V’ahavta—And You Shall Love With All Your Heart: Anxiety and TM

Morning comes again. Dreams are abandoned for the business, pain, pleasure, and striving of the day. How can we get through the events and demands of this day and still feel peaceful inside, in touch with our true inner values and wisdom?

Some people do it by spending the day in and out of prayer, some are in and out of mini-getaways in their minds, but most of us can’t hang onto the peaceful perspective we had before we fully awakened that morning. We’ve pretty much blown it by mid-morning, if not before. If we get any of it back, it’s a short-lived victory as the day wears on.

For those of us who have not found a “home” yet for our unique faith, whatever it may be, the challenge is even greater. If we don’t have a regular spot in our week to pull back from all the stress and take a longer, wiser view, then we’re not likely to take it. Instead, we may escape a bit on our days off in one way or another, but always with that creeping thought in the back of our minds that it’s just that—a temporary escape. That thought does nothing but create sadness and kill off any real release we might feel.

At one point, I thought learning TM would help me with the constant tension that dogged me wherever I was, day in and day out. Then I abandoned the practice when I discovered the mind-boggling reality of a God who not only loves me, but takes an intense interest in my public life and my private soul. Somehow, chanting a mantra to re-center myself was an insignificant activity compared to learning more about, and drawing closer to, that passionate presence.

I look around at people I love who are governed by their anxiety. Not that I’m clear of that myself by any means, but I think TM could be a good practice for those who have not found a compelling relationship with God yet, and have not found a home for practicing their unique faith. I think if they can steer clear of TM’s religious aspects, avoid getting drawn into becoming a devotee, and just learn the technique, it could help with the physical ravages of anxiety.

But the deepest anxiety we have comes from not trusting ourselves, the world, or others to be faithful, true, loving, and good. As well we can’t and shouldn’t, because only God is all that and more, and only with him can we know true security. All our life is just a path of discovery toward this brilliant, eternal love.

In Judaism, prayer happens three times a day (for devotion, that trumps the two times a day practice of TM already, in my view), because we need that constant reminder of the Eternal One who never stops flooding us with goodness and safety. The V’ahavta, the prayer that is recited along with the Shema three times a day, drives this message home: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might.” (Deuteronomy 6:5)

It’s not just about receiving this great love, but about loving back with total trust, the kind of trust we have when we are fast asleep, when the chaos and cacophony of the day is silenced and held at bay. If we never succumbed to sleep, we might never experience this level of trust. Even those who do not value faith (which is more accurately translated as trust) benefit from the blessing of this hiatus every night.

I found a great article by Rabbi Danielle Stillman that describes this perfectly:

“We are commanded by tradition to say the Shema and the V’ahavta at least three times a day during the daily prayers. We cover our eyes for the Shema. This helps us go inward and focus — and it is also an act of trust.

“No recitation of the prayer embodies comfort and trust more than the Shema that is said right before bed. This is another time of trust and safety, when we prepare to close our eyes for the night, surrendering to sleep.

“Scholars believe that the bedtime Shema was developed as a protection against the dangers of the night. People felt comforted by recalling the One God and God’s loving commandment for us to love. Many parents say these prayers with their children before bed, infusing this quiet time of comfort with the loving words of the V’ahavta.”

I also enjoyed this video by an orthodox rabbi in support of TM and its positive effect on his journey of faith. But most of all, I love this delightfully dated but marvelous interview with orthodox rabbi Aryeh Kaplan ztl, about Judaism and meditation, which points to a deeper and more satisfying form of meditation than anything we could teach as a system or a lesson.

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I Shall Trust and Not Fear

I was waylaid by liturgy today. There I was, traipsing along feeling free on the high road, unencumbered by the ancient words I read, translating them into my life today, taking liberties with the meaning to support what I have come to believe.

Usually I lean heavily into the Haftarah each Shabbat, tracing it back to the Torah portion or just striking out into new territory depending on how it hits me. Well, this time, I finished the Haftarah, learning about another deliverance from Egypt in Jeremiah 46 to mirror the one in Exodus 13 where the Torah portion ends this way: “for with a strong hand, Hashem delivered us from Egypt.”

The sun had gone down and the beautiful deep blue light was still lingering in the sky. Time for Havdalah (the end of Shabbat). I put off writing this to say the traditional blessings, drink a tiny glass of wine, sniff the Besamim (fragrant herbs), and hold my fingernails to the light of the candle to watch the dance of firelight. This liturgy is dear to me, loath as I am to follow blind rituals. It blesses me every week with its message of peace, strength, and deliverance.

