Harry Potter and the Golden Foundational Myth

So this past week I've been following the buzz surrounding the new "Harry Potter" film. As friends of mine who either a) don't have a 2 year old or b) have better babysitting saunter off for Midnight showings and get their Muggle on and the film cruises toward the $300 mil mark (first HP film since the first), I've been thinking of the meaning of all this Hogwarts hoopla. (Full disclosure: I like the films and am happy to wear t-shirts with the above image because it's funny. My wife, however, is pretty sure she's undercover for the Ministry of Magic.)

There have been other series of children's fantasy stories that have captured the imagination (CS Lewis' Narnia stories, Tolkien's the Lord of the Rings is an obvious example) of youth, but these books have been different. For one, their reach has been greater and faster. The Lord of the Rings may command legions of elf-eared followers today, but for years it didn't have the same cache. Additionally, unlike the other examples (and most similar literatures) this one was written by a woman. Yes, the chief protagonist is a lad, and there's nothing overtly feminine or masculine about the story (though the presence of a group of serious female secondary characters is a nice side bonus), and yet one can't help but notice the protection Harry and his friends enjoy is almost matronly; unlike Aslan, who encourages his charges to be brave and remains a distant figure, Dumbledor and crew are very much present in the lives of our merry band. Finally, though they're not obviously written with the intention of being a parable, they have spoken to an entire generation and very much have grown up with that generation, as Harry and company (and their readers) have gone from childhood through adolescence into early adulthood. While the last book came out some years ago, the movie release has all the trappings of a cultural phenomenon (it even comes with Hogwarts' themed pop music).

What makes these stories successful--or any children's literature--is that it's not just telling a compelling a story, nor trying to take itself too seriously (I'm looking at you, Eragon!), but somehow, telling our story. Yes, our lives are much more mundane; we do not go to schools with moving dormitories surrounded by man-eating spiders, we do not play soccer on broomsticks and mostly, the most evil person in the world isn't out to kill us, but we can easly empathize with his troubles; a family that doesn't know what to do with him, bullies on the playground, the angst and doubt and loneliness of being a teenager, as well as the more overt tales of ego, the abuse of power, authority figures preserving position rather than protecting their charges. And surrounding that we read the story of a boy evolving into a hero; through good mentors, loyal friends, adventures that raise him up and carry him down to the absolute depths. Whether intentional or not, Harry's story works because it doesn't stop at being a romanticized story of growing up nor a mere adventure tale, but is archetypal in its reach. It is, essentially, modern mythology, a foundational story. We understand who we are as a culture in this moment better through those books and these characters. Yes, it's escapist literature--so was the Illyad and the Aeniad. But like those two books (that were modern pieces of literature once) or Shakespeare, they teach us something about our society and our values.

I bring all this up because I think it's important for us to understand the idea of foundational literature, to appreciate what is meant by myth. So often we use the term to mean the opposite of true, and yet myths really get to the deeper truths. They convey through metaphor ideas that we may not be able to utter or identify but that we can all appreciate. This is why Torah (and the whole of Jewish literature) is so compelling; we may learn nothing 'historical' from the books of Tanakh, but we learn what values our ancestors held dear and come to appreciate what it means for us to be a society, a civilization, a religion, a people. Likewise, when we hear the stories of fellow congregants about their experiences in the congregation; those stories become foundational and eventually mythological and shape the culture of a place profoundly, such that the story ceases to belong merely to the original teller, but eventually belongs to the whole community, even generations later. When Sonia Sloan shares with the congregation the stories of her great aunt and grandparents and parents and their connections to Beth Emeth, they cease to 'merely' be the stories of one family and become everyone's stories, and even if we forget the details ('where did that priestly benediction come from?') we have some latent understanding--inarticulated, metaphorical--of what it means to be a member of this congregation.

So hopefully my wife (and maybe even I) will get to see the film before it's out on DVD. In the meantime, I'm going to be listening and learning the stories this congregation and its members have to share. While they may want for special effects, they're no less magical.

Some pics from this morning's study session

Torah study? In Borders?

My friend, Rabbi Eric Goldberg, recounted to me a story of a conversation he'd had with a Chabad (Lubavitch) Rabbi. The local Chabad community had just built a new building and Eric complimented them on the place. The Chabadnik graciously accepted the compliments but followed that up by saying, "you know, it's not about the building."

Synagogues (and JCC's, Moshe Houses, etc.) can be wonderful gathering places filled ith learning and love, labor and support. They can also be (for some) intimidating, like going into a private residence of a person you don't know. As important as it is to have a physical spiritual home, some place that you can look around and feel welcomed, a sense of belonging, it's also sometimes important to take those sentiments and that sense of community and 'port' it outside the building itself. There's a reason the first dedicated holy place for the Israelites was the mishkan , a temporary, portable dwelling place; so that Israel could always take that sense of community (and the holiness necessary to frame the community) with them everywhere.

