Cyber Conversation Archive with
JRF Master Educator, Barbara Carr
August 2007 - July 2008

Many families of Dor Hadash have been allowing retired Education Director Barbara Carr into their homes via email for informal conversations about Jewish issues that tweak Barbara's interest and theirs.

Two fairly lengthy email letters go home which are designed to generate further thought and discussion. The emails contain material that Barbara has discovered which might be of interest as well as general musings on what it means to be Jewish and a family in the twenty-first century. Remember, these are Barbara's personal opinions and do not necessarily reflect the opinion of Congregation Dor Hadash.

If you would like to receive the emails please register with Barbara.

Late June 2008

Dear friends,

I am a public library junkie.  I am willing to confess that addiction and have no intention of going into rehab to recover.  I grew up in a small town that had an old beautiful granite library that felt like a sanctuary when I got to go there.  The children’s room (yes, a whole big room devoted solely to children’s books) was huge and comfortable with wooden tables and chairs that were the right size for little browsers, and it had its own separate door if you didn’t want to enter through the “adult” rooms which were really, really quiet.  There were ironwork curved staircases that led to “the upper stacks” and the whole place felt, for me, as if all answers were in the building if I only knew the questions.

As soon as I was old enough, I started volunteering there.  Our town was small so I could walk from my home to the library easily (the whole town was about 2 square miles in diameter) and I arrived at my haven to just spend time with books.  I learned how to file “check out cards” in the big wooden library catalogues where I would take time to flip the stiff cardboard index size cards and read the names of other books and authors I might want to explore someday.  I learned how to repair torn pages with special “library tape” that ultimately hit the market as “invisible tape.”  I learned how to restack books (and look at what surrounded them).  Ultimately I learned the incredible gift the public library was to a community – and to me.

Libraries have changed since I was a young girl.  The biggest change is that they have become electronic.  I miss the big old wooden catalogues and since I’m fairly technologically adept, I am surprised by that sense of loss.  After all, I can sit at my computer and search the library catalogue, order books to be delivered to my branch or renew a book online.  What could be bad about that?  What’s bad is the loss of intimacy with the library itself.  But to touch the cards, to search through drawer after drawer, gave me a sense of how many books my particular haven contained.  The books became connected to each other – either by author, title or subject or just the fact that they caught my eye.  The search was half the fun.

Today, libraries have become community centers, meeting halls, places of learning and sources of movies and music as well as books.  That’s also a good thing.  What has been lost in the process is the sense of silence and intention that old libraries used to bring.  When I was a child, going to the library was almost a holy process.  Now our branch library has a clown come in on occasion to lure the children to read books.  (I’m an anti-clown person – I’m sorry if I offend the pro-clown community.)

So, why am I writing about libraries, of all things?  I think if you haven’t visited your library lately, summer is a great time to do it.  You can check out new writers as well as old friends.  You can push yourself spiritually by exploring writers of faith.  You can learn more about your religion and even more important, you can find out more about other religions.  You can read books that fall under the category of “fun junk” which everyone needs once in a while.  You can even try re-reading some of those classics you were forced to read in college.  This time you might even like them.   You can check out almost anything these days… and wondrously, it’s all free. 

So stretch yourself a bit.  Read something challenging.  Try a new genre.  Pursue an interest you’ve never pursued before.  Check out books about your state.  Read about geology or astronomy or genetics.  Realize that if a library book isn’t working for you, you can just return it and try something else.  Sense the liberation of not being responsible for the wrong choice.  All those books are there for you to try out and then, if you know you want to return to the book again and again, go out and buy it.  Most of all realize that books can open doors you didn’t even know were there for you.

Libraries are holy places in that they do contain answers if we know the questions.  They are the repository of who we are and what matters to us as a civilization.  I want us to learn to acknowledge, in the wonder of our lives, how many holy places there really are out there for us.  I want us to learn to celebrate them and support them and most of all, to use them.  Count your holy places and I think you’ll be amazed.

So as summer begins, as I have in the past. I will be taking the month of July off.  We’re going back east to visit family and so I am declaring a mental vacation.  I’m sure I will return in August richer for the experience… and ready to poke at you, with love and respect, once again.

Still dreaming of peace,

Barbara

© Barbara R. Carr

Early June 2008

Dear friends,

I was watching a movie the other night and was struck by a scene where a person was praying by herself in a small country church.  She was completely alone and the lights were dim.  That made it more real, somehow.  She was in a space that allowed her to talk to the power she needed.  She was in a space where praying was rational, not out of place.  She had a need and the church offered her a space to meet that need.  This place was her access route to the holy.  We all would be better off if we could identify our own access routes.

When I was active in the anti-war movement in the sixties and seventies, many churches offered sanctuary to young men fleeing the draft on religious or moral grounds.  The concept of holy space broadened for me.  Not only could one speak to the holy in these spaces, but the holy protected you as well.  What a marvelous image.  What an important mission.  Sanctuary developed a whole new meaning for me – not at all the image of my synagogue growing up.

The synagogue, as it exists today, is a substitute for the Temple in Jerusalem when Judaism, to some, was at its most pure.  When the Second Temple was destroyed and the rabbinic period in Judaism began, schools of learning and personal observance of the holy days and festivals were the paths to holiness. Since the Jewish community often was ghettoized, living in proximity to each other made the need for a specific holy “space” unnecessary.  Nothing could substitute for the great Mishkan, the holy of holies, the Temple in Jerusalem.  Learning Torah and observing the mitzvot or commandments was what Judaism was about.  The place where that happened was irrelevant.

(A disclaimer here – this is just me thinking out loud – I am not a scholar of religious architecture)

In a parallel universe great churches were rising in honor of God.  The rituals of the early Church demanded specifically trained priests and if possible, a place for them to function.  Since Christianity at the time required intercession by a priest for prayer to reach the Other, sanctuaries became essential for a religious life.  Priests were required for all sacramental acts and they happened at the church.  Religious education beyond ritual behavior was focused on the priests and the monks who studied the Gospels and incorporated their vision into holy writings that kept learning alive throughout the dark ages.  For centuries, the Roman Catholic Church was also a mentor of all the great arts, since secular artists were almost unknown and certainly disavowed.  Churches celebrated great art by decorating their spaces exquisitely and enlisting great composers to write their amazing music in honor of God.

The development of the mosque seems to follow the path of the synagogue rather than the Christian church.  There are holy places in the Middle East that are returned to again and again but the mosques out in the western world are mostly simple inside.  They were designed as cultural gathering places as well as spaces to pray communally and listen to the words of the Koran.  The western mosque is not a monument. 

Today, the easy identifiers and most religious ghettos are gone.  There are synagogues that are monuments, churches that are simple storefronts and mosques that offer vastly more than just a place to pray.  We are often confused about the purpose of these buildings and their connection to our communication with the Other.  We carry historical imagery about what these spaces offer us but we each find our own solutions to the identity of holy space. 

Religious life is no longer bound by history in the way it once was.  We continually redefine what we want from our religious communities and if we aren’t happy, we vote with our feet.  We leave and look and sample and often make decisions to participate in a community based on what we don’t want rather than what we want.  We are always clearer about the “don’t wants” then affirming what we are seeking.  I wonder about that a lot.  I think it is because we’re not sure what will meet our needs.  We don’t know what we want.

So I go back to that woman sitting in the pew in her empty sanctuary.  She was absolutely sure about what she wanted.  She wanted to be in a dedicated holy space.  She didn’t need a priest or a minister intervening for her.  She simply needed to be in a space made ready for the conversation she had to have. 

Places where God (or whatever you call Her) is welcomed are everywhere.  Sanctuaries make the conversation more legitimate for some – make it easier – make it focused – make it specific.  Assumptions are made based on the space you choose.  But sometimes we don’t have a choice.  Sometimes our sanctuaries don’t work for us.  Sometimes our sanctuaries are locked up and only open when clergy are leading services.  That’s when we have to find the sanctuary within.  The more we know about why and how we converse with the Power that Makes for Salvation the easier it is to carry that sanctuary within us.  I can sit in a church, a mosque or a synagogue and find a way to converse with my God.  I can sit along a river bank, look across a canyon or sit still in my yard and my sanctuary is with me. 

We each need to stretch ourselves and find our own sanctuaries.  Certainly the traditional religious space has its place, but that space is not always available.  We need to celebrate the continuity that holy places have given us and continue to build these places and support these places and participate in these places.  However we also know that the need for holy conversation is not limited to Friday or Saturday or Sunday.  The purpose of the buildings within which holy communities are housed has changed over time and so have we.

Over the years one of the things I have learned is that the more comfortable we are with our souls the easier it is to celebrate the connection we have with the Other.  The more we know about where we are trying to go, the easier it is to look to the Other for support.  The more we declare that sacred space is where we are, the easier it will be to communicate with those who may be on different but similar paths.  We need to put aside our trappings – honor our history – and get on with the celebration of being part of holy change – within and without.

Still dreaming of peace,

Barbara

© Barbara R. Carr

Late May 2008

Dear friends,

As you may remember from previous letters, for almost three years now I have been part of a weekday morning minyan (literally a group of ten Jews – but frequently used to describe a small prayer community) that has meant a tremendous amount to me.  We began meeting because one of our group wished to say Kaddish (the prayer said for a year when you’ve lost an immediate family member) and asked if there were enough people to create a minyan to allow that to happen.  Amazingly, there were.  We are now almost three years into our shared experience and despite the effort of getting up early for a 7:45 a.m. service, the groups’ commitment to each other has grown stronger and more meaningful as time has gone on.

That’s not to say we haven’t had our moments.  We struggled with the requirement that some prayers are not supposed to be said without ten Jews present and resolved the issue to our own satisfaction after much study and reflection.  (One of the great strengths of Reconstructionist Judaism is its willingness to evolve when laws and restrictions no longer make sense.)  We have prayed with five people and we have prayed with fifteen.  We have welcomed people who are not used to a progressive synagogue having a weekday minyan and they have found the intimacy of the service fulfilling in unexpected ways.  We have learned to lead the service.  We bring readings and other offerings that enrich our experience.  We talk about what we are doing and most important, why we are doing it.