And there it was, even more obvious a connection to the Exodus message than the Haftarah itself this week:

“Heeneh El Yeshuatee Evtach Velo Efchad” (Behold! God is my salvation, I shall trust and not fear)

It seems that time rolls out like a carpet once in awhile, where my tiny life is invited into the royal hall to discover its unending connections to the Eternal One. Just this morning, I read Psalm 149:

“Let them praise his name with dancing, make melody to him with tambourine and lyre; for Adonai takes delight in his people, he crowns the humble with salvation. Let the faithful exult gloriously, let them sing for joy on their beds.”

How can we expect to trust and not fear, who are crowded together on this planet, facing certain death at some unpredictable time in the future, grasping for some shred of security, hoping for some reassurance of our worth, and aching to be loved for who we are?

It is impossible without God, even though we might have some good days when the sun shines, the revenues pour in, all are astounded at our talents, and we are surrounded with adoring loved ones. Can’t be counted on, can’t be trusted.

How can I sing for joy on my bed when I’m in pain, depressed, or worried? Here’s another connection with what I read from George MacDonald today:

“Oh Life, why dost thou close me up in death?
Oh Health, why make me inhabit heaviness?
I ask, yet know: the sum of this distress,
Pang-haunted body, sore-dismayed mind,
Is but the egg that rounds the winged faith;
When that its path into the air shall find,
My heart shall follow, high above cold, rain, and wind.”

—George MacDonald, Diary of an Old Soul

Where can all this hope and faith come from? God, unchanging, ever seeking to deliver us from these traps and prisons, has an answer that we can trust.

The Havdalah liturgy ends with:

“Bimherah Yavo Eleynu Eem Mashiach Ben David.” (May he quickly come to us with Messiah, son of David.)

I’m not Christian. I’m not Jewish. I’m neither and both. I won’t argue with anyone about who the Messiah is, when he came or when he is coming, because to me, that is like two ants arguing about the history and character of the sun. I would rather be the ant who wakes up with the sunrise, singing with joy on her bed.

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Complainers and Those of Misguided Spirit

Here we are in the first parshah of Exodus, and I discovered a fascinating connection between the vastly different Haftorah portions for this week. Normally, there is not a huge difference between what was chosen centuries ago to accompany each Torah portion, but this week, I was struck that the Ashkenazic portion is Isaiah 27:6–28:13 plus a tag-along of 29:22–23, but the Sephardic reading is Jeremiah 1:1–2:3. That’s different!

Usually, I gravitate to the Sephardic portions which I often feel speak more directly to the heart (and get right to the point) while the Ashkenazic portions are more heady (and typically longer). Also, I appreciate the exuberant passion of the Sephardic branch of Judaism (especially since my upbringing and the culture that surrounds me here in the Northshore area of Chicago is so WASPy and Western European).

Last week, we read the end of Genesis. It was powerful and positive. The descendants of Jacob were firmly placed and safe in Egypt, thriving and prospering. Then the shoe drops big-time right in Chapter 1 of Exodus. The Jewish people were promptly enslaved and tormented by a new Pharaoh with a sharp eye on profit margins and the threat of a potential takeover by this burgeoning crowd of successful foreigners. It would be like taking a bunch of properous, professional Northshore families and setting them to hard labor and living in huts.

Or quite a bit like what happened to Jewish families in Germany during the rise of the Nazi party.

This first week into Exodus, we learn two things: God’s people are in serious trouble in Egypt, and Moses has been chosen as their reluctant rescuer and spokesperson for God. The Ashkenazic portion in Isaiah pursues the first, foretelling a global roundup of all those who are “lost” and “cast away” (Isaiah 27:13) to a new understanding and trust in God. I always pay special attention to those add-on verses in Haftorah selections, and this one was especially fruitful:

“Jacob will not be ashamed now, and his face will not pale now, when he sees his children, My handiwork . . . who will sanctify My Name, they will sanctify the Holy One of Jacob and revere the God of Israel!” (Isaiah 29:22-23)

Well, even though that’s where the reading officially ends, look what comes right after it:

“Those of misguided spirit will attain understanding, and complainers will learn [God’s] instruction.” (Isaiah 29:24)

Ah-ha! I found the connection to the Sephardic reading, which I originally thought only focused on the similarity between Jeremiah’s calling as the reluctant prophet and Moses’ calling. But then I saw this, and it reminded me how often I fall into a misguided spirit and complain:

“they have forsaken Me . . . and prostrated themselves to their own handiwork.” (Jeremiah 1:16)

And I’m glad I read both readings, to see afresh how desperately we all need to be rescued by a reluctant but committed and brave prophet, so that we too can attain understanding and learn to trust in the One most worthy of our trust.

