Passover. Slavery. Freedom. Mitzrayim. Ancient Egypt. The Narrow Place.

That narrow place, the place of limitations, the place of bondage, is as much about the place each of us is in our minds, and probably even more so than about geography. Our desert wandering, having been delievered from enslavement was not so much about being physically lost, as it was about our lostness in the comfort of way of being. Having been so accustomed, it was seemingly beyond our capacities to think in any other way. The Torah supports these accounts; we were a stiff necked grumbling bunch, we still are, and that is okay. We are a people still wrestling. Dayenu.

Not everyone left Egypt. Some decided to remain. Some were paralyzed with fear of the unknown. Some might not have felt they belonged though they might have acknowledged our mistreatment. Do we really escape when we leave others behind? How do move forward when some of our brothers and sisters insist on the comfort of being mired in a system that while is without freedom is too comfortable to leave? Do we forget them? Do we mourn them? Do we honor them with the acknowledgement that for whatever reason, they are whoever they are, and they are not ready to risk it?

Freedom, like love, requires nothing less than absolute risk. We have to be willing to lose everything in the attempt to discover something greater. Even in our seemingly lowest points in the desert we were at least physically free, if not yet in our minds. Like the ancestor preceding this story, we had to have the place, and be willing to wrestle, not to win or lose, but for value. Wrestling can be tiresome, exhausting, and sometimes seemingly without value, but knowledge and understanding of ourselves, even as scary as that might be found out to be, provides us the opportunity to know who we are, and what we might become.

I am still wrestling with how to be the imagined, fully authentic me, as if there is some Canaan of personality. I am still wandering the desert to escape those narrowest of places, self-imposed and imposed upon my mind by family and society. Sometimes I find myself full of fear, afraid to risk it. Sometimes I find myself full of bravery, ready to make my stand. Sometimes I am sensitive, and hurt, and angry, and sometimes my words lash out defensively and injure others. Those others cannot all be the taskmasters, and even if they are, they are human too. They are the ones I am commanded to treat better. I do not know how to get them to let me be free, and maybe I do not have to convince them. Maybe I just have to Be, without their approval or permission. I long for them to give up their shackles, the ones they want to place on me, and their own. Maybe even this way of thinking is one of my narrow places.

We left last night. Dayenu. We will be traveling all week. Dayenu. We will be traveling and wrestling, leaving those narrow places for the rest of our lives...

Thanks to anyone and everyone who might follow this blog of mine. I've posted some things here from years ago at another site such that I don't lose them.

I expect to begin getting into writing more and more often as I've lately had so much in my head making connections.

If you have ideas, interests, questions, or recommendations, then please share them with me.

YG When the world will truly know peace...

Originally posted at yonahgefen.blogspot.com

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 2007

When the world will truly know peace...

I sit here at this computer, earlier in the evening having done havdalah and said l'hitraot to shabbat. My heart rejoices that as a Jew I am a part of a people that holds this tradition, making the sabbath so special and unique. My heart breaks and yearns, for sabbath is over and I can't wait until once again I can breath in the queen. In a translation of the Yiddish of Kadia Molodowsky by Jean Valentine, "...my heart's song is an eternal Sabbath."

I often spend the time after Havdalah reading; prayer books, midrashim, whatever miscellaneous jewish text or otherwise thas happens to have fallen into my hands. Tonight, the following paragraph, at the end of a collection of writings brought me to tears.

A rabbi was asked by a farmer when the world would truly know peace. The rabbi replied, "Follow me." He then brought him to the side of a brook, put his hand on the farmer's head, and pressed it into the water until the farmer came up gasping for breath. The rabbi then said: "This is your answer. When man wants peace, when he wants as much as you just wanted air, when he comes up gasping for peace, when he is truly ready to give everything in himself to have peace, as you have give to have air, he will have peace."

So many times I've prayed, HaShem bless me, my people, all of humanity, all of creation, with peace. Tonight I am reminded that our tradition teaches not only that we seek the blessing of HaShem, but that we are required to also take action to make it happen. So tonight I pray to HaShem, give me the courage to live life more peacefully, without rage and anger, with the recognition that it is up to me to create peace with my family, my friends, my coworkers, with those strangers on the street for whom I've already been commanded to treat with love and respect. When I pray for that hapores sukkat shalom, that shelter of peace, I will now also pray for a sukkah of strength and courage, that will weather those storms upon my spirit and my heart that have kept me from being a better partner with HaShem in fulfilling my responsibility of continuing creation.