The why may be the most interesting part of this group.  Each of us began attending with few expectations.  We began because someone needed us to meet in order to fulfill their religious and emotional needs.  None of us were prepared for how important it became for us, too.  None of us realized that in the process of helping someone else we were creating a new community that offered us spiritual sustenance in a new way. We began out of a sense of religious obligation and we have found something far more important – a sense of commitment to each other and the phenomenon we have built.  The minyan has a personality of its own.  It exists in real time.  We have all learned to love “it” as well as loving each other.  When one of our regular attendees is absent, everyone wants to know if they are all right.  When one of our participants feels the need to speak to a prayer or share a spiritual moment, we are open to it.  When we close the service with our arms around each other, praying for peace, we are made more whole.

Building a religious community is an intimate experience.  Unlike other communal organizations, a religious community almost requires you to expose your heart and soul to others.  You have to create a safe space where people can feel and talk and learn and find comfort.  You have to give but you also have to receive.  We are a group that has drawn strength from each other in time of need and offered laughter and joy as well.  We allow each other to hear our pain and share our pleasures.  We worry for each other and we celebrate with each other.  We allow our souls to sing together and as we worship we become more than we were.

I think what has been most wonderful about this group is that each of us came in to the minyan from a different place but that never mattered.  We originally came because we felt we ought to and now we come because we want to.  Some of us had a lot of Jewish knowledge and easily slid into the chants and prayers that are part of the weekday morning service and others of us found it all brand new.  We sit in a circle so we can see everyone who has chosen to attend.  We smile across the circle and feel cared for as smiles are returned.  We chant the morning blessings and realize that every breath we take is a gift.  We sing from the psalms and feel the power of praise.  We welcome the morning light and feel the energy of the sunrise.  All these things permit us to dive more deeply into who we are and what we are doing together.

As we approach Shavuot, the Festival of the Giving of the Torah, I am thinking a lot about our minyan.  The metaphorical decision to receive the Torah at Mount Sinai is inextricably bound up for me in my decision to get up early on a weekday morning to attend the minyan.  I receive the commandments (theoretically) – and I perceive them as a guide to living a life that is holy.  Part of what that demands of me is to give to the needs of the community whenever I am able.  Attending the minyan is one of the things I give.  I think we all need to do that if we can.  The way, the path, the road we travel, is one made up of constant choices.  Each choice, whether it be spiritual or charitable or pragmatic, helps define who we are and our own sense of self.  The key is to find the communities that make us more whole.  There can be several – or there can be a single path.  It doesn’t matter.  But we are a people that grows in community and withers in isolation.

So my wish for you, as you stand at the foot of Mount Sinai, is that a path does appear for you that offers strength, comfort, community and support… as the minyan has done for me. You are welcome to join us.

Still dreaming of peace,

Barbara

© Barbara R. Carr

Early May 2007

Dear friends,

I had an insight this week that began with my wondering why people are so surprised that the black experience in America might give rise to a different kind of church then the one the white experience created.  With few exceptions, the mainline white Protestant churches have served a very different community then the black churches, the ethnic churches and the synagogues, mosques and temples that have flourished in this country as immigrants and indentured servants and slaves all became part of our melting pot.  If the prayer community didn’t speak to the inner longings and experiences of the congregation, the community failed.  This is the core truth of our Constitutional guarantee to practice religion freely.  We get to worship where we want with communities that speak to our particular circumstances.

However, the public face of religion in this country has always been kind of “the Old North Church” that Boston rightly cherishes.  When we envision a universal church it is usually a white clapboard building with a lovely bell tower – stained glass windows – and wooden pews.  We don’t see small adobe Catholic churches in tiny southwestern towns.  We don’t envision Mormon temples (or Buddhist temples for that matter).  We certainly don’t envision mega-churches or shrines.  We are as diverse in our religious practices as a country as we are in most other things.

We also are afraid of what we don’t understand – what feels different and doesn’t resonate with our own experiences.

So why should we be surprised that black churches recall their own unique redemption in this country?  Why, when Jews list their martyrs and their historical pain in our services, do we not see the connection to the black churches that is deep and honest and essential for the true feeling of liberation?  We have to name “the enemy” in order to conquer it.  We have to acknowledge our struggles in order to feel the bliss of relief.  We struggle, as outsiders, with a lack of sensitivity to the absolutely crucial importance of the black church to the country as a whole.  The black church was the leading factor in the twentieth century civil rights struggle.  Without it, we would be a far different and diminished country.

For blacks and for all others who have suffered at the hand of their so-called neighbors, the religious community was a place for dreaming of what might someday come – equality.  If you were part of a mainstream church, that longing wasn’t palpable.  Not only were the mainstream churchgoers equal – to quote George Orwell in Animal Farm – some were more equal than others.  The rest of us, for much of the life of this nation, were really on the outside looking in.

For the first time the reality of a mixed race candidate for president is before us.  He is a very brave man.  His life is being dissected by the media.  His dreams are in many ways our dreams.  He believes we’re better than we have so far demonstrated.  He believes that the dream of Martin Luther King is coming true.  He believes that he can be judged by the content of his character rather than the color of his skin.  That belief was tested harshly as he was forced to realized that mainstream America doesn’t really “get” the black church.  Reverend Wright certainly stretched the envelope with his anger at America but if we step back and look at the history of the black church, if we stop being afraid, then there has to be the beginning of understanding.

As Jews we talk about those who enslaved us and tortured us throughout history.  There is both anger and despair in those histories.  However, remembering is a key part of our longevity.  If we don’t remember the slaves in Egypt… if we don’t remember the martyrs killed by the Romans… if we don’t remember the fight for the right to practice our religion… we don’t know why we’re here.  How do we stand up for tolerance and helping others if we don’t remember how far we’ve come?

For the black churches, arriving at liberation is a much more recent story.  There are people today who had grandparents and great grandparents who were slaves in this country.  The memories are fresh and the anger is also more present.  I remember as a teenager watching television news that allowed me to witness the beatings of civil rights activists.  I remember cities burning.  I remember the ugly faces screaming at little children who just wanted to go to school.  If I remember it – and feel the darkness of those times in my bones – think what it must have been like for black families just a short time ago?

In no way can I speak for the black experience in America.  I don’t have that right.  I can only speak as a religious person who knows that no one who hasn’t walked the walk can really talk the talk.  I am stunned at the furor.  Step back a minute and think about how you would feel if you had a history that made you a non-person, who made  you a piece of property, who denied you basic human rights… and you still lived in the country where all that happened.  In the privacy of your church/place of worship – where you felt safe and with others who thought as you do – you might actually say that the American past has not been kind.  You might actually say that a noose generates an emotional response in you that you can’t talk about (think swastika, folks…).  You might let your hair down and sing “deep in my heart, I  do believe, that we shall overcome someday”…

We have no right to judge others unless we understand what’s really going on…  and my biggest hope is that Senator Obama has not overestimated the quality of our citizens.

Still dreaming of peace,

Barbara

© Barbara R. Carr

Late April 2008

Dear friends,

There are two times a year when we are told, as Jews, to think in advance about an event that is coming at us in the religious year.  Since the instructions are clearly intent on preparation, we become obligated to ask ourselves what it is we are doing to actually prepare.  We are currently in the midst of Counting the Omer, or sheaves of wheat, that tell us daily how long it will be before the festival of Shavuot.  Today, as I write this, is the tenth day of the counting of the Omer.  We will count out “seven weeks of seven days”, each day building up our anticipation of the festival

The second time of year we focus on religious preparation is during the month of Elul – the month preceding Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.  We are much clearer about the Elul requirements.  It is the time for internal reflection and reparations so that we can begin our new year cleansed of the negatives from the bad year.  We chant our collective sins… but it is the private internal dialogue that we know is the real thing.

What does preparing for Shavuot entail?  We find its roots in the nature ceremonies celebrating a good harvest (or asking for a better one…).  In biblical times we were commanded to bring our first fruits to the Temple in Jerusalem and the counting of the Omer began as a way to keep track of time.  We begin the count on the second day of Passover and we end in Jerusalem when the count is done.  However, with the destruction of the Second Temple, Shavuot needed a new focus and the 49 days became the time it took Moses and the Israelites to arrive at Mount Sinai and receive the revelation that was/is Torah.

So if we know that the month of Elul is a time of meditation and inner dialogue – what do we do with counting the Omer and its obvious preparatory time?  I puzzled about this… not researching texts but wondering at the differences required in getting ready for the Day of Atonement and the Day of the Giving of Torah.  I’ve come up with an idea that works for me and I want to share it.  Maybe the next time you hear the prayer for the “counting” you’ll feel differently about it.

The Day of Atonement is solemn and almost frightening.  It is really hard to look inside yourself as the spiritual gates are closing and say, “I’m prepared”.  It is hard to say, “I’ve forgiven myself and others”.  It is hardest of all to say “forgive me”.  Elul prepares us to climb the invisible mountains of guilt and hatred and get to the point of redemption we all seek.

Shavuot, on the other had, is the revelation moment.  We are preparing to receive the gift of Torah which will inform our lives and the lives of all who follow.  There is no end to what Torah teaches.  The gates never close.  The counting of the Omer should almost be a countdown rather than a count up.  We should be so excited about what is to come that we know with certainty that the wilderness we may be in now is only temporary.  We give each other a hand as we stumble so that all can receive the Torah.  We carry the tired child so that the day of Shavuot will happen for all.  We say yes to the gift.  We open the gift.  We add to the gift.  Our spirits should be uplifted.  Most importantly, we are all in this together.  Torah was given to Moses to give to us (metaphorically speaking, of course).  There is no better gift.

My freshman year in college my roommate (and still dear friend) asked if I would mind if she put an Advent calendar on our door.  I was completely oblivious to what an Advent calendar was  but I said it would be fine. (For those of you who are unclear… an Advent calendar is basically a visual reminder of the 25 days from December 1st until Christmas… many are funny and many are beautiful and they are often really creative)  That December was my first experience with the sheer pleasure and focus that counting down to a holiday can be.  Each night we opened up a little door in the calendar and there was always a picture of something cheerful within.  It was truly just a little tweak in the day to help anticipate Christmas. 