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Happy New Year from George MacDonald

I’ve got to put this out there—the very last entry of George MacDonald’s 365 poems that whirl together like a cosmic wheel to transform each day of the year. This one needs no further introduction or commentary.

December Thirty-One

Go, my beloved children, live your life,
Wounded, faint, bleeding, never yield the strife.
Stunned, fallen-awake, arise, and fight again,
Before you victory stands, with shining train
Of hopes not credible until they are.
Beyond morass and mountain swells the star
Of perfect love—the home of longing heart and brain.

—George MacDonald, Diary of an Old Soul

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We Need a Good Jew

I named this blog belonging2all because my years as a seeker have led me, a non-Jew, from a Unitarian upbringing through atheism, socialism, meditation, Eastern philosophies, agnosticism, Pentecostalism, evangelical Christianity, and Messianic Judaism, to where I am now, which is undefinable.

Despite the word “all” in the blog title, I am not living in the land of “It’s all good” nor do I ascribe to the belief that “all” religions share an essential truth and fit together like pieces in a wild cosmic puzzle to reveal the meaning of life (attractive as that theory seems).

My “born-again” awakening many years ago was not unlike what many people have described as a near-death encounter, an out-of-body experience, or a psychedelic event. Though I had my first unexpected encounter with the Almighty in a small Pentecostal church in upstate New York, I have since come to the realization over and over again that the dogma in each place of worship could not expand enough to embrace the fullness of the universe that opened to me the night I found God to be real.

Along my journey, it had been my wish to align myself with a steady faith community, and I’ve been in some different congregations, searching and searching. But in each instance, a time would come when I could no longer ignore the signs of an us-and-them mentality, when the natural human tendency to circle the wagons and promote a party line would overshadow the potential for spiritual growth. Then, sadly, I would move on to keep searching for a larger-hearted home. I suspect I am not alone in this spiritual migration, though I am happy for those who stay in one congregation and are able to thrive there.

For quite some time, I have been unaffiliated with any one place or community. In this extended time of apparent freedom from dogma, my personal study has led me repeatedly to the feet of the rabbis.

I read a thought-provoking segment of an Artscroll Mesorah booklet on Tashlich, lent to me by a friend. Mesorah means, among other things, the transmission of a tradition. Tashlich is a time of sincere repentance and honesty before God, a yearly ritual essential to Judaism during the 10 Days of Awe between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

Tashlich is performed in a variety of ways but centers on being near moving water, like a river or stream. We cast stones or pieces of bread into the water while in sincere appraisal of our faults, mistakes, and shortcomings. We realize our inability to do any better without God’s help, and as the bread or stones sink to the bottom of the water, we experience anew God’s generous forgiveness as well as the invitation to be transformed by love.

This booklet explores layer after layer of the historical, liturgical, and cultural traditions of Taschlich. Often, I find rabbinic commentary obtuse, and sometimes I fail to follow the bouncing ball, suspecting that my uneasy sense of having missed a step must be caused by my Western way of thinking (plod, plod, plod through the clearly delineated, logical steps) and my lack of Jewish background.

Unfettered by those restrictions, the rabbis’ ideas fly like free birds, but wise birds informed by centuries of tradition. I want to understand these ideas at the foundational level. I know the truth lies gleaming like a diamond in the mountainside within those stories and interpretations. How do I know? Because my experience of the Messiah, even with my puny ability to understand, has proven bigger and better than any of the programmed answers I have found in any other spiritual or non-spiritual search.

And Judaism focuses on this huge promise, as I believe we all must if we are to dedicate ourselves to the highest good:

—God’s Presence on Sinai was proclaimed by a powerful, incessant shofar blast. Hearing its call, Israel accepted, and dedicated itself to, the Torah. . . . The day at Sinai was the lesser of the two greatest days in history, because Israel was not yet fully ready to play the role assigned it. But that day will come . . .