I suppose as much as I criticize reality television, maybe the lesson I've learned from it might be that we're all still on stage, that HaShem has challenged us to give our best performance and that we are continually granted opportunities for which to improve that performance. Only each contestant has the power to remove himself or herself from the running. Yet, we are still given those challenges, not competing with one another to be to HaShem's number one choice, but to make the most of not only this gift of life, but also this gift of creation. HaShem welcomes us as partners and welcomes us back to the stage where we can return again to the land of our soul. What power has been placed in our possession. What responsibility has been placed upon our shoulders. I gratefully accept this yoke fully and completely.

Baruch ata HaShem, Eloheinu melech ha'olam, shehekianu, v'kimanu, v'higianu lazman hazeh. We praise you HaShem, Sovereign of the Universe, who gives us life, sustains us, and brings us to this sacred time.

May I gasp for peace within my own life and for peace within the lives of all of HaShem's creation.

YG Blessing

Originally posted at yonahgefen.blogspot.com

MONDAY, AUGUST 20, 2007

How much does Hashem bless me? I'll tell you...

Okay, so I could never count the ways in which I am blessed. Certainly there are many ways of which I am not even aware and certainly for which I do not say enough thanks.

This one however I just have to share. Some of you are aware that I've returned to school, yet again, whilst working full-time. Not being daddy-warbucks or having a sugar-daddy, money can be tight, even when the state covers tuition as one of my benefits of employment. I kind of consider it compensation for hard work and limited budgets. Anyway... textbooks are not covered. They are an "on your own" expense, which wouldn't be so bad if the bloody things didn't amount to something close to tuition.

I arrived home this evening, around 5:45pm, not really thinking too much about how I was going to get books. I sorted some laundry and headed off to the laundromat, with my Bar Mitzvah study materials and iPod in hand. As the clothes tossed around in the washer and dryer I practiced blesssings and portions of Torah and Haftarah. I was so high, so excited. In the car on the way home I'm singing L'dor V'dor. When I get home the combination of laundromat and the extreme heat in the Piedmont Triad of NC has resulted in my schvitzing so much that I could have done a miniature remake of the parting of the Reed Sea. I take myself a shower and refresh, while listening to a Neshama Carlebach interview on Too Jewish Radio.

As I step out of the shower it occurs to me "just give it a try, the worst will be no," and I got dressed, hopped on my bike and headed to the University library. Wow, believe it or not, all four texts that I need right now were available for check out. Absolutely amazing I tell you, ab-so-lute-ly amazing. I'll add that as I found the fourth book on the shelf I stopped and said the Shecheyanu. As I exited the library and saw the sky above, the moon and stars, I said it again, feeling overwhelmed with blessings. Removing the lock from my bike I pedaled home, getting some much needed exercise, however schvitzing all over again, even more than last time. I'll shower again in the morning. I've got reading to do. Baruch Hashem.

YG Twenty Fours Years Later

Originally posted at yonahgefen.blogspot.com

MONDAY, AUGUST 13, 2007

Twenty Fours Years Later

So folks, I'm finally getting around to having a Bar Mitzvah. Laughing some of you are, knowing that I'm 37 years old. As the wise rabbi would say though, better late, than later.

I'm very excited to practicing my Torah portion as well as Haftarah in addition to the blessings before and after along with all the prayers, songs, etc. In addition to not only learning some Hebrew and chanting it, I've really enjoyed the midrashic teachings that my wonderful Rabbi provides. Wanna chat about it? Have questions? Message me and let's see how many opinions we can come up with between the two of us :)

For the record, Saturday 24 November! Vayishlach, here I come.

YG Testing

Originally posted at yonahgefen.blogspot.com

MONDAY, JULY 2, 2007

Testing, Testing...

In the beginning, Yonah created a blog... oy vey.

POSTED BY YONAH GEFEN AT 4:18 PM

I Lift My Chin

During my first address to a congregation, after my officially becoming a Jew, I spoke of Daniel Pearl, zichrono livracha. His last words, “I am a Jew,” - how they moved me. Such courage. Such unabashed identity.

Then his chin was lifted and his life taken.

