2013-05-25T23:58:31-04:00 Gabe Crane http://www.huffingtonpost.com/author/index.php?author=gabe-crane Copyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc. HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Gabe Crane Good old fashioned elbow grease. tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1153599 2011-12-16T11:52:03-05:00 2012-02-15T05:12:01-05:00

Gabe Crane http://www.huffingtonpost.com/gabe-crane/ seemingly leave his Orthodox Jewish lifestyle, with which he'd been involved since 2001. (At least, he shaved his beard.) The news sent minor waves through both the entertainment and Jewish world, and indeed, his decision will undoubtedly spark much conversation and potentially angst amongst his followers and fans.

However, his choice carries implications for the wider religious dialogue, and lends hints as to where the intersection of spirituality and culture might now be headed. While there are limitations in drawing too great of conclusions from our celebrities' lifestyles and actions, Matisyahu's choice does represent an important development in the underlying psycho-spiritual evolution of our time.

Born Matthew Paul Miller to a Reconstructionist Jewish family is West Chester, Penn., Matisyahu came into the music world following the band Phish before becoming ba'al teshuva in 2001 and becoming one of the most famous Orthodox Jews of our time to find traction in the secular world. He spent time affiliated with both the Shlomo Carlebach movement and Chabad, and it's become his signature to represent classic Jewish mystical and theological concepts through his music and image. He has become an international celebrity while maintaining a strict observance of Jewish halacha, not performing on Shabbat and offering patrons of his concerts the opportunity to participate in traditional Jewish ritual and prayer.

Now, that's all to change. Last week, Miller posted a beardless photo of himself on Twitter, explaining, "No more Chassidic reggae superstar. Sorry folks, all you get is me."

It's impossible to fully know the personal motivations and circumstances driving Miller's decision, or the full extent and specifics of his decision. He does go on to emphasize, however, that, "I am reclaiming myself." Apparently, he felt a need to return to a looser, more inwardly driven religious practice in the face of the strict rules of the Orthodox sect to which he belonged. To put it colloquially, it seems Orthodox Judaism was cramping his style.

Matisyahu's spiritual and artistic evolution chronicles the desire of many of us to ground the emotive and spiritual modalities of our time in more stable, received traditions. Connecting to venerated institutions (whether religious, political, academic, etc.) serves to give us more confidence and awareness of who we are, and provide a comforting context in which to make sense of the rock concerts, psychedelics, trips to India, new age literature and science that form the spiritual currency of our strange, post-modern age. If we are living in the era of which Yeats famously said, "the centre cannot hold," the psychology of Matisyahu and others like him makes plenty of sense. So says the former Phishhead: "I needed rules. Or else I would somehow fall apart."

Given the disorder becoming widespread in the world today, you don't need to be an LSD-popping groupie in order to feel some trace of his sentiment. In a world of credit crises, environmental change and political instability, this fear of break down is understandable.

Yet, perhaps it is precisely this falling apart that we so desperately need. According to the theory of the chaordic (a term coined by Dee Hock, the founder of Visa, to describe the harmonious and dynamic co-existence of chaos and order), it is out of the chaos of breaking that new order and possibilities emerge. Such a principle, while painful, can be necessary to developing truly regenerative societies. To quote another Jewish musician famous for integrating biblical narratives into his songs, "Ring the bells that still will ring / Forget your perfect offering / There's a crack in everything / That's how the light gets through."

Such an understanding raises problems for those who would seek to find comfort in the received solutions of their predecessors. While an enormous amount of wisdom can be gleaned from being in conversation with our religious traditions (an under-appreciated point that is likely responsible in part for Matisyahu's enormous appeal), the resistance to change and the emergent, evolving truth ultimately creates theologies and lifestyles that are controlling, colorless, one-dimensional, and more often than not, caught up, even if unwittingly, in the oppression of both self and others.

The flipside of this is the world beyond the unknown, the world beyond the horizon of who we presently conceive ourselves to be. It is the world of true art and meaning making. It might also be the world of authentic, personally driven religious practice, too. From the viewpoint of a Western (or specifically in Matisyahu's case, an ultra-Orthodox Jewish) society built largely on order and control, it is easy to become lost in fear at the uncertainty such a journey presupposes. Yet at the same time, this journey must serve, by definition, as the basis for any truly meaningful spiritual paradigm.

How do we access this space? If Matisyahu's evolution is any indication, it's a process that has a lot more to do with making authentic art than with adhering to parochial paradigms.