—The shofar of Moshiach will be . . . the great shofar that will summon even the forlorn and assimilated exiles from earth’s most forsaken lands. Then they will come to Jerusalem, to the mountains of God, to Mount Moriah where Abraham stood at the Akeidah and sanctified the present and future for all time.

…Abraham’s deeds were the seeds that grew into service at an altar, songs on a harp, courage on a mountain, the announcement of mankind’s destiny, the call of creation’s fulfillment.”

Tashlich, Artscroll Mesorah Series

Hoop, there it is! Look to the source whenever the path grows dim. That’s exactly where I am now. Though it’s true that I don’t regularly step over the threshold of a house of worship, I am in a place of worship each day—inspired by the foretelling of the one good Jew who will come and transform us all if we will accept him.

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When the World Is Out of Tune

This has been a month of terrible and disturbing news. Islamic State fanatics have executed U.S. journalists and British aid workers, sending out grisly videos of these killings as well as of their mass shootings of helpless people lying face down in ditches. The visuals are horrifying. I can’t stop thinking about the Holocaust and other despicable acts of barbarism.

I realize that these heinous ways of torturing and killing each other have been going on since the dawn of what we call humanity. Is it any less humane to drop a nuclear bomb on a city? Somehow it doesn’t seem so awful because we don’t have to watch a video of the terrible, unthinkable act of a human killing another human by hand. Just like the truckload of turkeys on their way to be massacred and eaten, it’s all quite acceptable as long as we don’t have to watch the reality of it.

I’ve heard people ask how God could allow such evil brutality to exist. They often point to the story of the crucifixion of Yeshua (Jesus) as proof of God’s own cruel nature in requiring a blood sacrifice. Or they cite God’s lack of compassion for our frailty by expecting us to embrace painful circumstances and man/woman up to them because Yeshua was able to; their point being that Yeshua would be able to endure the cross if he was God incarnate or God’s son because he knew he was going right back to heaven afterward. Big deal, right? He had nothing to worry about, nothing to fear, unlike the rest of us worrying about the great unknown.

George MacDonald has a good answer regarding whether Yeshua truly suffered or not:

“Let no one think that … [his sufferings] were less because He was more. The more delicate the nature, the more alive to all that is lovely and true, lawful and right, the more does it feel the antagonism of pain, the inroad of death upon life; the more dreadful is that breach of the harmony of things whose sound is torture.”

(From George MacDonald: An Anthology • 365 Readings, compiled by C.S. Lewis, p. 17)

This is not like the torture of hearing someone sing or play out of tune, or the torture of a jackhammer going outside your window. When the world is out of tune, when evil has a field day, when blood is spilled in rivers on the ground, when innocent people are brutally murdered, we feel the same wrenching heartache that the gentle soul of Yeshua felt watching our unending hatred toward anyone not like us. This hatred was what motivated his killers, and it is a hatred that runs deep in our so-called humanity.

Because of what these Islamic State monsters have done, I confess with much sadness that I see hatred growing in my own heart for followers of Islam. Would I grab a gun or push the red button if they had killed my friend or family member over there? I’d be sorely tempted. What do I do with this hatred? If I pretend it’s not there, it festers. If I act on it, it explodes.

Here it is, Rosh Hashanah and the beginning of the days of awe prior to Yom Kippur, which will then finish the traditional 40 days of repentance. If I repent of my hatred, will it stay away? If I allow my hatred to remain unchecked and unchallenged, will I become like the very enemies I abhor?

It may seem like a stretch to bring up the Torah reading for Rosh Hashanah in Genesis 22, the story of Abraham when he was told by God to sacrifice his only son. I have read many fascinating commentaries on this story of a father doing the unthinkable (here’s a thought-provoking one: http://www.aish.com/tp/i/moha/68264477.html). Many of them refer to Abraham’s unwavering faith that if Isaac indeed lost his life, God would bring him back to life.

This sounds just like the argument that Yeshua had it easy on the cross because he knew he was going to be okay in the end. I don’t believe Abraham had an easy time, any more than Yeshua did. I think when he raised the knife to kill his beloved son, he was feeling the same horror we feel when we see the terrifying videos of innocent people being slaughtered, the same horror Yeshua felt when he was cruelly tortured and killed.