Continually seeking, reading, researching, and wrestling, I came across the story of Isaac, who after realizing God's plan for him, lifted his chin to his father Abraham. “Take the son you love...” The stories, the midrashim, say that Abraham stood above his bound son. His tears flowed so heavily that they fell upon Isaac. And Isaac, stung both by Abraham's obedience to the will of God and by Abraham's tears, suffered poor eyesight for the remainder of his days. Intellectually, I think that God was giving Abraham a test, and that he failed. Even though he had once confronted God to spare potentially righteous strangers in Sodom and Gomorrah, he did not so much as argue with God for his son's life.

"If I was any kind of father... if I was a good father... I'd take you out and stone you. That's what the Bible commands of me for children like you." My father claimed to be weak, unable to carry out his biblical duties, supposedly because he so loved me. Unlike Abraham Avinu, at least, my father did argue with God against my destruction. Regardless, I have scars on my heart and soul that shall never heal, that always remind me of how much my father despises me.

When I was twenty, I went to his house, one of many times, at the request of my younger brother, to provide refuge. My father often externalized his self-hatred and internal struggles by beating my mother, or my step-mother, or me. Fortunately, for my brother's sake, he was spared physical abuse - though he suffered, as we all did, by witnessing the abuse of loved ones. I always considered my brother to be the one my father really loved. He was the chance of continuation. My father had determined long ago, probably before I had, that I would not be the one to carry on his name. During this visit I was concerned about my father's wife, as no one deserves such harm upon their body, mind, or spirit. Sometimes I wonder still how she has survived it, or why. That night my father said that I was a sinner, and that I was living in a house of sin. I recall my reply - "In my house of sin, we love. In my house of sin, there are no fists. In my house of sin, we do not fear those with whom we live."

I then learned why he despised me so. He admitted something I had previously suspected, something to which others had alluded. "I wrestled with the demon of homosexuality when I was younger." Then he added, "But the Lord Jesus Christ saved me from that life." I further lost respect for my father's "loving savior," because in saving my dad, he condemned my childhood to one of living in a house filled with violence, with fear, with self-hate. My father's redemption was my eighteen-year prison sentence. That night it occurred to me - "that's why you hate me. Because I am brave. Because I have courage to live, to be myself, unashamed, open, gay..."

"... Because I lift my chin."

As he stood before me, my father saw a world - a world he had never imagined possible, existing. And as I stood before him, I was that world, living in his son, me. How could he not despise my existence? Was this why, throughout my incarceration with him, he constantly called me stupid, worthless? Was this why he said I stunk, that I would never amount to anything? That night he repeated how he should have taken me out and stoned me to death.

After my brother's accidental death, I severed ties with my father. It felt so freeing, standing face-to-face with him as he tried telling me "we need to settle this right now" and "how it is going to be." I told him he needed to leave, or surely one of us would die that day. I told him he was never to raise himself against me again. We did not speak with each other again for more than ten years.

The Bible does not mention Isaac when recounting Abraham's return journey. Certainly, their relationship was strained, no matter how much faith or understanding they shared.

Wishing to shed the heartache of brokenness between father and son, I called my father and invited him to hear me speak at synagogue that night of my first address. He came. He cried. We spoke briefly, and he left. He did the same two years later when I had a bar mitzvah at the age of thirty-seven. The last time I saw him was on my fortieth birthday. My spouse threw me a party and my dad became invited due to an announcement on a social media website. In the hallway my father expressed disappointment that he could not count for himself so many friends or so much love. I told him it is never too late. He soon left.

We talk on the phone once or twice a year at best. He lives less than an hour from me. It seems neither of us try anymore. My inner little boy still longs for his dad, but I guess the me that needed to protect myself offered up his chin too easily, too readily. Sacrifice me if you must, but my spirit will continue to live. Maybe his eyes are still too full of tears, me, the first son, not being the son he wanted, and my brother, his hope, being the son he lost. Maybe too my eyes are still burning. Maybe my vision is too clouded, my chin too up, to risk seeing him in a different way.

I am no Isaac, and my father is certainly no Abraham. It may not have been his or my ideal father-son relationship, but he did teach me what I did want and what I did not want. I have learned something: how to live and love like I never knew before, courageously, openly, and to do so despite all the hurdles.

Who knows what the future holds? Regardless of whatever becomes of this father and son, someday I will stand at his grave, and I will mourn, and I will regret, and I will smile, and I will survive, and I will walk away.

With my chin up. With stinging tears of mixed feelings.