Root for the Bears

I am urging the vast readership of this blog to root for the Chicago Bears today. Yes, I know that almost everyone from Bob Herbert to D'artagnan Martin is rooting for the Saints because of the whole Hurricane deal. Well, so was I until I found out on Friday that the Saint's coach, Sean Payton, was a scab during the 1987 players' strike. I'm too lazy to write a full entry describing what I think of scabs, so I'm pasting in an essay I wrote in the summer of 2005 during the Northwest mechanics strike. I submitted it to the New York Times as an op-ed piece, but it didn't go anywhere. So, with apologies to Bivian Lee:

WHY I WON’T FLY NORTHWEST

The ongoing strike by Aircraft Mechanics Fraternal Association, the Northwest Airlines mechanics union, recently thrust me into a crisis of conscience. To cross or not to cross their picket line – that was the question I wrestled with for the better the week leading up to a Northwest flight I had booked a few days before the mechanics went on strike.

The purpose of the trip was to attend a memorial for a dear uncle who had passed away several weeks earlier. Although not especially concerned with the choice of carrier, I was just as happy to be flying Northwest, an airline I’d found efficient and pleasant in the past.

As soon as the mechanics went out, I knew I had a problem. But the problem wasn’t getting to the memorial. News reports immediately made clear that, despite some glitches, Northwest was adhering reasonably, and safely enough, to its schedule. If I stayed with my Northwest flight, the chances were that I’d get where I was going when I needed to be there.

My problem, rather, was of an existential nature. I grew up in a staunchly union household. My parents, in fact, met when my father was a merchant seaman during World War II, actively recruiting for the National Maritime Union aboard his many trans-Atlantic births. At the time, my mother was secretary to the union’s vice president. There was a strict rule in our home, one I’ve carried into adulthood: never cross a picket line. To be honest, the inviolability of picket lines has the quality of a religious tenet for me.

Writing in 2005, in post-industrial America, I’ll concede that this rule has an almost quaint sound, even to my own ear. There is every sign that the great industrial and service unions of the past are precipitously on the decline. Subtract government workers belonging to unions and the rate of union membership in this country dips into single digits. The recent defections by several prominent organizations from the umbrella AFL-CIO suggests a movement at war with itself over a bounty of crumbs. From where I sit, the state of organized labor in the United States borders on pathetic.

So what was the big deal? Why not get it over with and take the Northwest flight? None of the mechanics’ sister unions have honored the picket line; why should I? I went back and forth on that question for several days as my trip approached. I wasn’t anxious to incur the added cost of rebooking my flight on another airline so close to my departure, but money wasn’t the issue for me. The issue was right and wrong.

Five simple words made the decision for me: “Which side are you on?” In the union movement of the past, these words packed the power of a biblical commandment cast in the form of a question. It wasn’t really a question so much as a challenge to be union, even at the risk of severe personal disadvantage. Ultimately, as I agonized over the decision, I realized that standing with the union still mattered to me.

I have no illusions about where the Northwest strike is headed. By all reports, the mechanics are going to lose no matter what the outcome. The fight seems to be over the magnitude of the pay cut they’ll sustain in their next contract. With a network of replacement workers in place, there may never be another contract or even a mechanics union when the dispute is over. However, the point for me wasn’t weighing the wiseness of the strike or the merits of the company’s asserted financial woes. Those issues weren’t relevant to my decision. The only thing that mattered was the principle of “Which side are you on?”

I wrestled with my conscience and my conscience won. I flew another airline and the trip went smoothly, as it probably would have on Northwest. My wallet is a few hundred dollars lighter, but I’m convinced that I did the right thing and feel good about it. And I’m glad to have reminded myself which side I’m still on.

Say Something!

SAY SOMETHING ABOUT IRAQ. Say something about Iraq because we’re there in your name. You all know who you are and you’re not doing anything about it. This war is being fought in your name and you don’t try to stop it. Do something about Iraq! Darfur is a tragedy, but Darfur isn’t your war; it’s not happening because of your tax money, your army, your arrogance and your hubris; it’s not your fault. Iraq is! So say something, do something. About Iraq!