It was with that in mind (among other, more practical reasons) that a bunch of us met at the Borders in Wilmington to do a little Torah Study. I was approached by Sybil Schwartz and a few others asking whether I'd be willing to teach a little something different, maybe Haftarah. The summer happens to be a perfect time to study Haftarah, with the 10 Haftarot of rebuke and consolation that mark the movement from the 17th of Tammuz to the 9th of Av to the High Holidays and Sukkot. So I told them that if they got me 10 people (that seemed like a nice number for some reason) I'd teach at the Borders, where they met last summer. After marketing it pretty thoroughly, 49 of us got together in the cafe at 9:30am to study Jeremiah, with the plan of gathering again the following week.

Was this due to curiosity over the new guy? Most likely. Did the marketing help tremendously? Without a doubt, but I'm pretty sure that, by having it in a public space, a safe space, we made this study session (blessings and all) accessible to people who had never considered studying Haftarah, unaffiliated Jews and non-Jews, and even members of other congregations.

Sometimes it really isn't about the building; it's about the learning and the experience that we can share. Now, the question is: how do we take that energy and 'port' it back to the synagogue itself?

Learning from others

So a pastor/high school buddy of mine posted a blog entry to his Facebook (Thanks David!), which caused me to go looking around and find this entry. Yes, both are filled with the language of the Church and Christianity, but both share a lot of insight into the problems we have in Jewish congregational life today. The over-reliance on staff (who burn out in the process), the desire to grow the membership base without paying attention to what brought people to the congregation in the first place (especially the mission and vision of the congregation), the desire to be all things to all people and instead be burdened with false expectations from laity and staff alike.

So, let me ask this question: what makes a congregation (Jewish or Christian) 'good', from a staff and a volunteer perspective? What qualities are you looking for in a spiritual home? I'd love to hear from those of you who have volunteered and who work professionally in the congregational world...

Sermons up

Sermon page is up. You can find it here.

Don't look for a sermon each week; I'm going to be alternating with text studies (this week on Parashat Pinchas) and we've got some guest preachers this summer, but expect it to be updated pretty regularly. I may try to figure out a way to include a write-up for the text studies a la the URJ Shabbat Torah Table, but we'll have to see if I get that formal (or if it even makes any sense!).

Just a couple of pics from this week.

A couple of pics from my hanging the mezuzot on the doors of my office. We had a nice little crowd of mostly staff to help me sanctify the moment of starting my new position. Thanks to Jerry Arenson for the pictures and Cantor Mark Stanton for the hammer.

So, who are you again?

So this week was a good first week. Great first day, wonderful first service last night (everyone was really lovely and happily overlooked my multiple snafus), and a lovely first meet & greet at Esther and Paul Timmeney's house in Chalfont.

Meet & Greets are essential to the transition process for any clergy person. I did a bunch when I became assistant rabbi at Shir Ami and I'm doing 11 or so here at CBE. I see it as a first date with the congregants; a chance for people to get to know me and ask me questions, as well as a chance for me to know the individuals in the community better. It is not, as Bill Kahn and Terry Bookman point out, an opportunity to understand the gestalt of a congregation nor to start formulating a vision for the community. That happens after a lot more work and energy getting to know people and their values, the congregation itself and its history and traditions, and really living in the congregation in a meaningful way. Sure, I might have ideas at this stage (mostly based on my personal vision of my rabbinate), but it would be the epitome of hubris for me to redact any kind of meaningful agenda after getting to know a self-selected group of congregants in my first summer.

It is a chance to ask questions, though, and, as I said, to get to know one another better. I thought the questions on Wednesday night at the Timmeney's were great: probing, respectful, curious and helpful for creating a framework of exploration for all of us. Sadly, I was so caught up answering others' questions I forgot to ask my own!

So here's my question (and it's the same two I'll ask at every M&G): Why did you join CBE (or your own congregation)? And why are you still a member?

The reason I ask those questions is pretty basic: it's self-evident at this point in Jewish history that the days of affiliation for its own sake are long gone. People belong to a shul (or JCC, or chavurah, or whatever) because of a sense of need and belonging; that is, the congregation (using that as a baseline) fulfills something for the individual member and allows the individual member to fulfill something in others. Joining a synagogue is a consumer act, on face value ("I joined to have my kids 'bar mitzvahed'", "I joined because my family always belonged here", "I joined because I liked the Cantor", etc.), but staying a member is an act that transcends simple needs fulfillment and enters the realm of community building.

So, for those of you reading out there, riddle me this: why do you belong to the community you belong to (be it Shir Ami, CBE, or another one) and what compels you to stay?