So maybe we need an Omer calendar.  I think it would be really cool and I don’t think anyone would mind if we borrowed the idea.  Good ideas that are shared become better ideas.  It would have to be a little different, since there are forty-nine days rather than twenty-five.  We could put all kinds of things behind the little doors.  We could imagine what we were going through as we traveled from Egypt to Sinai.  We could have camels and tents and pictures of the desert sky.  We could have sayings or little prayers to help us get ready to totally change our lives based on this book from the Other.  We could have challenging calendars that maybe rewrite some of the parts of Torah that are no longer relevant in today’s world.  The opportunities are endless.

Think about it… We still have thirty-nine days.

Still dreaming of peace,

Barbara

© Barbara R. Carr

Early April 2008

Dear friends,

Because of the amount of time I’ve spent housebound (and seated) the last six weeks, I’ve been thinking a lot about my past, waxing nostalgic.  I’ve been thinking about people from my coming of age years.  I’ve been playing with childhood memories… wondering if they were real or not… wondering what time and emotional context have done to my truth.  Then I allow an internal smile and remind myself that it doesn’t matter, really.  If my memories have changed over time, there must be a good reason for it… and that is the Truth I need to seek.  (I acknowledge that this doesn’t work if it’s a shared memory and you’re hearing your truth through their memory filters… but that’s a whole different story.)

Interestingly enough, that brings me very comfortably to Passover (or Pesach in the Hebrew).  The entire purpose of Passover is to evoke the shared memory.  The memory of the Israelites redemption from Egypt.  We are given guidelines about this shared memory – but how we get there is unique to each of us.

There are a couple of fixed points in the story we are told to remember.  We (the collective historical memory we) are slaves in Egypt.  Through the actions of a man of uncommon circumstances and the instructions of an all-powerful God image – we are freed from slavery.  There are a lot of details I’m leaving out… such as the punishment delivered upon the Egyptian “civilians” who became collateral damage in the battle of wills.  That’s always been a problem for me.  There’s also the whole Moses in the basket prequel which is truly a scene setter.  But what saves Pesach for me – and I believe for many of us – is the continual reminder to be kind to the stranger since we know how that feels.  We know in the here and now that we are obligated to remember our time of slavery.  This, our most important festival, is a constant reminder of what it was like to be slaves and then what it was like to risk all for freedom.  This holiday is an emotional rollercoaster but it is ethically about as pure as it gets in the Hebrew Bible.  Its potential is universal.

What would it mean to the world if we all were in touch with our humble beginnings?  What would civilization be like if we really understood the joy of actual, physical, proven redemption?  As Americans we have the shared joy of the Fourth of July, which in some ways offers us a secular chance for similar celebration but it lacks spiritual context.  It gives us a way to live within the struggles of the Pilgrims or the Quakers or our own ancestors - who wanted a fresh start and came with open hearts to this country founded on freedom for all.  Fireworks and the 1812 Overture don’t move us in the same way as the Seder, although it might be cool to play the 1812 Overture while doing the after Seder dishes.  There is a blend of purpose in this shared vision though, because freedom is both a dream and a prayer fulfilled.

But Passover is a holy festival.  It is biblically commanded.  There is the presence of “the power that makes for salvation” in every blessing we recite.  God is in every moment of the Passover story.  God had written us off since we had behaved badly and then when we had been punished enough for our misdeeds, we were remembered.  The new pharaoh, we are told, did not remember Joseph – who had been our “get out of jail free” card.  Just at that time, fortuitously, it seems God decided to see how we’re doing.  What is that about?  Is it about one door closing and another opening?  … But again… this tells us that slavery had so flattened us out spiritually that there probably wasn’t a single Israelite slave who could have heard God’s call from the burning bush.  As the Midrash tells us, the bush had been burning for eons but no one, until Moses, the uncommon man, the prince of Egypt, was capable of seeing it.  The door opens…

And then there is pain… the plagues… and then there is freedom… but it is not yet what is to be promised.  None of those leaving Egypt, except for Joshua and Caleb (I think it was Caleb) ever live to enter the Promised Land.  That land required souls that were free and believed in the One God with all their being… because the prophecy of Moses had become real.  Those were the Israelites who entered the land of milk and honey.  They had been purged by not only their own desert trek, but by the memories of those they traveled with… the keepers of the stories… the parents and grandparents.

The Seder, the Haggadah (book that tells the story), and the memories as we look around the table Saturday night, are filled with calls to remember.  We are called to talk of the big T Truth and the little t truth.   We are commanded to know the content of this annual holiday of remembrance.  We are instructed to tell the story so that all can understand it.  All of these things are core to this holiday of freedom.

We recline and remember.  We read and remember.  We share and eat and sing and remember.  The truth of redemption is many faceted but the story of the Passover engages us in diving in to what redemption means for us all.  Let us think about it as we gather together to celebrate the redemption of all from the many kinds of slavery that hold us tight.

Chag Sameach (a good festival).

Still dreaming of peace,

Barbara

© Barbara R. Carr

Late March 2008

Dear friends,

First, I want to thank the many “subscribers” who shared words of support and concern over my klutzy accident.  I still am sitting with a giant cast from my knee to my toes – but the pain is gone except for when I do something stupid – and I have to believe I will be liberated from the cast soon.  Second, I have found this experience to be a lesson in humility, in new insights and a test of my spiritual strength.  That’s what I want to write about today.

As many of you know, almost ten years ago I was diagnosed with a life altering medical condition that inexplicably led me to new levels of spiritual peace and understanding.  Part of it, I’m sure, was discovered in the critical importance of just letting go.  I no longer live in a world where I can do or try anything.  Finding my acceptance of that required a long look within that continues to this day.  My path had altered… veered off in an unexpected direction… but it was the path I had to follow.  It’s been, in a perverse way, wonderful.  I have learned more about my self in the past ten years then in the fifty that preceded them.

This broken bone thing has been totally different.  I have been angry at myself for my clumsiness, for my lack of attention to where I was placing my foot, and for deciding to bring in the trash can which is not normally one of my chores around the house.  I’m angry at not being able to take a shower without help stepping over the two inch edge of the shower stall.  I’m angry that Michael has to help me with so many basic tasks.  I’m really angry that I’m so functionally useless.  This is a hot and quick anger.  It is not the despair that I faced ten years ago.  This is ticked off in a major way.

I wondered what this was about.  I wondered at the difference in reaction when my body let me down.  I have pondered this for almost a month and I think I have an answer.

My ankle and foot will heal.  I will go back to hiking and climbing the stairs quickly and standing in the shower without help.  I know that for a fact.  So I think that’s why I have given myself permission to be angry.  This situation will go away.  I will return to who and what I was before I fell off the curb.  I know that I couldn’t sustain the anger if this were forever – but I can be angry for six to eight weeks.  It even feels a little liberating.

In addition – my physical action caused my broken bones.  This was not an injury that required the eternal “why” and “why not” questions.  I know why.  I was a klutz.  Therefore anger at myself was a perfectly normal reaction to what has gone on.  I can’t be angry about my brain tumor or my seizure disorder… They are not my fault.  But these bones… this cast…every time I clunk around the house I have a focus for my anger.

So where is the spiritual lesson in this?  What is good about this anger? 

All of us have things we carry inside that we need to vent.  All of us evaluate the pros and cons of letting stuff out.  Sometimes things come out that stun us with their unexpected heat.  We don’t know we’re angry until we’re angry.  We say things we don’t mean and do things that are foolish when anger takes over.  Anger is inevitable when we live in the real world but where we focus it, I think, is the key to whether or not it can be helpful or hurtful.

I know that there is absolutely no reason that I should be so angry at myself for my broken ankle and foot.  When it first happened I thought I could just call on my spiritual self to make peace with my circumstances as I have done before.  In hindsight (don’t you just love hindsight?) I’ve realized that I didn’t/couldn’t feel sorry for myself and the alternative feeling for me was anger – since I knew that it would/could go away as soon as the orthopedist discharged me.  I had a safe space and time to blow off steam, to open the vent and take the pressure off a little bit.  I obviously needed that and now am grateful for it.  That has been my spiritual lesson.  The venting has been like a cleansing breath in yoga.  I feel energy returning and my soul is slowly calming and returning to its familiar place within. 

So maybe we all need to open our valves and let some stuff out.  I used to run and sometimes I would find myself running faster than usual when I was stressed or felt the pressure building.  I always felt better afterwards.  Since I can’t run anymore (not just because of my cast) perhaps too much steam has built up.  We don’t have personal pressure gauges to guide us.  We should. 

So the task for us is complicated but I think, essential.  We need to find our personal pressure gauge.  We need to open the valves in our own way when the pressure gets too high.  We need to do it safely – without hurting others but still helping ourselves.  We all need cleansing breaths.

So, I think these bones have taught me well.  I can’t wait to be liberated from my current constraints but I have uncovered an added piece of my spiritual path that I think will serve me well.  I hope my experience will create some new thinking for you too.

Still dreaming of peace,

Barbara

© Barbara R. Carr

Early March 2008

Dear friends,

Please consider this my doctor’s excuse for not communicating with you in my usual way.

I stupidly misjudged a curb cut and ended up with the orthopedist showing me the three bones I had broken in my foot and my ankle.  (o.k. for the curious – two in the distal fibula and one in the fifth metatarsal)

This happened thirteen days ago (not that I’m counting) and I’m in a high tech removable cast from my toes to my knee.  To be honest, I just need a little more time to return to the calm place where I find my ideas.  I wouldn’t want to share what runs through my mind these days…  In the more polite version of how I feel:  What a drag…

My apologies…

Still dreaming of peace in all its manifestations…

Barbara

© Barbara R. Carr

Late February 2008

Dear friends,

I’ve just returned from what is becoming a traditional February trip for us – a visit to the Arizona town of Sedona.  Sedona, for those of you who are unfamiliar with it, is a town in what’s called Red Rock country… a small village surrounded by some of the most powerful (and accessible) rock formations I’ve ever encountered.  When I say powerful and accessible, I mean it on a multitude of levels.  First there is the geological power – the up thrust of rock faces that force you to confront the reality that nature is totally in charge.  Nature kindly takes this potentially frightening awareness and allows us to see the beauty of that power in the fallen rock, the eroded cliffs and the overwhelming red vistas dappled with the intense green of the trees and shrubs that cling to the rock… and so we feel awe-struck but not afraid.