Say something about Gaza, about the West Bank, be honest about it already. It’s not only the Palestinians; it’s us too. It’s not just their fault. It’s also ours. Say something, do something about the Occupation! It’s not enough to say you want peace. If you want peace, make it happen. End the Occupation. End the Occupation because it’s your Occupation. Darfur isn’t.

Darfur isn’t enough. Stop the wars that are yours. Do something about Iraq, about the Occupation! Because they are being done in your name and that makes them yours. Darfur counts, but it isn’t yours. It matters, but it isn’t being done in your name.

Darfur isn’t being done in your name, but maybe talking about Darfur feels good because it comes with no baggage. Darfur matters, but it’s not an excuse to ignore the wars being fought in your name, your wars. Say something about Gaza, say something about Iraq! Do something because they are being done in your name and you need to keep your name clear. You know the magical power of THE NAME. The Name matters!

Say something about Iraq because you owe it to kids who are there in your name. And their fathers and mothers who stayed behind. Or even worse, who went with them. Say something, do something about Gaza because you owe it to those kids too. And say something about Iraq and the Occupation because you owe it to yourself. Darfur matters too, but nobody is there in your name. When it’s done in your name, there is no discretion. You have no choice. You have to do everything in your power when it’s being done in your name. On behalf of you. When it’s for you, because of you, there is no choice.

Say something about Iraq because your soul depends on it. Your legacy depends on it. Say something about Iraq because your children need to hear it from you. Say something on behalf of other people's children because nobody else will. Don’t forget about the children in Darfur. Don’t you dare But your children need to hear you talk about Iraq. They need to hear you talk about it now! Otherwise they may think you're comfortable with it. Because it’s being done in your name, on your behalf. Say something about Iraq, say something about the Occupation. Because they are your fault. Or they will be soon. If you don’t say something about them. If you pretend they aren’t your fault, soon they will be. Because we are there in your name.

Say something about Iraq. Say something about the Occupation. Do something about them. Because they are being done in your name. Because that means you have no choice. Because they are being done in your name. And your name matters. It may be all you have.

Friday Night z'l

The synagogue to which I belong is about to embark on a daring experiment. It’s called “Shabbat.” It appears that there are two related components to the experiment. The first is the shrinking in importance of Friday night services, until now the primary congregational worship event each week. The second is the revitalization of Saturday morning as, well, the primary weekly worship experience.

While I’m ambivalent about the change affecting Friday night, I believe that our rabbinic leadership should be given the scope to try this experiment. Depending on what happens to Saturday mornings, I could see myself becoming a semi-regular. In the short term, I’ll certainly miss the convenience and familiarity of Friday night as I’ve known it, but who knows? I don’t want to make my mind up before this all gets started.

There is one part of this changeover that concerns me and that has to do with the more general concept of Shabbat itself. The implicit assumption in the change seems to be that Reform Jews should observe the sabbath in a more traditional Jewish way. If this means giving up the routines I’ve established on Saturdays throughout my adult life, I’m not sure that I see the point. I understand that according to tradition shabbat is supposed to be a day of rest, withdrawal from the hubbub of daily life and reflection. But what if these values don’t appeal to me? What if my best way of relaxing is to do errands, coach little league, spend money in the neighborhood and enjoy my time away from the daily grind in my own way?I don’t want to be made to feel guilty that my own routines don’t fit the strict definition of the Jewish sabbath. Indeed, to feel that way would defeat the purpose of the weekend for me and cause me to feel resentment, not the kind of contentment that shabbat is supposed to engender.

We all find our Buberian moments in our own ways, and some of my favorite ones would have conflicted with Saturday morning services, whether it was teaching my son to throw a fastball in the park or getting a haircut at the Park Slope Barber Shop. These activities may seem mundane to some, but that’s the thing about a Buberian moment. You don’t know where you’re going to find it. It’s a very personal thing.

I don’t expect anyone to tell me that I’m doing the wrong thing by enjoying Saturday as I see fit. Nobody is going to be that heavy handed. Yet, a judgment about the worth of my kind of weekend activities also seems to be implicit in our remodeling of shabbat. The obvious implication is that one is supposed to be in Temple Saturday morning and involved in only certain kind of activities the rest of the day. There is an additional implication that we reformers have been shamming all these years by trying to cram our sabbath obligations into Friday night. I don’t feel I’ve been shamming.

