natural sounds

I was chatting with a friend a few hours before last week’s seder about how I really don’t go in for the religious stuff.

“These dogmatic ceremonies aren’t really a part of who I am,” I told him. “I wasn’t raised with any religion, so I don’t really have much of an appreciation for the ritual or the subtleties of the motions.

“It’s all,” I said, not quite believing the words coming out of my mouth, “just kind of boring.”

On the ride out to the Valley later that evening, I thought about what I’d said and just how untruthful it all was.

To be honest, I’ve always been fascinated with religions and ceremony. I’ve read everything from the mainstream texts — the Qur’an, the Bible, the Nag Hammadi, the Tao Te Ching — to the more obscure scrawlings of discredited monks, unauthorized apostles and twirling, whirling mystics. I find it all interesting, to say the least, if not inspiring.

There was a time in my life when I drove to churches hundreds of miles apart trying to find something that I still can’t place my finger on. Communion? Fellowship? A glimpse of something greater?

In my early-to-mid-30s I settled down into what I call a “joyful nihilism.” I came to accept that there’s a profound liberation in disbelief. And it can be a real trick to wrap your head around it.

With no god to answer to or anyone to hold me accountable, the only moral compass I’m left with is … me. Untether yourself completely from the enforcement mechanisms of morality — both the agents and their consequences — and you get neither bankruptcy nor ambiguity. Instead, all you’re left with is yourself. And it requires a whole lot of deliberate living to make sure that you’re fulfilling the ideals in your own head and heart.

In other words, yes, this all is for naught. Now, what?

Now that said I do have some mystical beliefs and I do think there are things tying us together as a species; I’m not one of these “science says there is no god,” guys and I recognize that there’s a lot in this life that I’ll never have access to. My “known unknowns,” to borrow a phrase, are already book-length. I can’t even imagine the volumes of “unknown unknowns” in print.

I always forget how beautiful the story of Passover is, from beginning to finish, and I always cry during the seder. This year was no different.

The ritualistic washing of hands and tasting of foods. The symbolism of the table. Importantly, the passing down over the generations.

The readings are usually what get me. Definitely true this year. I’ve transcribed a few from our hagadah below.

If only it were so simple! If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were only necessary to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?
– Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

The experience of camp life shows that man does have a choice of action. We who lived in concentration camps remember the men and women who walked through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread. They may have been few in number, but they offer sufficient proof that everything can be taken from a human being but one thing: the last of the human freedoms — to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.
– Viktor Frankl

The ultimate measure of a human being is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy. Will a person risk his position, his prestige and even his life for the welfare of others? In dangerous valleys and hazardous pathways, will he lift some bruised and beaten brother to a higher and more noble life?
– Martin Luther King, Jr.

An old Hassidic tale goes like this: the rabbi asked his students, “How can we determine the hour of dawn, when night ends and day begins?

One of the students suggested, “When you can distinguish between a dog and a sheep from a distance?” “No,” answered the rabbi.

A second student said, “When you can distinguish between an olive tree and a grapevine?” “No,” said the rabbi. The students pleaded, “Please tell us the answer.”

“It is,” said the teacher, “when you can look into the face of any human being and there is enough light to recognize him as your brother. Until then, it is night and darkness is still with us.
– Marshall Meyer