Yom Kippur, the Humanist way

Today I taught my students a little bit about Yom Kippur. We went over some of the common practices (fasting, repenting, wearing white) and wrote our own Ashamnu* (alphabetical listing of sins) which is a hard exercise if you ever want to try it. Because I teach in a Reform Congregation, I taught my students that Yom Kippur is the day we repent for sins against God. (We should repent for sins against other people, and make amends for them, before Yom Kippur begins.)

After school, I was wondering how I can apply this practice now that I don't believe in God, and I realized that the other purpose of Yom Kippur is to repent for sins against myself. I spend all year making mistakes and apologizing for them, but I never really apologize to myself for the sins I commit against myself. Perhaps this is the real purpose of Yom Kippur. Because honestly, why would God care if I say a prayer without my heart being in it, or if I don't observe Shabbat fully? It doesn't hurt God any, but it hurts me if I waste my time. God, in theory, is eternal, after all.

Now, I'm not being sappy about this. Some people say we should forgive ourselves and pledge to be easier on ourselves at this time of year. Forgive ourselves for the times we judged ourselves harshly, for the times we only saw the bad in ourselves and didn't acknowledge the good, and that sort of thing. And I suppose that's part of it, sure. But that's easy. I mean that we should do the hard work Yom Kippur was intended to support, but do it without imagining a judgmental anthropomorph looking over our shoulders.

Which is hard.

And it's why I think religion helps. It's not easy to honestly take account of oneself. But Yom Kippur is structured to help us do just that. When we recite the Al Chet, we think about the sins that are so common in our community that we probably did them ourselves, or will do them. When we chant the Ashamnu we do the same. And honestly, I think it's also useful to think about the sins of our community. If we live in a community where adultery is rampant, we are less likely to keep our own promises. If we live in a community where vanity is the norm, how can we, as individuals, hope to escape it completely? If our community does not do enough for others, what can we do to change that?

All of this is part of Yom Kippur, and it's one of the things that's useful about religion. Because after all, Judaism was created by human beings. We can be accountable to ourselves and one another at this time of year and work to be better, individually and as a community. And we don't need God to do it.

*I couldn't find a translation I loved of the Ashamnu. If anyone can recommend one, let me know. This one is usable for anyone who isn't familiar with the prayer at all.

High ???? Days

It's that time again. Rosh Hashana has come and gone and soon it will be Yom Kippur. The High Holidays bring up all kinds of issues for Jewish Atheists. Do I go to work? Do I attend services? Which rituals do I observe and which do I skip?

These aren't significantly different, of course, from the questions any Reform Jew asks at this time of year: once you make religion a matter of choices, then everything requires thought. I suppose the new question is why?

But let's begin with the what. Here's what I did:

1) A pre-Rosh Hashana brunch at my parents' house. We ate apples and honey and a round raisin challah, and it was my job to explain to my brother's kids, who are growing up "culturally half-Jewish" what it was all about.

2) Dinner at home with the fam for Erev Rosh Hashana. Mr. Jewess made fish, which is a bit of a treat since I went vegetarian a year ago (I'm trying to eat fish now because I haven't been getting enough protein) and we talked about our personal goals for the new year and our hopes for the world in the new year.

4) A morning family service for 3rd through 6th graders at our congregation, at which I read the prayers before and after the Haftorah reading.

5) Picked up some food at Whole Foods which we brought home and ate for lunch. I was hoping for kugel and brisket (and something vegetarian for me) but wound up with latkes and wheat berry salad.

Here's what I didn't do:

1) A formal dinner of any kind.

2) Erev Rosh Hashana services

3) Tashlich

4) A second day of Rosh Hashana.

Why?

Starting from the bottom, I've never celebrated a second day of Rosh Hashana and I see no reason to start now. I think it's a sign of the loss of focus I'm seeing within the Reform Movement that many congregations (including ours) now celebrate a second day of Rosh Hashana. We dropped it for a reason. For many reasons, actually, all of which had to do with logic. Now we're bringing it back because people want it. Okay, that happened with Bar Mitzvah before I was born, and I guess I'm okay with that, but if we're going to do it, there should be some reason, logic and meaning behind it.