Give Me That Old Time Religion

I attended services at another congregation this morning. I won’t identify it because at least that way I’m limiting the lashon ha-ra. I feel kind of finky writing about my experience, because the occasion was the bar mitzvah of the son of a dear friend. With that in mind, maybe this entry is best read as an appreciation of my own congregation in Brooklyn.

This was a Saturday morning “bar mitzvah service” in a Reform congregation, so perhaps it’s an unfair sample. But what I saw, and I emphasize saw, reminded me more of a Broadway musical than a participatory religious service. The cantor had a lovely voice and that’s about all I can say for her. Alongside its ritual, cultural and legal traditions, Judaism has a rich musical tradition as well. I had no sense that any of that has made an impression on this cantor. It could have been a performance of the Lion King just as well as a Shabbas morning services. Even worse than the cantor herself was what I’ll call the musical staging. Good liturgical music is kind of like good umpiring. Done well, it adds greatly to the experience, but you don’t want to notice it too much. And if you notice it a lot, there’s probably something wrong.

Unfortunately, I was aware of the music in a negative way at every point in the service. It started with unnecessary background music as we were invited to introduce ourselves to our neighbors in the pews, proceeded with the cantor’s showy -- and unnecessary -- crescendos, and culminated with the vocal and instrumental overlay as the rabbi conferred his benediction on the bar mitzvah. The benediction was a show in itself. We had the distinct impression that the rabbi, whom we couldn’t possibly hear over the music, exaggerated his gesticulations in conjunction with the music to create a visual mood. The scene had the quality of one of those theatrical segments from the Ed Sullivan Show, except with Ed would have given us Zero Mostel, the choreography of Jerome Robbins and the cast of Fiddler.

Perhaps I’m out of line criticizing a congregation to which I’ll probably never return. This is a community that’s been around for more than 150 years and appears to be on top of its game. Still, I’m glad I belong to a place where the commitment to continuity with the tradition is more apparent. That can mean a lot of things – more commentary on the texts, more authenticity in the ritual, more of an effort to promote participation and maybe most important more judgment about bringing secularity into a religious service. I’m all for a rabbi speaking out, and forcefully, on the important ethical issues of our times. And if this sometimes means politics, so be it. The ability to connect modern issues to our ethical and textual traditions may be rabbinics at its best. What we got this morning, however, was an extended talk about Gerry Ford’s legacy (and to be fair also about Teddy Kollek, although the forced comparison between the two really rang wrong).

The rabbi where I daven has a multitude of talents, but one of the things I like most about him is the sense of community he constantly engenders. By this, I mean both our immediate community in Brooklyn, and the community of the ages inherited by every generation of Jews. I didn’t have any sense of that this morning. It was just a little too slick.

Kollekism

The long-time mayor of Jerusalem Teddy Kollek died this week, and by all accounts he was a very decent, and thoroughly authentic leader of the most complicated city on earth. Only good words have been uttered about him, and I wouldn’t presume to say anything negative. And yet, something’s been eating at me reading the encomiums in the local and Israeli press, though it isn’t anything about Kollek himself. In general, the tributes have been to the effect that Kollek represented an aspirational brand of Zionism that has been lost. In that mythic version of Jerusalem, Jew and Arab would live together in cultural symbiosis, each enriching the other by his presence. The problem is that it’s never been anything like that in Jerusalem and probably never will. I wonder how the Arabs felt about Kollek, or more to the point Kollekism? How much did his rich vision of a united city mean to them? It’s a lot easier to think grand thoughts about the oneness of man when you’re in charge. To be sure, history would have treated the Arabs a lot better had they accepted the two state concept about fifty years earlier than they did. But since they had the land first (at least in modern times), they weren’t obligated to. Until we as Zionists accept that reality, I don’t think we’re ever going to reach a meeting of minds with our adversaries. This isn’t a knock on Teddy Kollek personally, but a recognition that he meant a lot more to our side than the other side, which means he really didn’t achieve very much. Of course, I’ll take Kollekism any time over Olmertism, a concept of governance that should bear an empty suit as its emblem.