Sedona is a town of old hippies, artists, rich retirees and mystics of all varieties.  There are a lot of places to worship in Sedona – churches, a synagogue, and comfortable rock seats on hikes into the hillsides.  Even within the spectacular art galleries you can be caught unawares by a spiritual “aha” that slows you down so you can just feel the intention of the art – whether it be the depth of a piece of blown glass or the dance of a wind blown outdoor sculpture that looks as if it too is just one more part of the wonder.  Sedona is a worshipful place.  It’s impossible to not catch your breath in some sort of internal  “yes thank you” as you view this gift that Nature has given us.  One of Sedona’s greatest talents is that it is truly non-denominational.  Everyone there finds language of wonder and awe that is shared no matter what your formal religious affiliation (or lack thereof). 

Each time we go to Sedona I expect it to be somehow less impactful.  I know that the colors are different then anyplace else I’ve traveled.  I know that the air is somehow different.  I know that the silence is embracing.  It doesn’t matter.   And yet as I look up at the hills or down into canyons I still feel a sense of amazement as if I’m viewing it/feeling it for the first time…

This is a long way of getting to my point – which is how much we each change – day after day – encounter after encounter – so that at any given time we are different then we were the moment before.  I’ve taught/discussed that point frequently in terms of my own Torah study.  We Jews study the Five Books of Moses week after week and year after year from Genesis I through Deuteronomy 34 and then all over again – no matter that we already know that Isaac is saved from Abraham’s knife.  Intellectually I’d made the Torah leap totally.  My mind changes on a regular basis therefore what I bring to the study of traditional texts is a new approach, hopefully grown more enlightened, so that my experience will be enriched.  Torah is our story and each time I read it, if I make the effort, I do learn something new.  That is a tremendous gift.

So why have I never given the natural world that same acknowledgement?  Why have I never realized that the same new thinking I bring to Torah study each year can be a parallel experience to standing at a trail overlook and seeing with my whole body in a way I don’t understand but know I feel?  On each visit to Sedona I arrive with a new spiritual package.  I am never in the same place spiritually from week to week – why would I possibly think that my soul, for want of a better word, hadn’t changed/grown/shrunk/evolved since my visit last February.  Why should I be surprised at the newness of it?  Why should I not give thanks that I have this place that makes me ponder the wonders of the universe in a new way every year?

This is one of those “well, duh” moments as well as an “aha” moment.  Why shouldn’t all these amazing acts of nature call out for our gratitude?  Why should I not celebrate the new me that arrives in this Arizona majesty with nerve endings ready for whatever may occur?  Why have I not acknowledged that I learn from many sources in new ways each time I expose myself – open myself up to change – listen with new ears and new eyes?

I think we owe ourselves the opportunity to feel the whole experience of gratitude that the natural world brings to us.  We can’t separate the feeding of our souls through words and the feeding of our souls through encounters with physical wonder.  Nature and God are clearly partners in my universe.  They are bound up together in an inexplicable dance that gives us tornados and floods and Yosemite and Sedona.  They teach us constantly that the world is a wondrous place that sometimes is out of our control.  We truly need to just let go and feel whatever is occurring around us. 

I find the letting go is completely tied into opening up.  Once we are open all kinds of exciting things can happen.  Every time I revisit Sedona I will remember the lesson of Torah study.  I will let myself come to it with fresh eyes and an open heart.  I will stop asking why I feel it and just let it be a new experience as the evolving self I bring to the hillsides is once again humble before God’s (and Nature’s) power.

I hope all of you have that kind of place in your lives. 

Still dreaming of peace,

Barbara

© Barbara R. Carr

Early February 2008

Dear friends,

I am in the midst of the most delicious task.  I am having so much fun I want to share it with you.  I have been asked to put together a “Book Lovers” basket for our synagogue’s 25th anniversary fundraising gala.  When I was asked, it was clear the content was supposed to reflect my own taste and choices – no generic “essential for your library” books… but books for people who love the written word, and by extension, the writers who create those words that touch us.  Books worm their way into our emotional selves on an infinite number of levels.  They can do it with intellectual excitement.  They can do it with cadence that turns to song when a poet’s rhythms inspire us.  They can open our hearts.  They can enrich our souls.  They can also make us laugh (and cry).  They can take us to worlds of wonder or just take us out of ourselves and let us feel the joy of relaxing with a “good read.”

So, where do I begin?  First I mentally went through a list of books that touched me spiritually (it is a synagogue fundraiser, after all).  Then I wondered how risky I could be with the content of the basket.  Could I include Christian writers?  I knew Anne Lamott was certainly on the “acceptable” list despite her profound Christianity because she is transcendent in her writing.  How obligated was I to stick to religious and semi-religious categories (i.e. Jewish fiction)?  Then I flashed back to standing in my college bookstore with a small paperback called Are You Running With Me, Jesus? - written by the Episcopal priest, Malcolm Boyd.  For the first time I found myself reading contemporary prayer language that swept me away.  It didn’t matter that Boyd was a priest – what mattered was the epiphany, the instant when I realized it was possible to pray in the vernacular – in language that worked for me.  All of a sudden the idea that I could step outside the rubric when I needed to pray – that there were words I could find within myself as well as within the writings of others… liberated me in a profound way. I never looked back.  From that moment on I knew the search had begun.  I needed to find ways for me to be authentically Jewish as I chose to define it.   How could I possibly not include that book?  Yet it is profoundly Christian and might be inaccessible for some readers.  But these are all delightful conundrums – teasing me – telling me I’d better put my own limits on this basket.  How to limit?  How to choose? 

I decided that I was going to do whatever I wanted (that’s because I’m a grown up and I can) and I would start by just walking around our house and looking at what was on our shelves.  This is a bigger task than you might think because every room in our house (except the kitchen and the dining room) is stuffed with books.  We even have a wall of bookcases in our garage.  We also cull our books on a fairly regular basis, but I still get a crick in my neck from reading the new books, which lie sideways on top of the old books – waiting for their chance to slide into a more permanent home.  We do have a system, sort of, so you can  head in the direction you need to when looking for something specific.  I headed first for classic fiction – then to history – then to religion – and then to poetry.  I felt pretentious, to tell the truth, so I stopped off at humor for a while to calm myself down.

To quote the great Pogo cartoon written by Walt Kelly, “we are confronted with insurmountable opportunities”.  I don’t mean the royal we… it’s just the quote.  I still can’t decide in which direction to head.  There are books that changed my life, but might not change yours.  I adore poetry and have stumbled across some poets who really move me.  Is that an experience that just reflects who I am or do they transcend?  I love George Carlin’s way of using language and the fun he has just playing with words.  However his use of the vernacular can be off putting for some.  As my longtime readers know, I love Rami Shapiro, Lawrence Kushner and Abraham Joshua Heschel – but they don’t work for everyone.  Marge Piercy’s poetry and Martin Buber’s prose are just right – some of the time.  On the Christian/philosophical side, Thomas Merton’s autobiography, The Seven Story Mountain is another book that left me changed forever.  As you can see, diversity is my downfall.  I am faced with “insurmountable opportunities.”

So I leave you with a challenge…  Pick five books that turned you around – if not forever, at least for a period of time.  Look at the books you have saved and ask yourself why?  Revisit your books as you would revisit your life.  In many ways they disclose an awful lot about peak times in your lives.  I still have my copy of Woodstock Nation by Abbie Hoffman.  I saved it not for its literary value but for its cultural importance to me.  It sits in the garage with Greek plays and Agatha Christie (we’re not that organized).  These books are all pieces of our story and someday I may reread them all.  Newsweek has a regular feature interviewing famous people about their important books.  The saddest question is what book, upon rereading, is a disappointment.  I don’t think any book, that you cherished at one time, should be put in that category.  As with reading Torah year after year, we come to our old books with new eyes but that doesn’t diminish the power of the first time – the first insight – the change that someone’s words can generate within.

I hope this dilemma of mine will generate some great discussions in your homes, havurot, or just within.  Books are so important to our own self-definition.  They are our teachers, our guides, our companions and our prods to become more.  Have as much fun as I’m having…

Still dreaming of peace,

Barbara

© Barbara R. Carr

Late January 2008

Dear friends,

It’s too early to start writing specifically about politics so instead, I’m going to write about true believers.  True believers cover the map.  There are true believers that make our skin crawl (witness the neo-nazi movement) and true believers who make us feel enlightened and enriched (the dalai lama – the volunteers at homeless shelters – anyone who puts their ego aside to make the world a better place).  There are also true believers who, from our personal perspectives, may be wrong but do what they do with the best of intentions.  These, of course, are the most troublesome to us because we know we are supposed to honor our differences, but they are just so darn wrong we don’t know what to do about it, or about our feelings.

A number of years ago when our sons were still teenagers, we came home one day to discover that two young Mormon missionaries had been invited in by our boys to talk about their faith.  Our oldest son had asked them for a copy of the Book of Mormon because he was curious about the young men and the faith that drove them to our door.  Both of our sons were really impressed by these young Mormons.  They were true believers who had dedicated two years of their lives to help bring others to their place of personal peace and comfort.  They had left behind family and friends because their church asked them to do so.  It was imbedded in their culture and they had no regrets despite the number of doors that were slammed in their faces and the number of people who rejected not only their beliefs but also the young men themselves.

I will admit that my first reaction was not one I would wish to repeat.  I reacted with disbelief and a little fear.  Missionaries, from a Jewish perspective, are always dangerous because their goal is ultimately conversion.  Having been raised in a faith that doesn’t proselytize – in fact wants it to be hard for others to convert – makes any missionary a “them” – not part of the world I understand.  So I was dismayed that our sons not only let them in but also were impressed by the commitment they had witnessed.  Neither of our sons converted to Mormonism but it made me start to think a lot about what true belief might feel like.