The same goes for Tashlich. I've actually tried that, but it makes no sense and doesn't really move me.

We didn't get invited to dinner anywhere because my parents wanted to include my brother and he could only come for lunch Sunday. That's cool, although it was a little strange not having plans on Erev Rosh Hashana. I think if that happens again I'll plan something myself. I didn't go to services because Mr. Jewess didn't want to and I didn't care enough to argue.

Basically, I tried to bring meaning to everything that I did. Lunch Sunday, to me, was about family. I played in the playground with The Little Jewess and my niece and nephew and joked with my brother and his wife while we ate, so that was good. Lunch Monday was more complicated. I didn't really believe it was Rosh Hashana because I hadn't had "Jewish" (Eastern European) food. There's definitely that cultural bit there. But that's never been the whole holiday to me.

I think this time of year is one of the most healthy things about the Jewish calendar. It's a really good thing to think about what you can do better, and how you can help make the world a better place. The service I went to also drew some attention (just a little) to how we can be better parents. But I sat in services and thought about the prayers and what that word "God" means to me. I still find the prayers valuable, but I'm not sure to do when the prayers are particularly God-focused. Some of the prayers are asking God to help us. That's cool with me because I can just scan past the God bit and think of it as a metaphor, and then concentrate on the bit I want help with, realizing that I need to help myself or ask for help from other people. But thanking God for making me a Jew is a bit harder to comprehend when you no longer believe in God. What's left to believe in in that sentence?

So that's what it comes down to: What's a holy day when you don't believe in holy?

Which I guess is the point of this whole blog, really. Thoughts?

A little light reading

I went to the library on Friday feeling like it was time for me to do more homework. After all, November is coming ever closer and I recently received a phone call from the Programming Officer of my Humanist Group asking me to send a description of my presentation and my qualifications to our group Secretary.

So I checked out some good ones: The Portable Atheist and Religion for Atheists (which I'm determined to read all the way through this time.) But while searching for "atheist" in the catalogue, I came across God, No! by Penn Jillette. I'm a big Penn and Teller fan, and I've been meaning to read this book for a while, so I decided it would be more fun to start with this one and move into the more serious discourse after that.

I'm almost half-way through, and I have some really mixed feelings about this book. On the one hand, Penn is funny, and I am really enjoying his 10 Suggestions. On the other hand, he swears way too much, and in the most vulgar way, and he appears to be a misogynist. Oh, sure, there are some women he seems to respect--his mother, his wife, and the lesbian minister who didn't ask his family to return to the church when they left--but in general, he seems to think that women were placed on this earth (or evolved, I suppose) for his personal sexual enjoyment.

Also, Penn is most certainly a Christian Atheist. He said, "I don't understand atheists who claim to also be Jewish. ...I hear hard-core atheists claim that they are Jewish because their moms were Jewish. That's not a genetic rule, that's a religious rule, and if you're not religious, you don't follow religious rules." (P. 33) That, my friends, is a Christian view of religion if I ever heard one.

I don't believe in God. I do believe in religion. There are many, many things I like about Judaism and being Jewish. I believe that Judaism was created by people and is maintained by people. I believe everything in it should be open for interpretation. But there's a lot about it that is very sensible and the structure of it is helpful in many ways. And Judaism has always been about questioning and interpreting. That's why I think the Hasidim are wrong. Somewhere along the line, they stopped questioning, and started imitating. They closed themselves off from the world. I don't think that's real Judaism, and when I believed in God I didn't think that was what God intended us to do.

But I have the freedom to make these distinctions because I was born a Jew. As a Jew, nobody ever asks you what you believe, they ask what you do. "Do you keep kosher? Do you keep Shabbat? Do you daven after dinner?" are all acceptable questions for a Jew to ask another Jew. But nobody ever asks about beliefs. And there is no creed, so we are not asked to promise to believe in anything. So Jewish Atheists do not see a clear and solid demarcation between belief and non belief. Some people keep kosher and don't believe in God. Others believe firmly in God but sit in mixed-gender seating. Your typical Orthodox Jew would be more comfortable with the kosher non-believer than the believing mixed-gender-sitter.