The story of Isaac’s eleventh-hour rescue on the altar is called the Akeida. I think the Akeida has much to tell us about our natural fears as well as our natural hatred. I always wondered why such a disturbing story would be the centerpiece of a positive celebration like Rosh Hashanah, with all the shofar-blowing, apples and honey, and wishes for a joyous New Year. We are deathly afraid of fear. I know I am. Gut-wrenching cold terror is not something I seek—ever.

But if it’s true that God’s ways are not our ways, that what makes sense to us naturally has no bearing on what is really going on, that God’s thinking is our thinking turned on its head, then everything we fear is actually something to be desired.

Is death to be desired? Like Gandalf says in The Return of the King, “and then you see it . . . white shores, and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise.” Like Pippin, I would say, “Well, that isn’t so bad.”

Is horror to be desired? I venture to say (quaking in my boots, of course), perhaps we should be more like those intrepid soldiers on the front lines instead of hiding at home waiting for someone else to die for us. Perhaps each of us is quite capable of facing down an ISIS terrorist like each victim in the videos, just as Yeshua coolly faced down his murderers.

I don’t know what the faith foundation was for each person who was murdered by ISIS this month, but I pray that each one found the strength to embrace the unknown, to let go of the known, to face the end with the dignity of a true human being, rising above the bestial evil around them. That is how I will remember them and honor their lives and their sacrifice. And I pray this enduring, transcendent vision will stand in stark contrast to our natural view of these horrors, especially for their families. May God bless the families of James Foley, Steven Sotloff, David Haines, and Alan Henning, and the countless other victims of this evil group.

“O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?” There are many ways to die, from the unthinkable to the painless, and it is a portal we must all pass through. Does it ultimately matter how we take leave of our tiny lives here to go on to the next step of our journey? No one owns our souls no matter how they may treat our bodies, and therein lies the hidden victory.

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The Bass Player in George MacDonald’s Band

Verdine White, the bass player in Earth, Wind & Fire, holds it down and lights a fire under the groove like no one else can. Whenever I hear a gorgeous bass sound like that, whether it’s from a cello, a djembe, a baritone sax, a roll of thunder, or a human voice, the air around me is instantly alive and in tune.

Where would even the most beautiful melody be without the bass for its dancing partner? Where would our most beautiful moments be without the tension and challenge of the toughest times? We would be sorry creatures indeed if all we heard were the melodies, if an easy life were all we experienced. As usual, George MacDonald says it best:

“Sometimes it seems pure natural to trust,
And trust right largely, grandly, infinitely,
Daring the splendor of the giver’s part;
At other times, the whole earth is but dust,
The sky is dust, yea, dust the human heart;
Then thou art nowhere, there is no room for thee
In the great dust-heap of eternity.

“But why should it be possible to mistrust—
Nor possible only, but its opposite hard?
Why should not man believe because he must—
By sight’s compulsion? Why should he be scarred
With conflict? worn with doubting fine and long?
No man is fit for heaven’s musician throng
Who has not tuned an instrument all shook and jarred.”

(From Diary of an Old Soul, August 29-30 entries)

I’m the last person to welcome tragedy or setbacks of any kind. Yet when shock, sorrow, or grief thwart our ability to embrace the goodness of life, the lowest tones cry out from the cavernous deep of our souls. Without those lows to ground us, to temper and sweeten the highs, our life would be a tinny, foolish child-melody without substance.

This week’s Torah portion, true to form, has something to say about facing calamity and terror. In Deuteronomy 18:16, Moses reminds the people that when they had the chance to see God face to face, they were too terrified, literally to death, saying “I can no longer hear the voice of Hashem, my God, and this great fire I can no longer see, so that I shall not die.” Who among us doesn’t run for the hills when confronted with something so unfathomable, so overwhelming, that we fear the experience could kill us?

We would spend our entire lives running in fear if it were not for the one who has given it all in order to stand as our protector and guide, the one holding up the bass notes from the deep. As it says in the Haftorah (Isaiah 52:7 and 52:9):

“How pleasant are the footsteps of the herald upon the mountains announcing peace, heralding good tidings, announcing salvation, saying unto Zion, ‘Your God has reigned!’” and “Burst out, sing glad song in unison, O ruins of Jerusalem, for Hashem will have comforted His people; He will have redeemed Jerusalem.”

So, shall we listen to the herald on the mountaintop and tune up?

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