I would like to be a true believer sometimes.  I would like with absolute certainty to know the path I’m on is the right one.  However, I grew up appreciating that the people Israel translates into the people who wrestle with God.  I find myself almost gleeful that Abraham stood up to God before the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah.  Of course, God’s plan was carried out, but not without some reconsideration.  I love the story of Samuel arguing with God that if the people chose a king things would not go well for them.  God agrees with Samuel in theory but tells him that basically he had to let go and have the people figure things out for themselves.   (a great lesson for parents of teenagers)  The brief glory of the kings of Israel slowly disintegrated and the people learned they were not destined to be a nation like others, but had to carry their faith with them all over the world.  Even more, I love the frustration of the prophets.  They were/are nags.  That’s their job.  They constantly remind us that we have wandered away from the path of godliness and we have to get our acts together.  Their threats are devastating.  We see the results of failing to heed the godly path every day.

Judaism (at least my understanding of it) does not offer me the comfort of absolutes.  It demands a continued search.  I am a God-wrestler and probably will be one for the rest of my life.  This allows me moments of peace but not a life that is without questioning and searching and self-examination.  I have a lot of “why” moments in my life.  I wonder at the hatred that can spew out of some sources – whether it is an individual, a movement or a nation.  I wonder at the lack of self-examination in so many people.  I wonder at the pain people can cause by acting thoughtlessly – not with intention to inflict pain but with lack of awareness.  Life is, and I believe should be, a process of asking questions, whether or not the answers appear.

I know that some Jews are true believers.  I don’t understand how they are and when I ask about it I rarely get a satisfactory response.  To me, my faith path almost demands that I not believe that I have all the answers.  I also know that many people of different faiths share my dilemma.  They don’t understand how ungodly acts can be performed in the “Name of God”.   They reject the concept and stand with me in the belief that no God concept could embrace death and destruction of innocent people.  The negotiation for Sodom failed because ten good souls could not be found – that is not the case in Kenya or Iraq or the streets of San Diego.  There are always ten good souls.

So to be a true believer is a dream for me.  There are some absolutes that I do believe.  I believe that love, whether it is for a partner, a child, or a friend, is a gift that the soul helps to create.  I believe that if given the chance (i.e. a full belly, a roof over your head and clothes on your back) most people want to be good.  I believe that inspiration is a gift that is undeniable and yet impossible to replicate scientifically.  I believe that humankind has a future.  However, I also know that my beliefs constantly change and I want to always keep my soul open to that change.

I’m now glad that my sons welcomed those Mormon missionaries into our home.  I’m glad that they had the intellectual and spiritual curiosity that demonstrated.  I’m also glad that neither one is a true believer but they are true learners.  That’s what I am too, I guess.  I believe in that as well.

Still dreaming of peace,

Barbara

© Barbara R. Carr

Early January 2008

Dear friends,

This past weekend I participated in a Western Regional Conference of the Reconstructionist movement.  I facilitated a discussion on the future of American Judaism in the 21st century.  I discovered, as I spent way too much time researching the topic (a flaw of mine, I confess) that there were a number of ideas/facts/realities that needed to be put out on the table because the American Jewish experience is a unique one.  I’ve felt that way for years but until I prepared for this presentation, there was always hesitancy.  Whenever I would broach the subject – the idea that an assimilated Jewish population in this country had to find new ways of “being Jewish” – I would be braced by those who felt the need to remind me that the assimilated Jews of Germany in the 1930’s felt the same way.  After my session on Sunday, I heard the question again… not from someone who wanted to disagree with me, but from someone who sincerely wanted to know how I would respond to that position.  Suddenly, the answer became clear to me and I think it was my research and the energy of the workshop that helped me find it. 

America is the only country created to be a melting pot.  It is the only country founded on principles of religious freedom.  It is the only country that confronts its own prejudices and struggles to fix them.  Unlike most other countries in the world, a homogeneous culture is not the norm.  The American way is a multifaceted way.  Even when we fail, we know being welcoming is how we ought to be.  Thanks to that question and the enthusiasm that my group brought to the discussion, I feel even more strongly that the American Jewish experience is unique and that the time must come when our rituals and practices will change to address that reality.  I certainly don’t mean all of our practices – but I do mean a lot of them.

We are blessed as Jews to live in America.  However, as time has passed since the first Jew arrived in this country in 1654, American Judaism has struggled to maintain its separate identity while being good citizens of this country.  Unfortunately, Judaism has too often grown and strengthened when most oppressed by “them” – whoever they may be.  Whether it was home grown anti-Semitism or oppression of our fellow Jews in other countries, we seemed at our most unified when under attack. This attitude is changing dramatically as Jews become assimilated into American culture – whether it is through intermarriage, secular education, or simply the growing realization among “them” that we aren’t that different.  As American attitudes about race and religion become more tolerant, it is harder to maintain an attitude of isolationism.  It is harder to justify inmarriage for the religion’s sake.  It is harder to justify supporting Jewish organizations to the exclusion of American organizations.

I now believe that American Judaism has been struggling since it put down roots in this country to differentiate itself from western European and Middle Eastern Judaism. We know that some of what goes on in our synagogues is no longer relevant in the way it once was.  Mordecai Kaplan’s life was a continuing challenge to make sense of the Americanization of Judaism.  As Reconstructionists, we’ve done better than most movements with blending the values of America with the values of Judaism, but we too haven’t gotten it completely right.  If we had, we would be growing at a much faster rate. 

Our responsibility to sustain Judaism is challenged by our complete immersion in the modern America world.  We are now counting as Jews anyone who steps up to the plate.  On the one hand, that is remarkably American in attitude, but it wreaks havoc with those who seek a litmus test for various honors and roles in our synagogue communities.  We are exposed to other religions and we wonder about them.  Why aren’t we praying in our common language, which is English?  Why aren’t we singing in melodies that aren’t dissonant to our westernized ears?  How many of us would be moved more spiritually if our prayers made actual sense to us rather than dumping them off as a mantra that touches our historical memory?

American Judaism in the 21st century cannot, in fact must not, assume it can always stand with Jews around the world, since, in reality as well as metaphorically, we no longer speak the same language…. Our religious compatriots, who may be fluent in Hebrew, or raised in a different cultural milieu, are not always the best role models for American Jews.  Shared history and language doesn’t make a religion, it makes a people or a race.  Isn’t it better to acknowledge that Judaism has always drawn from its surrounding cultures and the principles of democracy, free speech, freedom to worship as one chooses, are all core American beliefs that we have also made part of our religious lives.  These are not necessarily values shared by all other Jews throughout the world.

We are far more Western than Middle Eastern.  Our appreciation of Socrates and Locke stand with our honoring Maimonides and Spinoza.  We are Americans and as each generation passes we become more so.  We ignore that reality to our peril.  It is a very good thing to be an American (even when in her name things happen that we disapprove of – that’s what elections are for).  For me, being Jewish is also a very good thing (even when I disapprove of things done by Israel or “the organized Jewish community”).  Together, the values of American culture and Jewish teachings inform my life and enrich it.  They are inseparable.  They make us unique.

When I left the conference (with a few new members added to our list) I felt optimistic and energized.  I don’t think we solved anything but we opened some new doors and frankly, that’s how change happens in America. 

Still dreaming of peace,

Barbara

© Barbara R. Carr

Late December 2007

Dear friends,

So the secular year is drawing to a close.  This is the week of “the best of…” lists.  It’s also the week when some of us start working on New Year’s resolutions.  It’s a week for reflection on our secular selves.  The heavy commercialism of the winter holiday season has given way to clearance sales and most folks are a little tired of it all.  Some of it may have to do with the fact that Christmas and Channukah decorations appeared in stores right around Halloween – forcing us into holiday mode earlier than usual.  Some of it may have to do with a sense of having been engaged in some sort of obligatory gift giving and receiving that often becomes desperate as we realize that nothing we see should be purchased for anyone we know.  It’s a tough time of year.

So today as I write this I’m ready for a few resolutions and I hope you are too.  It’s time to let go of the holidays and their stress and think positively.  With that in mind, I want to share my “Top Ten New Year’s Resolutions” with you and I hope you will try to come up with your own as well.  This isn’t a list about losing weight or spending less money at Starbucks.  This is a personal list of semi-secular things that I want to address in the year ahead.  During Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur we atone for things we’ve done wrong and commit to not repeating those sins.  On the secular New Year we should focus a little more on what we can do that is right – not necessarily because we have failed at it before – but because we just haven’t taken the time or the energy to focus in a constructive direction.

My list is a personal one but I’m sharing it in the hope that it may trigger a list in you as well.  Feel free to borrow any of mine that work for you, but I know that each of us have our own promises to make and to keep.

With that said, here’s my list for 2008:

Resolution #1:  As we did this year, we will continue to spend more money on charitable giving then on gifts of things that do not improve the earth.  We bought a number of acres of rain forest through the Nature Conservancy as gifts and maybe that helped to offset some of the trash we’ve added to the landfills with our wrapped presents.  It’s a start.

Resolution #2:  I will focus more on the meanings of the holidays that spin past me and try to relieve the “ought to” pressures that come from outside.  If this means starting to think about how I’m actually going to do that as early as next month, I will do so.  I also will try and find internal spiritual support for these “events” as they sneak up on me.

Resolution #3:  This will be the year that my biggest gift will be to the earth we live on.  I will do my best to reduce my personal carbon footprint and encourage others to do so as well.  I will learn more about how to do that and also figure out how I can keep remembering this obligation.

Resolution #4:  I will work on better understanding my responsibilities to the world; to those I care about and to myself.  They are too easy to forget.

Resolution #5:  I will sing more.

Resolution #6:  I will share more of my time with others – the urge to hibernate is strong in me and I need to fight it.

Resolution #7:  I will write for pleasure – not just these letters – but poetry and fiction and anything that crosses my mind.

Resolution #8:  I will find new strengths.  Illness has made me redefine myself and I’m still searching.

Resolution #9:  I will laugh more.

Resolution #10:  I will say “I love you,” “I care about you,”  “You matter.”  “You make a difference.”  “You are important,”  “You can do it,”  “You are my friend,” and “Thank you,” much more often.