Christians, on the other hand, recite their creed every Sunday. It is a fact that a person who does not believe Jesus is the son of God is not truly a Christian. So for them, Atheism is a much brighter line. Becoming Atheist means that one is no longer a Christian. It all goes out the window in one fell swoop. But let's face it: there are plenty of Atheists who don't eat bacon. There's nothing about Atheism that requires the mixing of milk and meat, or working on Saturday, or eating bread in the springtime. And discussing Biblical passages with Atheists is downright fun.

So, Penn Jillette, why should I stop? Because it doesn't make sense? Of course it doesn't. But I'm Jewish, and not only does my being Jewish not hurt anyone, I teach kids to be skeptical about Jewish teachings and to participate in social justice activities. Objectively, these are good things. So no, Penn, I won't bend to your Christian definition of religion, no matter how hard you argue that it's really free thought. I'm not going to fit into the box you want to put me in. I grew up with a different set of boxes.

Man Seeks God

I recommend Man Seeks God, by Eric Weiner. It's a really interesting memoir about a man who searches around the world for something he's missing. In the book, Weiner explores eight different religions (although mainly the mystical branches of these religions) in an effort to "find his God." In the end, he concludes that his premise was wrong, but he's much more comfortable with religion, specifically Judaism, than he was at the beginning.

He comes to Judaism (his family's faith) through Kabbalah, which he studies in Tsfat in Israel. I find Kabbalah fascinating because it is an individual approach to Judaism, but I can't subscribe to it myself because its focus is a direct connection to God. However, some of Weiner's conclusions about Judaism really resonated with me. For example, he points out that because Judaism is so old and has survived so much, it is flexible. That so much of Judaism involves questioning and challenging, not subscribing to a creed. I think this is why so many famous scientists have been Jewish.

He also points out that if people like him (and me) leave Judaism, then the only people left will be the ones who focus on doctrine to the exclusion of everything else. And he emphasizes again and again that "Truth is what works."

So even as I take the first step towards becoming a Humanist Celebrant, I am comfortable remaining a Jew, a Religious School Teacher, and an active member of a Reform Congregation.

So many things in religion are what Weiner describes as "post-it notes for the soul--" things that remind you to pay attention, to help others, to take care of yourself. These things are good even without God (and without a soul, even.) And recently, while listening to a podcast about money, it occurred to me that if money only works because we believe in it, maybe other things can be evaluated the same way. Sure, I understand that the paper in my wallet has no intrinsic value, but I believe in it because thousands of times in my life I have handed it to someone and gotten stuff in return.

Prayer works for me, too. I never believed in prayer really. I didn't think that if I prayed for something, God would do it. But prayer has always worked for me. I love the ritual and community experience of services. I like the way it feels in my body and the way it focuses my mind. I like learning something new as my focus changes because of the vocabulary I've been teaching at school or the experiences I've had that week. And silent prayer is a chance to list the things I want for myself--peace, generosity of spirit, the ability to forgive. I think that meditating on these things is a useful task, even though nobody else is listening. Focusing my attention on the ways I want to improve has to be a good use of time. So in that way, it works. So why not?

And there's something to be said for participating in rituals that have supported my ancestors for thousands of years. Sure, I understand them in a different way, but I understand freedom in a different way from the Founding Fathers, and I still consider myself an American. I am a Jew. I can't run away from that, whatever I do. Humanistic Judaism doesn't seem like the place for me, so like Weiner, I'm going to have to find my own path.

Simchat Torah

When I started listening to Humanist podcasts, I thought it would only be fair to throw in a Jewish one, so I listen weekly to the JTS Weekly Torah Commentary. It was sort of a random decision: there it was on iTunes, so I subscribed. On the one hand, I like keeping up with the weekly parsha, and it's a convenient way to do so. On the other hand, Exodus is bogging things down a bit, which seems odd since Exodus is such a great story.

