Let Reality Be Reality

By Susan Esther Barnes

After dinner with some friends at a Chinese restaurant lastweek (yes, it is very easy to eat at a Chinese restaurant without consumingeither pork or shellfish), one of them, Bruce, opened his cookie and received afortune which said, “Let reality be reality.” He didn’t know what to make ofit, and asked me to write a blog post explaining it.

My first thought was of the book, “Reality Isn’t What itUsed to Be,” which I don’t recommend. It did, however, have some interestingpoints about how reality is a social construct, and therefore is subject tochange over time.

For instance, the reality these days is that if you pull thecord on a public bus, the bus will stop at the next bus stop. There is no lawor mechanical necessity that causes this to happen. It’s just an unspokenagreement between the riders and the driver that this is how it’s supposed towork, and it does.

There is a certain wisdom and comfort in allowing reality tobe what it is. There are people who waste untold time and energy lamentingthings from the past. They can’t seem to get over a broken relationship, or thefact that they were born into certain circumstances, or any number of otherthings that they can’t change. For them, “Let reality be reality” might be good advice. Accept what is, and move on with your life.

On the other hand, our present-day reality includes manythings we shouldn’t just accept. People starving to death. Animals being huntedto extinction. Water and air being polluted. These are things we ought to change.These are examples of circumstances in which we can do something, and shouldnot just allow the past or current reality to continue as the reality of thefuture.

Which brings us around to the Serenity Prayer:

“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannotchange; courage to change the things I can; and the wisdom to know thedifference

 

The Serenity Prayer is pretty good advice, but according to Jewish tradition, it doesn’t go far enough. It implies that if there is something that I, personally, do not have the power to change alone or in my lifetime, I should just leave it be.

In the section of the Talmud called “Pirkei Avot,” (“The Ethics of Our Fathers,”) the rabbis acknowledgethat the task is great and the day is short. There is too much for us to doalone, and, even with the help of others, there is more that needs to bechanged than can be accomplished in one human lifetime, no matter how young orenergetic a person may be.

However, say the rabbis, in that case we are still commandednot to just “Let reality be reality.” Rather, they tell us, “It is not yourresponsibility to complete the task, but neither are you free to desist fromit.” We are all responsible to do what part we can, be it large or small, eventhough we may not live to see the result.

So, Bruce, what I will say to you is your fortune wastelling you to accept things as they are. For things that cannot be changed atall, by anyone, no matter the effort, that may be good advice. But foreverything else, our tradition says to keep doing what you’re doing, and to continuein your efforts to make the world a better place. Personally, I’ll take theadvice of the Talmud over the advice of a fortune cookie any day.

How to Blow Up a Demon

By Susan Esther Barnes

We’ve all seen it in the movies, and we’ve read about it in books, too. Demons have been released, and the hero of the story has to get rid of them. If you were to believe these tales, it’s hard to get rid of a demon. It involves pentagrams, or circles, chanting, candles, and all sorts of fancy stuff.

Imagine my relief when, in Talmud class last Sunday, we were reading about how pairs attract demons, and I learned how easy it is to get rid of one. As a Public Service Announcement, I present to you the Talmud’s solution on to how to get rid of a demon (Quoted from Daf 110 Amud A, translation by Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz):

The Gemara asks: And if one forgets and it happens and he goes outside after having had an even number of cups to drink, what is his solution? The Gemara answers: He should take his right thumb in his left hand and his left thumb in his right hand and say this: “You, my thumbs, and I, are three,” which is not a pair. And if he hears a voice that says, “You and I are four,” which makes a pair, he should say to it, “You and I are five.” And if he hears it say, “You and I are six,” he should say to it, “You and I are seven.” The Gemara relates that there was an incident in which someone kept counting with the demon until a hundred and one, and the demon burst in anger.

One more reason, I guess, to be thankful for our opposable thumbs. It’s also a good explanation of why we don’t run into demons much these days. All it takes is a two-handed person and a little persistence to blow one up.