I wish for you all a joyous and safe New Year and a world that can find its soul.

Still dreaming of peace,

Barbara

© Barbara R. Carr

Early December 2007

Dear friends,

I may have addressed this before, but I think it’s a good enough topic to revisit.  Much as we read Torah again and again, learning its nuance and putting our own life experience into our interpretations, we can also readdress other ideas of significance.  Who we are today is different inevitably then who we were yesterday.  Not only is this true physically, it is even truer intellectually and emotionally.  Every encounter we have, every book we read, every moment we spend living in the world informs who we are.

With that in mind I want us to play with the concept that Rabbi Goldie Milgram calls our “personal minyan”.  She talks about the gathering of ten people who fulfill our personal sense of a holy community.  As most of you know, a minyan was traditionally ten Jewish men, and they were required for the saying of certain ritual prayers and activities.  In progressive Jewish communities, the ten Jews that count towards a minyan may be men and/or women over the age of thirteen – our age of moral and ethical responsibility.

Last night I was reading a book by Anne Lamott, a woman of profound spirituality and a grace in writing that is truly, from my perspective, a holy gift.  She writes with a personal awareness of the spirit within her that is both deep and accessible.  As I put the book down I knew I wanted to have the opportunity to talk God with her and worship with her and I also knew that probably would never happen.  The regret I felt wasn’t overwhelming, but I was left with a “what if I could?” kind of feeling.  Now Lamott is a Christian – but that wasn’t the obstacle for me.  Our common ground spiritually is larger then the common ground I feel with some Jews.  The obstacle is the reality that she’s a famous writer and lives her own fulfilling life and is probably overwhelmed with people wanting a “piece” of her spiritual power.

This then led me to football.  Football?  Yes… fantasy football… which as I understand it is the opportunity to create your own team out of existing players and see how you/they do as the season goes on.  I decided that Anne Lamott would be part of my fantasy minyan.  I want you to think about yours.

This minyan would consist of the ten people we want to support us on our spiritual quest. This isn’t about whom we want to learn from (although that could be a part of it) or who we want to meet… these are people who, when we think about them, their character, their spiritual support and understanding, we know would enrich our search for meaning.  We want these people with us as companions in our most profound conversations.  We want these people to be part of the discovery of our purest selves.  We want to feel their energy and give energy back.  We want the sense of power that only happens when a group chooses to let that power out into the world. 

Your minyan (and mine) could be made up of people we know as well as people we wish we knew.  A musician who made your heart swell, a guest at a party who kept you enraptured with the way their mind worked, a rabbi, an imam, a priest – all can count.  This is our fantasy minyan, remember.  However, there is one rule. The people we choose need to be realistic (i.e. alive), even if it is a fantasy.  This is my game, so I get to set the rules.  The minyan we choose needs to be, on a cosmic level, actually available to us.  We are searching in the present so their reality has to be as current as ours.  We need a common ground.

Once you have created your fantasy minyan, take a look at your list.  Who are these people and why did you pick them?   What parts of you do they feed?  What do they say about your spiritual search?  Do they challenge you?  Do they nurture you?  Do you think they will make your search easier or harder? 

Obviously who we pick is part of our own journey to self-discovery.  Surrounding ourselves with “holy souls” is a way to find out how we define that concept.  Do we look for activists?  Do we find our current friends the best route to spiritual growth?  Are we including our family members?  Are we choosing people who are already committed to a path or people who are searchers, too?  Who will make our spiritual lives honest?  Who will share this experience with us and make our lives more godly?  Who will have our backs?  Who will make our hearts swell?

In this dark time of year as we struggle with the overwhelming commercialism that surrounds us, I think we need to take a deep breath, close our eyes, and sit in silent prayer with our fantasy minyan.  There is much to be thankful for and much that we wish to change.  Deciding who we want to have on our “team” is a way to refocus our energy and think more deeply about who we really are and where we want to go.

Still dreaming of peace,

Barbara

© Barbara R. Carr

November 2007

Dear friends,

I’m only going to be writing one letter for November. We’re going out of town the day after Thanksgiving and I’m cutting myself a little slack. That’s actually been one of the hardest parts of adjusting to my changing health circumstances — learning to let go. This brings me to a powerful saying in a wonderful small book called Buddha’s Little Instruction Book by Jack Kornfield. It’s a book full of Buddhist thoughts, one to a page, which hit you with their wisdom and then, if you’re open to it, let you drift off into the introspective state the author clearly intended. My sister sent me the book while I was working very hard on how to approach chronic illness a number of years ago, and I return to it again and again.

The particular saying that I’m trying to focus on right now is as follows:

In the end these things matter most: How well did you love? How fully did you live? How deeply did you learn to let go?

The first two questions don’t require a lot of internal interpretation. We have a basic knowledge of what love is about, although it’s impossible to master all its nuances. We understand, though, that love is not just about finding a partner who makes the earth stand still for you. (Remember that fantasy from early adolescence?) Love is about life partners, family, friends, community and the world at large. Love is about —in sickness and in health—whether or not that commitment came in a ritualized ceremony or is part of your understanding of friendship. Love is about nurturance, support, guidance and cheerleading. Love is about care taking. We know what it feels like and we know when it gets tested. We also can look inside each of those relationships and give ourselves a pat on the back or a sigh of regret. How well we love is critical to the quality of our lives because if we do it well, we live without a sense of remorse.

The second question about living fully is also accessible. We know what it feels like to stretch ourselves and find new understanding about being in the world. Living fully means to me being totally present and open to opportunities that are spiritual, physical and intellectual. Eyes open, heart open and soul open, we know the feeling of being caught up in a sense of total absorption. There are so many examples of this. We can be sitting on a mountaintop listening to the wind and feeling the sunlight and watching birds soar below us and time stands still. We can be listening to a teacher share a new idea and our brains just want to explode with the intellectual energy that comes bursting forth. Time stands still. We can be praying, tasting, dancing, singing, laughing — and time stands still. Living fully is being totally present and having no sense of past or future. We just are the moment. I know these moments — cherish these moments — and know that there are more of them if I can let them happen. It is in our hands.

How deeply we learn to let go is the hard one for me. There is the classic —sending off the children— but that’s not the challenge, really. We know we’re supposed to do that. Letting go of self-image, letting go of pride, letting go of relationships that are toxic or obligations that are sapping our strength — those are a struggle. I actually think that my illness has given me a leg up on this process. I have had to let go of a lot of “doing” in the years I’ve been adjusting to my changed life circumstances. I have had the opportunity to assess the importance of different things that once had great value to me but can no longer be part of my life. By being forced to let go, I have had to think about this more than most folks. I think we too often hang on because we don’t know how to let go. We get caught up in a pattern of doing that we can’t really justify but just keep doing because it’s what we always did. Letting go of things that are not necessary to our lives clears the clutter. We get a chance to see what is critical to our spiritual/emotional selves when the chaos of “too much” starts to overwhelm. We too rarely do a personal assessment of where we are in the moment and what we need to keep us loving and living fully. Too often we just keep piling things on our plate without removing things that are no longer appealing or helpful. We’re afraid of the unknown. We’re afraid of consequences. We don’t take the time to look at what baggage we’re carrying around but never use. Letting go is a liberation that gives us the gift of making room for something else that matters now.

So as Thanksgiving approaches perhaps we can use some of these teachings as we gather together as families and as friends. As we look around our tables, think about the depth and quality of the love you feel for those who are with you. Let the feelings embrace you. Let your hearts overflow. At the same time, allow yourself to be totally in the moment. Smell the fragrance of the day. Feel the energy of a holiday without any obligations other than gratitude. Sing together. Open the windows and let nature join you at the table. Be aware that this moment is a special one. Let go of your expectations as well. Don’t worry if the cake doesn’t rise or the gravy has lumps— they were all made with love and care.

Let your soul count its blessings. As Jack Kornfield also says: “Those who are awake live in a state of constant amazement.” There’s nothing better than that!

I’ll be back in your mailboxes in December. May your holidays be a joy not a burden as we work on loving fully, living fully and letting go of what drags us down.

Still dreaming of peace,

Barbara

© Barbara R. Carr

Late October 2007

Dear friends,

I wasn't going to write about the fires. When we were evacuated by the wildfires of 2003 I wrote about the sense of helplessness we all felt in the face of nature's power. Today as I write, I feel very different. Part of the reason, of course, is that we weren't personally in the path of these fires. Despite the dense smoke and the non-stop news coverage and the shared grief I felt for friends not as fortunate as we were, I was able to step back a bit and let myself reflect on what was happening. Today I share some of those reflections with you because I realize I can't write about anything else.

Humans too often suffer from hubris. This is especially true for those of us who live in America and are certain that when we flip a light switch, there will be power and when we turn on a tap, water will flow. We fill our houses with lovely things that matter to us, because the basic needs of a roof over our heads and food in the refrigerator are met. Even those who are considered disadvantaged in our country have more then many people living in other parts of the world. Then, when we are comfortably sitting around drinking coffee and enjoying a peaceful Sunday morning - our world changes and we are brought low. We pay the price for our hubris - our sense that life is always going to be good. Our reactions vary. Some are angry, some are afraid, but all of us feel the adrenaline surge that says, I have to do something, I have to protect myself, I have to save what I have. Some of us also have the grace to save others.

The people of San Diego County have suffered enormous losses - lives are changed forever by natural disasters, even if the losses are not in real property but only in the sense of how fragile our security really is. And yet, as the fires are slowly contained and the power and water is turned back on, there are gifts to be found in the inferno that surrounded us. These gifts are found in the emotional and spiritual experiences we all shared no matter who we are and what we believe. The common cause, the protection of our population, transcended everything. Transcendence is a religious word that truly has its place in what took place this last week. All else was put aside for the common good. That is a rare and powerful thing to witness.