I was listening to the podcast yesterday on my way to work when I drifted off (we are in Exodus, have I mentioned?) and started thinking about why Torah is even important to me. I think it started because I had been reading about the riots in Afghanistan because of some Korans that were accidentally burned by American soldiers. People have died, and I thought, "These are books. You can print more." I wondered, then, how I would feel about people burning Torahs. And I'd be angry. I'd be viscerally angry, because the Torah means so much to me. So I can understand that much, but I hope I'd stop short of violence, because in the end, a Torah is an object. And if the people who burned them apologized and weren't trying to stop us from making more, then I'd have to get over it.

But that brought me to the question of my relationship to Torah. If I don't believe in God, then what's the big deal? And I remembered that when I spoke to the Humanist Rabbi, I was disturbed to find out that Humanistic Jews don't revere the Torah. But if I don't believe in God, why does that bother me?

And then, maybe because I was getting close to work, I started thinking about my conversation with David, which I blogged about before. David is a 63-year-old black undergraduate student at the University where we work, and he was telling me about his theory (he's a philosophy major) that the stories a community tells itself have a lot to do with the success of the community. He even pointed out that the stories don't have to be true.

When I put those two things together, it all started to make sense. To me, without Torah I'm not sure we're Jews. And I think David's theory is the reason. The Torah is our story, or at least the beginning of our story. So whether you believe that we are Jews because we obey certain laws or because God made a covenant with us or because we have a certain history and culture in common, the Torah is the root. At the very least, the Torah--the physical object--is a symbol of our cultural story. And I don't think we will benefit from dismissing our story.

The story has always been that we revere the Torah because it is the word of God. Because of that, we are to literally risk our lives to save a Torah. People have run into burning buildings to save Torahs. People buried them when the Nazis were coming and went back years later to resurrect the Torahs. We have one in our congregation that was purchased from a community that no longer exists--everyone was killed, but we have the Torah. Does owning that Torah bring us closer to God? Or does it help us remember the people who saved the Torah in the first place?

Maybe the reason that Jews have survived for so long despite the odds is that we have something bigger to believe in. And that something is not God: it's us.

My brother is not "of the faithful." He has nothing Jewish in his house, he married outside the faith, and although his wife was raised without religion, they have a Christmas tree and celebration every year. Still, he wants his children to celebrate Chanukah and attend a seder and eat chicken soup and fahnkuchen. Why?

I think the reason is that he wants his children to know their story. His story. No matter how involved he's become in the American story, the hipster story, and even the story from his wife's culture, he's still connected to the Jewish story and although he doesn't feel the need to connect his children to a Jewish community, he wants them to know the Jewish story.

So why would we throw out something so powerful?

For centuries, Jews have celebrated the Torah and used it as a symbol. We have literally danced with it, literally passed it from generation to generation, literally tasted sweetness from its parchment. Because the Torah is a symbol. By literally passing the scroll to a child at her bat mitzvah, a parent symbolically hands down all of our learning, the wisdom of generations: our story. Ours, not God's. If we don't believe in God, then we don't believe that God wrote the Torah. People wrote the Torah. Our ancestors wrote the Torah in order to set down a dramatized version of history along with all of our laws so that future generations would have that story to pass to our children. It's a story powerful enough to have sustained us for thousands of years and to spawn two other religions that have done a pretty good job of taking over the world. The greatest story ever told.

If we give that up, what are we?

What I want to do

A few things have got me thinking about what I want. First, it was listening to the Greg Epstein interview I linked to in my last post. Then I had a really interesting conversation with a co-worker who is studying Hebrew but knows very little about Judaism. And this morning I read Ethan's comments on my response to him. 

If you don't know anything about Greg Epstein, you can listen to the interview I linked to, check out the Humanist Community Project (link in the list at right), or read his book, Good Without God. I love the work that he is doing. Now, although Epstein is ordained as a Humanist Rabbi, he seems to be identifying mostly as a Humanist, and less so as a Jew. I think this is partly his own inclination and partly because his role at Harvard is as the Humanist Chaplain, so he needs to address all of his constituents, not only those of Jewish origin or inclination. Although he does talk about making a Humanist Seder for Passover in his book, I think most of his public work at Harvard is more generally Humanist.