It’s easy to make fun of something like this, if it is taken literally. But as a religious Jew, I am challenged to determine if I can get anything valuable out of it. And, taken in a non-literal sense, I have found there is some wisdom in this story.

I find it interesting that if I say, “We are three,” and the demon says, “You and I are four,” I am not supposed to stick to, “We are three,” but instead I move on to five. Similarly, the demon doesn’t stick with four, but goes on to six.

I can see this sort of non-repetition in the kinds of arguments we have with our own personal demons. If the demon stuck to one thing, it would be easy for us to stick with one answer. But instead, they keep trying different arguments, to which we must continue to invent different answers.

For example, consider a person fighting against a personal demon of alcoholism. First, the demon might say, “Let’s get drunk,” to which the person might reply, “No, I don’t want to do that any more. It always ends badly.” At this point, the demon won’t repeat, “Let’s get drunk,” but might say, instead, “Ok, let’s just have a couple of beers then,” to which the person might counter, “No, if I have a beer, I’ll start to get a buzz, and then I’ll lose track of how much I’ve had, and I’ll end up drunk.” Then, the demon might try, “How about just a glass of wine. That won’t do anything.”

The bad news is that our personal demons can be persistent. If one argument doesn’t work, they are likely to try another, and then another, in order to get us to do what we know we shouldn’t do. We need to stay on guard so we can recognize when it is our demon doing the talking, trying out a new way to lead us astray. We need to continue to find new ways to resist.

The good news the Talmud is trying to teach us is that we can be as persistent as, and even more so than, the demon. If we continue fighting the demon, if we keep listening for it and answering it, eventually, it will give up. Persistence will conquer our demons. It may seem to take one hundred and one tries, or even more, but it can be done. I have blown up a demon or two that way, myself. Maybe you have as well. Suddenly, the Talmud story doesn’t sound so silly, after all.

Visiting the Sick: Lesser Standing and Greater Stature

By Susan Esther Barnes

Every year, my synagogue’s chevra kadisha – the group of people who visits the sick, comforts mourners, etc., receives additional training. These classes are a good way to bring new members of the group up to speed, as well as to give current members additional information.

In a recent class, we discussed a quote from Talmud Bavli, Nedarim 39b, which says, “’The mitzvah of visiting the sick has no limit.’ With regard to what does it have ‘no limit?’ Abaye said, ‘Even an individual of greater standing should visit someone of lesser stature.’”

What does this interpretation of Abaye mean? I’m pretty sure he’s not saying people of high standing should visit short people. It seems to mean that people in high positions in society should visit the sick, even if it means visiting someone lower in the hierarchy.

Setting aside that I’m not a big fan of hierarchies, the idea that those higher up should visit others lower down seems like a no-brainer to me. Of course, everyone, on up to the King or President, should engage in the mitzvah of visiting the sick.

As with anyone else, of course, there is a right way and a wrong way to do it. I once knew a woman who was hospitalized with pneumonia. When her boss walked into her hospital room, she thought, “How nice it is that she came to visit me here.”

Then the boss took out a pile of paperwork for the hospitalized woman to work on, and her husband quickly kicked the boss out of the room and told her not to come back. It’s no mitzvah if the “visit” is to increase the patient’s workload, rather than to provide comfort.

I find myself thinking what a good thing it was that this woman’s husband was present to throw the boss out. Why would the Talmud encourage people of greater stature to visit those beneath them, without any further instruction?

One of the problems facing people in the hospital is they may feel a loss of power. They are confined to a room for most, if not all, of the day and night, for the most part they don’t get to pick what they wear or eat, and they have little to no control over who walks into their room, or when.

Shouldn’t the Talmud remind the person visiting to keep in mind the balance of power, so the boss doesn’t forget that this poor hapless employee may not feel they are able to kick the boss out even if they’re feeling tired, or put-upon in some way? Shouldn’t the Talmud say that if a boss is visiting a worker, they should not pressure them to come back to work before they are ready?

