of God, I am asked to “define my terms.” End of conversation. God entered my life on February 2, 1962 and hasn’t left since. But I cannot define what or, more accurately (to me) Who I mean when I say “God.” I love God. I revere God. I am grateful to God. I am nosy about what God may think or feel about a great many particular situations. I listen for God’s laughter. But I don’t know how to define God.

This post is the leftover of a big mistake I made today in synagogue during the “summary”last session of a Melton class about “The Purposes of Judaism” I swallowed hard and said how much easier it is for me to find non-Jews who’re willing to talk about God than it is to engage my fellow Jews in such a conversation. Then I–stupidly–specifically included the Jews with whom I share membership in my synagogue. I should have better bitten my tongue–right through. Many years ago, Michael Kogan, a local professor and member of my synagogue, told me that it’s impossible to write about God, so it was foolishness to try. I am not, after all these years of trying–having perhaps eked out a paltry few sentences with accessible content–willing to give up trying to write about God. But this morning I should have kept my mouth shut.

But the fact remains: when I have an opportunity to speak with members of other religious persuasions, such discussions more often than not carry me a step or two or even three forward toward a clearer understanding of why I choose to be a synagogue-going Jew. A Jew by daily choice.

Now, to my second favored setting. For a person whose talkativeness is locally on the cusp of notorious, I am strangely drawn to sitting in silence. Anywhere, but preferably in any house of worship. Even a “room of worship” will do: I never pass the chapel at New York Hospital without going inside to sit in that nearly always empty room, and savor the silence. But my favorite place to meet up with silence is my synagogue. Sometimes, there, I sit up straight and reflect on the words over the ark: Know before Whom you stand. Sometimes I am smitten by the reflection of a stained glass window on its adjacent wall as the day’s light mutes to serenity. At other times, the clutter in my mind keeps interrupting the silence, but I persevere, and occasionally win. I love most the times when I can let go of words and images and tune in to the music of the silence itself.

Nobody's God and my Ongoing Exodus

All those commandments! In Judaism, no fewer than 613 line up to be responded to one way or another. For, as all of us know, "No" is an answer, too.

Even the famous first ten are a hefty challenge. When I most feel that, I remind myself of how God sets them--and us--up, right at the outset, with a not-especially-subtle reminder that He earned the right to issue them by leading us out of Egypt.

(When I picture that event, I sometimes imagine a whole lot of folks kicking and screaming internally. After all, what a slave knows is slavery, and it is a bleak fact of human nature that most of us–nearly all of us--prefer the known, however grim, to the unknown. Isn’t that why so many folks in unhappy marriages stay married?)

Yet the language we use, when we talk about the exodus from Egypt, is that, in bringing us out of Egypt, God made free men of slaves. I see that famous trek through a dry path in the Sea of Reeds as only the first steps to our freedom.

Bigger steps toward freedom, it seems to me, are the commandments. I realize that there are people who see any commandment, let alone half a dozen hundred of them, as diminishing our freedom. But in my opinion the end result of the commandments is to offer us 613 chances to be truly free people. Together, the commandments are like a mikvah, a ritual bath, cleansing us of our sand-clogged nature.

A memory from years ago used a diffrent image that, to me, says much the same thing. It appeared in an interview in Time magazine with Jean Kerr, then at the height of her playwrighting fame. I remember the exact words of neither the question nor of Kerr's answer, but the exchange has stayed with me. Kerr was asked something like: How can as brilliant a woman as you possibly be a serious Roman Catholic? The gist of her response: Within that box, I am totally free. To her, the rigorous teachings of the Church
formed the requisite box within which freedom lay.

I believe that. Without the strictures of Catholicism or the commandments central to Judaism, there is no freedom. Only an illusion of freedom, closer to chaos than to the real thing.

That’s why I am very thankful for God’s commandments. For the currently feasible ones I obey with a whole heart and mind, which have given me more than a taste of freedom. And, also, for the ones I continue to wrestle with, in hopes of surrendering yet another inch of my will and thereby finding still more abundant freedom.