In the interview, he talks about his role at Harvard and in the larger Cambridge community. He is helping people to form communities in different ways, and through his website, studying Humanist communities around the world to find out what works so that others may emulate best practices.

I don't think I can get away from my Jewish origins. As I have said previously, I love many things about Judaism, and what has stopped me in the past from exploring Unitarianism or even Ethical Culture is that I don't think I can quite cope, psychologically, with a Sunday service. Services on Sundays feels Christian to me in a way that I don't seem to be able to get past, even for Ethical Culture.

But I love the idea of helping people to satisfy their needs for ritual and community in ways that feel right to them. I would love to spend my life helping people to write life cycle ceremonies that meet their individual needs (I loved writing my own wedding ceremony, which is something I should blog about at another time.) And I would also love to help people form communities that meet their spiritual needs. So I'm hoping that Epstein's project spreads far and wide so that someday, when the Little Jewess isn't financially dependent on us anymore, I can spend my time doing those things.

Then there's my co-worker, David. David is currently studying Philosophy at the University where we work, and decided to take Hebrew to satisfy his language requirement because he felt that as a Christian, he should be able to read the Bible in its original languages. (Then he started studying Hebrew and gave up on ever learning Greek and Aramaic, but I still admire the original goal.) We started talking about Philosophy and his goal, which is to find ways through Philosophy to help African Americans change the way they think about themselves so that they can break the cycle of poverty. And he felt that as a Jew, I'd be able to understand something about cultural trauma. David thinks, though that one advantage Jews have is our long history. We always have that story and tradition to keep us going, whereas African Americans lost their history because of slavery.

So I told him about the Jewish idea that we must teach our children four things: to cook, to read, to swim and to earn a living (by giving them an education or a trade.) In my opinion, it is this that has saved the Jews time and again, because although we have suffered many traumas that have forced us to emigrate, those traumas oppress only one generation. That generation may lose their financial footing, but they will make sure that their children are educated and have financial opportunities.

And David asked me a very interesting question. Because of our long history, are there tensions between Jews who want to keep the old ways and those who want to move with the times?

Oh, David.

But thanks to those who have commented here, I may have given a different answer than I otherwise would have.

I said, "Yes and no."

And I explained to him that while we have very strong disagreements sometimes, there is a concept that keeps us all together and makes us accountable to one another.

Which brings me to Ethan. I think, Ethan, that I may have overstated my case. I do not think we can force anyone out of Judaism. And I think there are many who observe the basic tenets of the faith but who think reasonably about what they do. It's one of the things I love about Judaism--that we can study and discuss and draw our own conclusions. And that's one thing that bothers me about the fundamentalists. Why freeze Judaism at one point in time? They dress like it's the 19th century and act like it's the 19th century and say "This is Judaism and it must never change again!" It's foolish.

I'm looking for a community that does take learning seriously, but doesn't impose obligations on its members. At least, not unreasonable obligations. There is a point, I suppose, where one can do so little as to not really be a member. A club I just joined requires attendance at 4 meetings per year and a certain amount of participation in order to maintain benefits. That makes sense, because if one does less than that, one isn't really participating in the club, and so it's fair to say that person isn't really a member. A congregation could require something similar.

But I understand the Reform Movement's hesitation to place such requirements on its members. Because if you only need the community when your mother dies, can we turn you away? If you want to enroll your children in Religious School, can we turn you away? If we say that those who only show up on High Holy Days shouldn't come at all, what are we then?

I seem to have turned a corner to another train of thought (to mix my metaphors.) I think that will require another post.

Atheism in America

I just read this article on Slate.com. It made me think about coming out. Why don't I? I'm keeping this blog anonymous and not promoting it in any of the ways I normally would (like mentioning it to my friends on Facebook) so that I can keep my atheism in the closet. Why?

A few reasons, really. For one thing, I doubt my commitment. Part of me thinks this is all a mid-life crisis, and eventually I'll go back to belief, as hard as that is to imagine. After all, I gave up eating meat at around the same time I stopped believing in God, and I had shrimp salad for lunch today. To some extent, I am going back. I love my Jewish community and when it came time to pray for the sick this Friday night at services, I found myself saying my brother's name. Why? I don't believe that God will intervene to cure my brother's ear infection.