We know we live in a fire prone area. We know the Santa Ana winds blow strong in the fall when our trees, grasses and other "fuels" are at their most dry. We learned from the wildfires of 2003 and we saw those lessons in action four years later. There was much to be grateful for this time around. Yet there is no discounting the tragedy of lives lost. There is no ignoring the endless pain of losing a home that has been the hub of a family history. Animals have lost their habitat and children have lost their pets. We are confronted once again with deciding what really matters to us. We wander around our homes (if we still have them) and list the things that we would feel grief stricken to lose. We list them so we won't forget to pack them "next time." We are given advice as to what to take (insurance policies, titles to cars, bank books and ATM cards, photos of our property to prove what we lost?and of course, family pictures.). We are told to leave behind anything that can be replaced with money. We realize we have way too many things we care about. We wonder if that is a good or bad thing.

This is a powerful time of self-reflection. This is a time to remind ourselves that nature is in control and we live on her earth at her invitation. This is a time to think about what really counts. This is a time to remember to live truly in the moment because the next moment may not be what we expect it to be.

Buddhist monks teach us that a bowl is the only property one really needs. Few of us are prepared for a life that basic, but the real gift of our inferno is a chance to reassess what we do need. We have a chance to look at our excess and play the mental game of "do I really need that?" I'm not suggesting that we divest ourselves of our stuff. I like our glass collection a lot but I know in a fire it will all turn into molten lumps of color because I won't be taking it with me. That's the lesson these fires teach me. They teach me what I can leave behind because it isn't necessary.

In some ways, knowing what we can leave behind is even more important than the list of what we must take with us. What we leave behind is the cake, not the bread (to borrow an image from Marie Antoinette). What we leave behind is our excess and every once in a while it's important to pay attention to what that is. This is the time to really take an inventory of what objects define us and enrich our lives and what objects are in our homes merely because we were able to put them there. Once we know that we become more in touch with our essence, more in touch with our self-definition, and definitely more in touch with what matters.

These fires have wreaked havoc but they also teach. Nature really does take care of herself, and we small and recent inhabitants of her earth have to find out how to live with her and learn from her. It's humbling to know we are not in charge of everything. It's a good thing to know, too.

For those of you who are still suffering from our fires, I pray that you find the strength and support you need to get through this. For those of you who have escaped this time I hope you have found some food for thought.

Still dreaming of peace,

Barbara

© Barbara R. Carr

Early October 2007

Dear friends,

I’m in the middle of teaching a four-part course for teenagers on God and prayer – learning about who God is for us and what this praying thing is about.   The teenagers are all from my synagogue and are volunteers in our religious school so they “identify” strongly as Jews and mostly sit on the progressive side of the Jewish spectrum.  This means, generally speaking, that they believe its all right to not believe but they can actively engage in the ideas of God and prayer.  Some of the students have more traditionalist ideas of God than others but the tolerance they demonstrate is wonderful.  I wish I were videotaping the classes so that members of various movements could see how much growth comes when compassion for those who believe differently is in play.

We began the class with a great discussion on personal attributes of our own (i.e. singer, friend, American, student), traditional God attributes (redeemer, judge, protector) and then God attributes that might make sense to them even if they aren’t traditional ones.  From there we’ve moved into more difficult arenas such as the evolution of the God idea from God the creator in Genesis to the prophetic God who is heard by only a few and then those few become the interpreters of God’s word.  Difficult stuff but this group is not afraid to dig in.

The last two classes will focus more on God’s role in prayer.  What do we pray for and what are our expectations when we pray?  Already I know that these concepts will find more resistance.  For some of these students, life has already dealt them enough blows that the idea of help coming from some unknown entity is irrational.  For other students, praying in Hebrew mean nothing to them since they don’t understand the language, but they like the sounds and the melodies.  For others, prayer is a regular part of their lives and they understand enough about the various prayers in services that they “work” for them on some primal level.  For them, that’s enough.  For still others, a personal God and personal prayer is where they want to go but aren’t sure they should because it doesn’t seem “Jewish” to them.  They already are disconnected from Judaism as a faith based religion and have bought the argument that “belonging” to the Jewish community meets all their religious needs.

So I’m now halfway through the class and I am struggling with where I actually want to take these young people.  (Some of them read this letter so I’m doing my best to be honest here.)  I have found such enormous comfort in my own God idea that I want to share that gift with them but I know they are each in a unique spiritual place and must find their own path, as I did.  When I was a teenager my God vision was very different from my current one, and so I wonder how many of the same paths I explored need to be tried by them.  I wonder how many missteps must be taken before the path that works can be found?  Do you have to reject, study, experiment and then find the path to your own God idea?  Does anyone truly know from day one the God idea that works for him or her?

These are bright, curious and serious students who have decided they want to explore these hard questions with me.  I’m also learning a tremendous amount.  I’m finding myself drifting backwards in my memories to my existentialist period… my traditionalist period… my “it’s all about me” stage… and finally my aggressive pursuit of my current stands on God, the universe and everything… which means I can’t stop reading, poking, questioning and becoming.  I wonder if I’m asking too much of these students and then I realize that if I had had a chance to talk about this stuff, in a safe and welcoming environment, I may have grown into my spiritual self a little earlier.  That would have been a wonderful thing.

One of the things I have learned from both students and adults is that you can’t become creative in your spiritual pursuit until you feel empowered.  You can’t create a service, write a prayer or just have a conversation with the still small voice within or the amazing creator without until you feel comfortable in your own religious skin.  You need to know its okay to do alternative prayers as well as traditional ones – that tradition, as we Reconstructionists say, has a vote not a veto.  We need to know what’s gone before so that we can build from our history without feeling smothered by it.

The world these young people live in is totally different then when I was a teenager.  These students are totally assimilated into American culture.  Many of their parents are intermarried or non-practicing.  The Jewish culture that insulated so many young Jews in the 50’s and 60’s no longer exists for these teens.  The idea of “restricted” neighborhoods or social organizations that wouldn’t have Jews living next door or swimming in their private pools is totally foreign to them.  They know about anti-Semitism but it is not part of their inner sense of self.  They feel open and welcomed in American life – and for the most part they are.

So for these students, being Jewish is a choice that is not forced upon them by their bloodlines.  For these students the pursuit of the God idea and how it relates to their Judaism is a serious question.  These are not young people who accept the word of “authority” just because it’s “authority”.  Even those who don’t believe in God know that it might be a nice idea to do so if they could figure out an intellectually honest way to do it   As authority figures, whether we are teachers, parents or friends, we have to accept the responsibility to find our own answers to these same questions – because our young people demand honesty from us above all.

This class has been a gift to me because it has forced me, in four short classes, to dig in to the real core of the God question as it relates to both prayer and religion itself.  It has brought me back once again to my dissonance with traditional Judaism where just being born of a Jewish mother is sufficient to give you all the rights and privileges of being a Jew.  It has made me aware once again that for me to be a Jew there is a requirement of belief and faith.  That is not the case for all Jews – but it’s the only way, for me, that the rest of it makes sense.  My path requires a God concept.  My prayers in shul require a receptor.  My personal spiritual life requires a belief that there is something working in the world that is beyond my comprehension but guides me on the path to holiness, as I interpret it. 

I will challenge these students but that’s really all I can do.  Where they go with their own search is totally up to them.  There is no grading in a class like this because there are no absolute answers, only powerful questions.  I hope they all remember that… and I hope you do too.

Still dreaming of peace,

Barbara

© Barbara R. Carr

Late September 2007

Dear Friends,

On Yom Kippur afternoon I delivered a talk on the Book of Jonah, the selection from the Prophets chosen by our ancestors to be the last biblical reading for our most holy day.  A number of you who were at our synagogue that afternoon asked for a copy of my talk.  I decided to share it with all of you in the hope that my particular viewpoint on this complex story might trigger some new thinking on your part.  So below you will find the text of my talk.  Please understand it was written to be spoken aloud… so imagine a voice other than your own telling you that a new approach to an old story sometimes makes an enormous difference.

Still dreaming of peace,

Barbara

The Book of Jonah – an interpretation

I’ll state my prejudice up front.  I’ve never much liked the Book of Jonah.  This presented a challenge when the Rabbi asked me to speak briefly on this story.  Usually I can find something redemptive in a biblical selection that makes me sit up and take notice.  This isn’t the case with the figure of Jonah. The only thing that demonstrates a positive character trait in this reluctant prophet is the moment when he tells his shipmates to throw him overboard in order to save themselves.  Jonah is a whiner.  Jonah rejects his call.  Jonah is not someone we can point to as a role model.  The worst of it, for me, is that we never see his honest spiritual redemption.  Most of the other kvetchers in the Bible have at least a moment that makes up for their shortcomings.  With Jonah, that never happens.  However, with study, I have found my “aha” moment.  I share it with you in the hope that you can also find redemptive power in this story.

So how do we go about interpreting this book in a spiritually meaningful way if we just keep wondering why Jonah has been given such a significant place in our liturgical lives?  Here we are, approaching the final moments of these Days of Awe and we are asked to pay attention to a story about a reluctant prophet who did everything he could to avoid God’s call.  Why do we read a story about prophecy directed at the decadent and violent non-Jews of Nineveh on this uniquely Jewish holy day?  Why is this Hebrew prophet sent out to preach to the non-believers?  We all know that Jews have never proselytized, never tried to convince others that ours is the only path to God.  Why does this uncomfortable story come now, as our hunger grows and the metaphorical gates of redemption are closing?

Today we are charged with completing our teshuvah, our turning towards our individual God idea and purifying our hearts to be ready to aim towards holiness.  We must dig into this childhood tale of Jonah and the whale (a big fish, actually) and find adult meaning.  We must re-examine what we recall and place it in the context of Yom Kippur.  There is no escape from confronting this story, as there was no escape for Jonah.  We do remember the big fish and we vaguely remember that Jonah is running away from God.  We know the expression, “to be a Jonah”, which has been a synonym for someone who brings bad luck.  We may even remember the big storm and Jonah being tossed overboard.  The outline of the story isn’t enough, though.  There is always intent in our holy day readings.  The Book of Jonah was not selected randomly for this moment in our great white fast.  What is it telling us to think about and to feel?  Where is it directing our thoughts?