Maybe the Talmud assumes that the person of lesser stature will be so flattered to get a visit from someone higher up that there is no need to worry about these things, but I just don’t think that is a reasonable position to take.

I also find it interesting that the Talmud doesn’t seem to say anything about there being an obligation for those of us who are farther down on the social ladder to visit those sick people who are farther up.

I understand there are other places in the Talmud in which it discourages us from appearing to be trying to curry favor with those in the upper classes. I can certainly see how this could be a concern.

There is a rabbi who used to work at our synagogue, and her husband, also a rabbi, still works there. I have taken classes from this woman, as well as from her husband, her father (yet another rabbi) and her mother. One could argue they are all of “higher stature” than me.

When this woman’s grandmother died, I wanted to attend the shiva minyan, but I wondered how it would look. Would the family, or others, think I was just there to “brown nose” with higher-ups, or would they see my visit as sincere?

I wrestled with the question for a while, and I could see how the same issue would come up for me if, God forbid, anyone in their family were hospitalized and I needed to decide whether to visit them. In the end, I decided to go to the shiva, concluding that since God and I knew the visit was sincere, I shouldn’t be overly concerned about what others might think.

Still, I can’t help but wonder, why is it that the Talmud, which addresses so many issues, does not address this one? Why does Abaye mention visiting people of lesser stature, but not visiting people of greater stature?

Does this mean Abaye took for granted that those of us of lesser stature will visit those further up, or does it mean he doesn’t think it is necessary or desirable for us to do so?

If any of you have references to any place that the Talmud addresses these questions, I’d appreciate it if you could let me know.

Shabbat Angels

By Susan Esther Barnes

Rabbi Yosé bar-Yehudah says: on Erev Shabbat two angels accompany a person home from the synagogue: one is good and the other is bad. If he arrives home and finds candles burning, the table laid and the couch arranged [around the table] the good angel says "May it be this way next Shabbat too," and the bad angel has to respond "Amen." But if the opposite is the case it is the bad angel who says "May it be this way next Shabbat too," and the good angel has to respond "Amen."
-The Talmud

On Friday evening – Erev Shabbat – I drive straight from work to the synagogue, where I arrive about 45 minutes before services start. One of the first things I do is go into the kitchen to pick up my challah, which I put in my car.

I then turn my attention to greeting. On any evening I may help set out the food and wine, or help someone with a walker or wheelchair to find a seat, or introduce a visitor to some people so they don’t have to stand around by themselves.

Once services start, I’m usually either greeting people who are arriving late, or setting out more chairs if the sanctuary is full, or passing out bags of crayons and coloring books to the parents of small children. It’s hard to say what I’ll be doing, but I know what I won’t be doing is thinking about my work week, or the economy, or the latest celebrity gossip.

Usually by the time we get to the Amidah everyone is pretty much settled, and I have a chance to participate in the prayers. I try to keep an eye out, though, in case anyone comes in late and needs a prayer book, or in the event someone needs one of the boxes of tissues we try to keep handy.

By the time we’re ready for the Mourner’s Kaddish I’m up again, heading over to childcare to bring the kids back to the sanctuary for Kiddush. Then I head over to the doors so I can open them at the end of services and say goodbye and Shabbat shalom to people as they leave.

Every night is different. Some nights, I feel like all I’m doing before and after the praying is socializing. But sometimes I can see by the look in someone’s eye that I have helped them, and they appreciate it. More than that, I know what I’m doing makes a difference because at seemingly random moments someone I barely know will smile and rub my back or my arm, or, as on one occasion, will wordlessly lean over and kiss me on the cheek on the way out the door.

Once most of the people have left, I put my Shabbat Greeter badge back in its basket, and drive home, feeling relaxed and glowing. In the still of the Shabbat night, I kiss my mezuzah and I enter my home. As I look at my dark, empty table and put away my intact challah, an angel says, “May it be this way next Shabbat too.” And sometimes I smile and wonder: Which angel is speaking?