But I do believe it's a good thing to share one's concerns with a community. Were I to start a Humanistic Jewish community, I would have to find a way to share news: illnesses and deaths require support, and sharing joys brings a community together.

So there I was, asking the community to pray for my brother's health.

And then there's my job. I teach religion. To children. What would happen if I came out at work? As I have previously shared, I already discussed this with my Rabbi, but even then I asked her to keep the conversation private. Now, Judaism does not have a creed, so there is no requirement that a Jew believe in God. But if you say that to someone who does believe, they get very uncomfortable. And when I ask the parents of my students what they want for their children, I usually get responses like "to form a personal relationship with God." Would they trust me to teach their children if I came out? Is it even okay for me to be teaching these children anymore? And if not, where do I go?

I'm not living in a part of the country where being an atheist is scandalous. I have plenty of friends who don't believe, or don't believe much. And plenty more who don't believe in God, exactly, but in some kind of "power in the Universe." And yet...I'm in the closet.

You don't own me

After my earlier rant, Eliezer Pennywhistler commented:

Unless you have also ejected Kol Yisrael Arevim Ze-ba-Zeh from your Judaism, you are fully associated with them.

Don't keep running away. Deal with it.

I've been thinking about this all day for two reasons.

1) I think I do want to eject kol Yisrael arevim ze-ba-zeh ("all of Israel are responsible for each other's actions") from my Judaism. I think that was my point about Reform Judaism: I thought we already did. Why do I have to own the actions of people who wouldn't deign to touch me? Why can't I stand up, as moderate Muslims have done with their extremists, and say, "This is not Judaism as I know it?" And more than that, why do I have to put up with the world seeing them as the "Real Jews" and me as something less? 

What this does is allow THEM to own US. It is the language that implies that I could be a better Jew, that there are degrees of Judaism, that offends me constantly. And it's what bothers me about the way we, as Reform Jews, teach our children. We lead a secular life that sometimes doesn't even include attendance at services or any kind of prayer, then send our children to a school where they are told that Jews do this and that--things of which they may never have heard before--and we wonder why they grow up to marry non-Jews. We teach them that it is wrong to discriminate, that women are equal to men, that lobster is delicious and Shabbat is meaningless, and then let the world believe that the Orthodox are the "real Jews." Well, then--what does that make us? If we are not real Jews, what are we doing? And if we are real Jews--if we can be real Jews without sexism and kashrut and Shabbat--then what is Judaism? Or Jewishness?

2) Which brings me to Eliezer's second point. He accuses me of running away. Oddly, he is the first person to do this. And it makes me wonder.

Clearly, I am running away. I have described this (but maybe not here) as my mid-life crisis. That, I will own. And I know this atheism was born of a repulsion I feel toward the Religious Right. So in that regard, I am running away. I'm running away from being perceived as a Religious Jew--a title that I previously fought to have applied to me as a believing Reform Jew, but which now makes me think of hatred, violence and oppression. And in general I prefer the "deal with it" approach to the "running away" approach.

I would also argue that this blog is my attempt to deal with it. I am searching for the other Jews who believe as I do: 

• That equal rights, freedom and dignity for all is essential
• That careful choices about eating can be made on a scientific, rather than textual, basis
• That God probably doesn't exist, but Torah and Talmud do, and there is wisdom in those texts--wisdom that comes from people who have lived before us.
• That questioning is the primary responsibility of the Religious
• That people should be judged based on their actions above all else

because I want to be part of a community, and I want to enjoy the joy and comfort I have taken from rituals all my life. And also because I want to have a voice in the larger Jewish discussion, and I think many voices are louder than one. I want the world to know that the Orthodox are not the only Jews, that Progressive Jews are just as authentic as anyone, and that we, as Progressive Jews, reject the behavior of those who use Judaism as a vehicle for hatred. We reject them based on their actions and we reject their assertion that their desire to control other people has anything to do with God or Judaism. 