With the goal of an authentic, liberated spirituality in mind, it's a substantial step in the right direction. Indeed, if his choice is inspired by or informs some wider movement, we might find the implications of such honesty and self-affirmation to be far more impacting than we presently realize.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.982799 2011-09-28T08:10:30-04:00 2011-11-28T05:12:01-05:00

Gabe Crane http://www.huffingtonpost.com/gabe-crane/ teshuvah. Often translated as "repentance," teshuvah means more closely "return," sharing a Hebrew root, or shoresh, with shuv/return. It is a time for a return to the Godhead, a time for a reunion with the compassion of the mother's womb.

Yet, while this is the essential work enacted on Rosh Hashanah and carried to its fulfillment on Yom Kippur, it is not only unclear how to actually perform this task; it is a challenge to even grasp what teshuvah means.

Part of the problem is that the term teshuvah has been co-opted in our time. Its most immediate association, outside of the High Holidays, is with ba'al teshuvah, "master of return," a term used to describe an individual who has taken on a more religiously observant lifestyle. A ba'al teshuvah is said, in religious circles, to grow stronger as he takes upon himself halakhah (Jewish law), and in some instances the garb, customs and belief systems of some of Judaism's most conservative movements.

Fortunately, spiritual strength is not in truth so easily measured. True teshuvah may be, but is not necessarily, toward an increase in halakhic observance. Indeed, the implication that closeness to God is a direct derivative of following the religious rulebook is a falsehood the Jewish world needs to leave behind for good.

The ba'al teshuvah phenomenon reflects, among other things, a desire for clear answers in an ambiguous time. This desire is understandable, given that uncertainty and doubt are no longer the fringe interest of eccentrics and the insane but the defining features of the postmodern age. Our knowledge of existence is informed as much by what we don't know as what we do. We talk about repentance and never straying from the righteous path, yet at the same time stand able to perceive a history that has demonstrated not only the likelihood of further transgression, but the necessity of rebellion and exile to the process of growth and evolution. Even the basic premise of sin and atonement seems at times the precursor to a fundamentalist worldview.

Simply put, it is hard to atone for one's sins when one doesn't know what they are.

Yet while the ba'al teshuvah phenomenon is understandable, the truth is that we would do well to run toward such postmodern murkiness rather than away from it. While the threat of moral ambiguity, even amorality, is real, it is also clear that fundamentalism itself remains the essential evil of our time (talk about a postmodern conundrum!).

As the author Aviva Zornberg said in Jerusalem this week, the truest teshuvah is not toward the answers, but rather, toward an openness to the questions themselves. It is not simply toward knowing, but toward knowing that we don't know. Thus, teshuvah is about saying yes to the conversation. It is away from a final purification from sin, and toward an appreciation for both the exile and the return, toward the shofar blasts both broken and whole. Teshuvah, via a more honest and open relationship with ourselves and the guiding Spirit within, is toward a conscientious transcendence altogether of the dualist paradigm.

As for amorality, beneath this intellectualism a still small voice is speaking. It is speaking from the midst of the relativity of Jonah's boundless and stormy sea. It speaks not of philosophical theories or of strict adherence to halakhah; rather, it speaks of interpersonal understanding, cultural reconciliation and peaceful co-existence. It speaks of an ability to respond flexibly and meaningfully to an ever-evolving world -- an ability aligned with, not opposed to, the true spirit of the Jewish tradition.

Expressed from the heart rather than the intellect, this tiny voice speaks of Love and claims it as our essential constitution. If the danger of the postmodern paradigm is moral ambivalence, it is the very nature of our inner being that will allow us to be redeemed.

Real teshuvah -- teshuvah that works -- necessarily calls up a desire to be a better person; that is, it conjures a religious feeling. If this results in a more committed religious practice, the world is blessed. However, the nature of this practice should be, and should be encouraged to be, as diverse as people's personalities. The true ba'al teshuvah may halakhically tie his shoes, but it is just as likely that, by the very nature of the postmodern precepts, she won't. The best hope for a renewed Judaism is a Jewish people creatively engaged with its tradition from the depth and earnestness of its own experience.

The ba'al teshuvah to be encouraged and celebrated is the person who has looked within to connect with the divine umbilical cord reaching out from the back of her head. It is the person who walks in the ways of Hashem by responding with humor and grace to the infinitely complex needs of the moment. It is the person who knows the One True God because she knows herself. The world is increasingly on the verge of collapse. If we are to resolve the myriad challenges we face, this is the type of ba'al teshuvah that more of us must aspire to be, and become.