For me the spiritual center of this story is the storm and its aftermath.  Encapsulated in a few verses is the purifying truth of the message for us.  Jonah sleeps through the storm until the sailors awaken him.  He is completely removed from the natural disaster raging around him.  He is untouched and disconnected.  He is on his way to Spain and that’s all that matters to him.  It is his shipmates who realize something beyond their understanding is going on.  They demand that he tell them who he is, where he is from and why he has brought such misfortune to them.  Who is he?  What is his business?  These are the same questions we need to answer on these Holy Days.

But Jonah is still not ready to answer those questions with truth.  His solution is to sacrifice himself, once it becomes clear he is the cause of the storm.  He isn’t brave enough to jump overboard without help, though.  The sailors hesitate.  These sailors who are not Hebrews, who do not know the One God, look desperately to both their own gods and to Jonah’s for an alternative to what they see as murder.  There is no other solution to find and they ultimately agree to toss Jonah overboard and the storm eases.

Here is where the real struggle begins for Jonah and for us.  The decision to reject God’s call was not difficult for him.  And yet once inside the big fish, he knows the only way to save himself is with God’s help.  This should be Jonah’s redemptive moment, if this story followed a normal pattern.  How could it get any worse then it already has for this prophet?  He’s seen God’s power at its most awesome.  He has also seen God’s compassion for the sailors, who through no fault of their own, were brought into this drama.  He had to believe his death was upon him.  You don’t get eaten and survive.  However, as we all know, this is not a regular big fish and Jonah spends three days alive inside its belly and prays loudly and with seeming sincerity to God to save him.  In response, this very tolerant God permits Jonah to live and the fish, at God’s command, spews Jonah onto dry land. 

Now at this point, you would think that Jonah’s transformation, or teshuvah, would be complete and for a brief moment in this short story, that seems to be the case.  God calls Jonah once more to go to Nineveh and tell the people to repent – to return to a holy life.  Jonah, attentive we assume to what happened last time, does go to Nineveh and warns the people of their impending doom.  Amazingly, these decadent people heed Jonah’s call.  They fast, they wear sackcloth and they practice teshuvah.  God saves Nineveh.  This could be the end of the story and its place in the Yom Kippur liturgy would make sense. 

However, Jonah doesn’t stop here with his complaining.  He is called the only successful prophet in the Tanakh yet he resents his own success.  He is still angry.  He wants the Ninevites to ignore the One God because they are pagans who aren’t worthy of God’s attention.  He is unable to comprehend God’s love for all people, Hebrew or not.  He is still whining.  He feels sorry for himself.  He is still not redeemed.

So is the message to us that we may need something this horrific to shake us out of our complacency?  Maybe we too need to plummet to the bottom or the sea… to metaphorically be swallowed up but not totally consumed by something terrifying… to then be released to do our job of repentance and return… Yet Jonah and we are still not completely liberated. We still fight the turning.   We still deny God’s message.  We must go farther then the prophet Jonah was able to go.

The “aha” moment for me is In the midst of the storm when Jonah is challenged by the sailors with the question:  How can you sleep?  Isn’t that the very question we need to ask ourselves today of all days?  How can we sleep through our lives?  How can we sleep when around us the world is caught up in violence?  How can we sleep when children are hungry?  How can we sleep when others suffer because of our inaction?  How can we sleep?

Jonah, the reluctant prophet, is left suspended in time.  His redemption is incomplete.  Ours doesn’t have to be.  As we approach the end of these Days of Awe, this story reminds us without question that the metaphorical punishment for running away from our holy responsibility, whatever it may be, is to feel the wrath and power of the storm.  This message is clearly not just for us but for all humankind.  May we learn from Jonah and complete our return.  We cannot sleep through our lives.

© Barbara R. Carr

Early September 2007

Dear friends,

Not only am I in the midst of doing my own soul searching as we approach the High Holy Days, but I am also preparing a four-session class for teenagers in my synagogue on God searching.  The chutzpah that demonstrates on my part continually amazes me.  Over the years I’ve discovered that the comfort I demonstrate discussing my personal definitions of the God idea has made me something of an expert for others as they search for their own answer to “Is there really a God?”  The chutzpah (or nerve) on my part is found in the fact that I can have that conversation at all.  The God idea is a giant black box of confusion, rejection and avoidance for many.  As a teacher, however, I have found that all I really need to do is liberate people’s attitudes about who/what God is for them.  Too often we are frozen in time with our religious ideas and so fail to grow religiously as we are growing in every other way. 

Now of course, I am speaking from an extremely liberal perspective on the God idea.  There are many people around the world who have an idea of a personal God who is watching all their actions, making judgments and helping out depending on some unknown set of values that are inexplicable to us.  This frozen God also takes sides – whether it be in a large-scale war or a football game.  This God doesn’t grow with us.  This image of God is not mine.

My God idea is a relatively simple one.  I believe that we are all capable of acting in a selfless way when called upon to do so and that is where God lives within us.  I believe that human beings have an internal life force that guides them.  I believe that the inherent nature of being human is different from all other sentient beings.  The reason for that cannot be found in a brain scan or an x-ray or an EEG.  The voice within that guides us to do right is without definition or proof.  We listen to that voice or we ignore that voice but it exists.  Sometimes we are filled with too much noise to hear it – but it pops up at unexpected times and we know it’s after us.  It wants us to do rightly.  It wants us to pay attention to our own behavior.  It prompts us and guides us.  It is the voice of God.

Now many people have an image similar to this and it can be called a Jiminy Cricket God.  If you remember the story of Pinocchio, Jiminy Cricket was his conscience but definitely not God.  He was ignored at Pinocchio’s peril – but he could be ignored - and that put the puppet in total control of his own life.   This is a key issue for contemporary God searchers.  Too many God images deny self-control.  We need to be reassured that our choices are our own and we are guided or not depending on how carefully we pay attention to the voice within.

Strangely enough, there are a number of very rational people who are much more comfortable with the idea of having a conscience than they are with having a God.  Somehow a conscience can be created in a God-free environment.  It can be developed by taught values.  It leaves the ultimate control for our behavior in our own hands.  However, there is nothing in my God idea that denies self-control or free will.  I just think a conscience is too big a deal to leave to chance (i.e. Jiminy had to be around all the time, doing his conscience thing).  I believe we are born with a conscience/soul that can be nurtured or corrupted – but it is inherent in human beings.  We don’t need a cricket to be sitting on our shoulder – we just need to nurture the voice within that exists for all of us.

I also “believe” in the powerful external image of a Nature God.  I like encountering God this way – in fact living in the West and having a chance to see some of the most magnificent of nature’s creations gives me a deeper appreciation of the external God idea and a visceral understanding of why early humans used nature’s images as their gods.  Sitting in the stillness of a high desert landscape and feeling the power of the earth itself brings my internal God idea closer to me.  The stillness allows me to have conversations with the voice within.  The sense of overwhelming beauty surrounds me and embraces me and I want to offer thanks that the world I live in is so amazing.  I watch a hawk soar and I am carried with him.  I see a fawn stepping carefully out of the woods and I feel the power of her courage.

This Nature God co-exists comfortably with my internal God.  The Nature God is ancient.  The Nature God is the creation God, the God of the Book of Genesis.  This God was not a static God.  This God evolved in its interactions with humankind and certainly continues evolving today.  As humans evolved our God concept had to grow with us.  These are all pieces of the same phenomenon.  God is one as we say in our creedal Shema – but I believe that the One is made up of an infinite number of pieces that have entered us and taught us to strive for holiness.  In the same way that we each feel drawn to different music and art and philosophy – so the many facets of the One God offer us a way in if we just allow ourselves to accept it.

In the multitude of ideas and philosophies that human beings have developed over time, the idea of a Power that Makes for Salvation is perhaps the most difficult for us to embrace.  We don’t want to believe in the old man God… or the punishing God… or the absent God… but too often these are the images that fill our prayerbooks and our holy days.  We ache for a joyful God.  We are desperate for a nurturing God that lets us grow and change for the better.  We want a God of peace.  That God does exist within us.  Life without God, however we define it, is a life that is not complete.  We are born with the capacity to find God and we have within us the open space that we all wait for our God idea to fill.

It is up to us.  We can find the Other.  We can hear God’s voice.  We can reject a path to God that doesn’t work for us and look for another.   We just need to be open to the idea that each of us has our own way of letting God in and no one has the right to tell us how it must be done.

Shanah Tovah – a joyous new year…

Still dreaming of peace,

Barbara

© Barbara R. Carr

Late August 2007

Dear friends,

It is the middle of the month of Elul in the Jewish calendar.  This is the month of spiritual self-assessment when we stand before our God idea and lay ourselves open to judgment.  The concept is a difficult one for modern thinkers.  Who dares to judge us on the state of our souls?  Who has the chutzpah, or nerve, to determine the quality of our atonement?  Who dares to look within us and say we have failed or succeeded?  The answer is a simple one.  The who is we. 

We are no longer bound by the terrifying images of a relentless God with a notebook filled with our transgressions.  We are no longer bound by threats from an external God idea.  What we are bound by is the quality of that which we carry within us.  Only we can determine our own spiritual fate.  The testing of the sincerity of our atonement is ours alone to complete. 

But we still need to answer the metaphorical questions that fill our thoughts during the High Holy Days. The imagery of standing before God with our souls stripped bare gets us back to the fundamentals.  There’s nothing more terrifying then exposing our weaknesses.   Each of us as we grow older grows protective skins to keep others and ourselves from looking too deeply inside.  Each of us spends too much time avoiding self-examination.  It hurts to look at our failures.  It’s depressing to be full of thoughts of falling short, of not giving enough or not giving rightly.  There is darkness to this time but it is also a time of cleansing.  It is a time to shed our various skins and look at who and what we are naked, only before ourselves.

We can’t survive the self-examination without the promise of a new start.  To just wallow in our guilt – for saying hurtful words – for not helping enough when others need us – for turning our backs on the gifts that we have been graced with – can only damage our souls.  The High Holy Days – the Days of Awe – also offer us the promise of that new start.  Once again the genius of our ancestors is shown to us.  They knew that confession without redemption would not work.  They knew that looking inward was not enough.  They knew that we always need the hope that tomorrow we can do better.  They knew we needed to hope that tomorrow we would do