So, faced with extremists, my response is, "You don't own me, and I will not own your behavior. I am NOT responsible for what you do and you may not blame my religion for your actions. Neither may you tell me what to do or how to understand the texts we share. I am a smart, well educated, thoughtful Jewess, and I can make my own decisions about where to pray and how to dress and what to eat. If you can't, that's your problem."

Why do we let the Orthodox control us?

I just read this excellent article on Slate.com. It's about the effect of the Ultra-Orthodox on Jewish life in Israel. I related to this article way too deeply, because in some ways it expresses my frustrations with the Reform Movement.

Why do we allow the Orthodox to be the keepers of "real" Judaism? Reform Judaism should be like Protestantism. A definite choice was made to separate from Orthodoxy and to make decisions based on common sense, scientific knowledge and reason rather than ancient tradition and superstition. So why the return? Why does a female Rabbi who wears trousers and a kippah when leading services also bow during the Barechu and insist on celebrating a second day of Rosh Hashana? Why must we show respect to our fellow Jews, even when they are wrong, even when they spit on us and abuse children walking to school? Is it because of the Holocaust? Because Hitler saw no difference between us, we must band together even with people who would grant me no rights as a human being? We're talking about people who would not consider my marriage valid or my daughter a Jew. I don't wish violence upon them, but neither do I wish to be associated with them in any way.

This is what is driving my retreat from Judaism and my alienation from God. I don't want to be associated with the religious if being religious means fearing women, disavowing science and trampling human rights. Why does it feel like my only two choices are religion which moves ever rightward and reason, which turns its back just as forcefully on ritual, celebration and community?

I want to be--no, I am--a Progressive Jew. I believe in science, individual choice and equal rights for all. I love ritual, beauty and community. Why can't I have both?

Note: There is a follow up to this post here.

What am I looking for, anyway?

People keep asking me what my ideal congregation would look like. I guess I should take a stab at it.

1. A vibrant community I'd like to find a multi-generational community where people care about each other and the congregation. It would be nice if most of the people were middle-class and not ostentatious. I want The Little Jewess to learn that who you're with is more important than what you spend. And I'd like a core group of people who attend regularly that I could get to know and depend upon.

2. Liberal Values I want to celebrate with the 99%. One thing that draws me to Humanism is their stance on human dignity. I'd like a congregation where people are committed to social justice, and active in pursuing dignity for all people.

3. Science Rational thought is essential. I've always taken a rational approach to religion. It's part of being a Progressive. But now that I don't believe in God, a strong belief in science and the ability to apply reason to religious text and tradition is that much more important to me.

4. School I have a background in Education as well as Religion, so I judge schools very critically. The Little Jewess needs to be in a school (and we're talking Sunday School here--she's all set with secular school) where she is encouraged to think and to question. I want her to grow up feeling secure in her community, but also free to think, argue, discuss and question religious texts. I believe this is the best way to combat fundamentalism, and it's also the best way to be happy. Because we can only make good choices if we've thought through all of the possibilities. If we're slaves to doctrine, we can't do that.

5. Judaism I've been thinking about this one a lot. I have a few friends who are also seeking the right community, but who aren't Jewish, or are in mixed marriages. They might join me in forming something if it's not Jewish or not solely Jewish. It's a possibility I'm willing to consider, but I've always been Jewish, it's what I know best, and it's what brings me comfort. Also, I don't want to stop identifying as a Jew. There are so many aspects to Judaism, and God is such a small part of that. I think the ideal congregation would be fundamentally Jewish, but I wouldn't mind a community that is open to people of other faiths and I definitely wouldn't mind if the Kid School teaches about other religions.

Is that so hard to find? Does anyone know where I can find it? Or is it time to start making it myself?

On that note, a friend mentioned to me the possibility of creating a chavurah (literally: fellowship, but usually a chavurah functions as a prayer group that travels from home to home, like a book club for celebrating Shabbat.) while maintaining membership in a brick-and-mortar Temple for things that we need there, like Religious School. It's an interesting idea, and it's something that could even be done within a congregation. Or it's something I could do with my non-Jewish friends (see above) while maintaining the link to my current (or another) congregation for the Jewish stuff.