The blast of the shofar on Rosh Hashanah calls out to all of us: "Wake up! You have been sleeping!" The slumber is clear. The choice is ours. But to what is it that we awaken? ]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.810325 2011-01-19T22:00:13-05:00 2011-05-25T18:25:24-04:00

Gabe Crane http://www.huffingtonpost.com/gabe-crane/
In recent years, however, this somewhat obscure holiday has been reclaimed by an emerging Jewish environmental movement that sees the holiday as an indicator of their ancestors' concern for the health of the natural world. As a sort of Jewish Earth Day, this moment in mid-winter when the tree sap begins to rise has become a rallying point for an environmental movement with far-reaching ideas about integrating faith and the natural environment, responding to global climate change and reimagining what it means to be Jewish.

"Tu B'Shvat has become important because it's become known as the Jewish environmental holiday," says Leora Mallach, director of the ADVA Network, an alumni association for two prominent Jewish programs, the ADAMAH Jewish Environmental Fellowship and the Teva Learning Center, known for their penchant for incubating Jewish environmental leaders. "That provides a real opportunity for education and awareness within the Jewish community."

The points of connection between trees, the larger environment and Jewish tradition are rich and many: In prophecies surrounding the coming of the Messiah, it is noted that one day the trees will sing and clap their hands; in the Kabbalistic tradition, the 10 Sefirot, or "qualities" of being, are arrayed in Etz Chaim, the Tree of Life -- also a name for the Torah; Eve and then Adam eat from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil; and in a famous, mystical story from the Talmud, Rabbi Akiva and three others ascend into the mysterious realm of "pardes," the orchard.

Nigel Savage, director of the Jewish environmental organization Hazon, has seen the trend develop over the years. Having attended his first Tu B'Shvat seder in 1986, Savage has seen more and more focus around the holiday in every year since then, in no small part thanks to Hazon's own work, providing education and resources to Jewish communities around the country. This year alone, Savage anticipates Tu B'Shvat seders being carried out with Hazon materials in over 100 communities and households around the country.

As Savage notes, "Any Jewish holiday is just a reminder of something we should be thinking about the other 364 days of the year." In that, Hazon has become a leader in substantively connecting ancient traditions to contemporary challenges. Now entering its 11th year, Hazon organizes bike rides on both coasts and in Israel to raise money for environmental organizations and causes, complete with full religious services, local, organic food, and a day off for the Sabbath. Hazon also organizes food conferences, tackling agricultural and food issues in the U.S., fiscally sponsors numerous Jewish environmental start-ups and spearheads the largest faith-based coalition of Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) in the country.

"Tu B'Shvat comes to remind us that our lives depend on the physical world that sustains us," Savage says, "Tu B'Shvat is a day to think about how we power our homes, and how we travel, and the changes we might make in the coming year. Tu B'Shvat is a time to notice that there's going to be a Farm Bill in this country in 2012. The next time the Farm Bill comes through, we should be thinking about equity and food systems."

"You can't find the phrase 'urban food desert' in the Talmud," admits Adam Berman, Executive Director of Urban Adamah, a new program in Berkeley, Calif., based loosely on the aforementioned Adamah that seeks to synthesize organic, local food production, social justice, and Jewish values. But, he says, the values espoused in ancient Jewish thought clearly indicate an imperative to substantive engagement on environmental challenges of our time. "The core Jewish values of ahava, tzedek and chesed speak directly to the issues we are talking about here around social and environmental justice," he says.

In that opinion, Berman is not alone. Progressive Jewish environmental organizations are springing up with surprising speed: From Urban Adamah to another Berkeley-based organization, Wilderness Torah, to the Kayam Farm at the Pearlstone Center in Baltimore, Md., the Kavanah Garden in Toronto, Eden Village summer camp in Dennytown, N.Y., and the Jewish Farm School, leading alternative spring break trips around the country. "There's so many things happening in so many different places around this country," says Mallach, of the ADVA network.

With a rising concern for the environment in the face of global climate change, and in particular an interest in agricultural sources and practices, brought on by the work of writers like Michael Pollen and films like Food, Inc., the Jewish concern for environmental equity and healthy food is far from unique. What is unique about organizations like Hazon, Wilderness Torah, and Adamah is that they are taking on these issues through a religious lens.

In doing so, they are bending what have become standard cultural norms in the way of religion and progressive values. For Zelig Golden, director of Wilderness Torah, engaging in what are traditionally understood as liberal causes is not contradictory to a religious life; in fact, it is what defines it.

"There's a teaching that when you build a city you have to create green belts around the city," he says, "This is Torah. This is ancient scripture. Talking about building greenbelts."

Savage seconds Golden's feeling. "This is one of the places where Jewish tradition has wisdom," he says, "The question is how do we start to evolve a contemporary environmental halacha," or code of law. "Fundamentally, we're in the business of shifting what it means to be Jewish. That's what were trying to do."

In not shying away from modalities that are often perceived as conflicting, the emerging movement is not alone in a shifting American cultural landscape. Mourning those lost in the now-iconic shooting in Arizona, President Obama's adherence to and grounding in a religious faith (as deeply questioned as it may be by his critics) highlighted his ability to appeal to constituencies that lie outside the institutionalized ideas of what is right and left in this country. At a recent talk on environmental action, First Lady Michelle Obama lauded the work of Hazon, among other organizations.

Golden, whose organization seeks to reconnect Jews to the environment through the celebration of the traditional Jewish pilgrimage festivals, sees this synthesis as just one part of a growing paradigm shift. "I don't see Wilderness Torah as an environmental organization," he says, "I see it as a Jewish cultural organization, looking to reawaken the most ancient parts of our culture, to bring us back into relationship with ourselves personally, community, the Earth and ultimately our relationship to God. It actually transcends environmentalism. Wilderness Torah today has just been building 'programs,' Ultimately, these should become embedded cultural experiences that are actually lived out, not just provided by a non-profit organization."

Tali Weinberg's story in many ways encapsulates the journey of many Jews of her generation. A daughter of a kibbutznik father and a second generation holocaust surviving mother, Weinberg went to a Jewish day school growing up and participated in a culturally Jewish, largely secular home. At university she became involved as a political and environmental activist, and explored other spiritual traditions such as Buddhism, meditation, and indigenous First Nation ceremonies in Manitoba.

"I felt like I couldn't really find those streams and important issues within the Jewish community," she says, "I spent eight years really having little involvement with my Jewish identity."

In her mid- to late-20s, she had what she describes as a "reawakening," exploring indigenous, land-based roots in her own religion and culture. She attended Elat Chayim, a Jewish spirituality organization then based in Accord, N.Y., and became involved in the ADAMAH community, serving two seasons as the farm's field manager.

"While I was farming and in the field, I started to integrate some of these ideas," she relates, "It became an embodied experience as opposed to a predominantly intellectual experience. The text was the land itself."

After two years studying permaculture outside of the Jewish context, Weinberg is returning to become the farm manager for Urban Adamah, where she hopes to integrate the design system pioneered by Australians Bill Mollison and David Holmgren with her Jewish background. Whereas permaculture is a recently popularized design strategy that seeks to employ sustainable land use practices by mimicking those systems found in nature, Weinberg sees ancient traditions the world over -- Judaism included -- as speaking to the same idea.

"If you look at some of the permaculture principles and ethics, they're basically a universal articulation of what exists in every part of the globe, in every tradition," Weinberg says. "These are all things that are both in permaculture and in Judaism. Our teachers, our ancestors, really understood how to engage in the land in a sustainable way."

Golden, for one, agrees: "Jewish environmental thought is not new," he says. "It is as ancient as the Jewish tradition. Jewish traditions are connected to the cyclical calendar, which tracks the seasons, tracks the moon cycle, tracks these rhythms.

"You can go right into Genesis, into the stories of Avraham, the stories of Isaac and Jacob ... all these stories take place in an earth-centric environment. Avraham is told to go out from his home into the wilderness. Isaac encounters his beloved while meditating in the field. Jacob has his vision of the ladder and God right here on earth while on what very much seemed like a vision quest, surrounded by stones."

"The next Sabbatical year begins in December 2014," says Savage referring to the biblical practice of letting agricultural fields lie fallow once every seven years. "We want to put shmita on the agenda for jewish community. By December 2014, we want it to be the case that in every synagogue, every classroom, every JCC -- we want there to be a conversation happening."

Maybe he will get his wish. What's happening now, Golden says, is "still very nascent. It's still pre-emergent. We haven't actually hit the big time yet. In a generation, there's going to be a blossoming, as what's now called the Jewish environmental movement will become a mainstream Jewish experience."

"I think it's inevitable that the Jewish community, as all communities of faith in this country, will embrace the values that we are espousing," argues Berman, the Urban Adamah director. "All religions will cease to be compelling if they aren't speaking to these issues, as they become more prevalent, as more and more people realize that engaging with these issues is essential to meaning, joy, happiness, connection and life."

If so, larger things may be looming on the horizon. What was once an accounting of tree inventory in ancient Israel may be emerging as the accounting of a movement. "What we're seeing in the community," Golden says, "Is just the sap beginning to run."
]]>