Yesterday, I blogged what I expected to be my last words on living in Marina City. I didn’t expect to be called home from the office today by our management company to attend what is our third apartment flood in 12 months. Silly me. After seven years of blogging about state-of-repair disasters in both towers–including numerous fires, floods, drunken attempted apartment invasions, and at least one interstate prostitution ring abetted by former board member and local dentist Gary Kimmel, I really should have known better.

If you think I’m kidding, please (oh, please) browse through my Marina City archives–from beginning (in June 2005) to end (this month)–or read this recent coverage of the Gary Kimmel scandal from Chicagoist. Sadly, it doesn’t get any better. At least not in these corncobs. If you look at an apartment here, either to rent or to buy, ask the person showing it about these issues. If they–or anyone else–tell you things like this don’t happen here, they aren’t telling you the truth. Do your you diligence. One word: Google.

Today’s events just bolstered my sense of relief about finally leaving this place. But as with everything, there’s always a blessing if you look for it. As I wait for the residual dripping from our newly damaged window-wall ceiling down directly into our electric baseboard heaters to putter out, one comforting thought keeps coming to mind.

At least we don’t have carpeting.

(Can’t see this video in your news feed? Watch it here.)

In the photo above you can see our current Marina City balconies. They’re no different than most other balconies here, so there’s no need to point them out. As you can see, there’s an eternal consistency to life here at the corncobs. Some of that consistency I’ll miss, and some I’ll be glad to leave behind. Ryan and I have signed a lease on an apartment in Edgewater Beach for March 1st. We signed the lease a couple of weeks ago. It just took me a while to realize that this is the end of an era in my life.

We’re moving because we realized that our lives are centered elsewhere–primarily on the far north side and the northern suburbs of Chicago. North is where our synagogue and most of our synagogue friends are. North is where the heart of the Chicago area’s Jewish community lies. North is where most of the restaurants and stores are located that we like to frequent. After a year living in Marina City and more than a year of living Jewishly, it just turned out that Milan Kundera was right. In our case, life really is elsewhere.

I’m looking forward to the move. For years I’ve blogged about the consistent agony and ecstasy of life in the Marina City corncobs, and all of it still applies. You always know your neighbors. Via foot, ‘L’, bus, or expressway, you can easily get anywhere from here. The architectural and cultural wonders of the Chicago Loop are your front yard. And the 61st-floor roofdecks are sublime.

However, an eternally combative condo board, nonstop punishing noise from every-fifteen-minute emergency sirens and late-evening Chicago Riverwalk cafe music, fraternity-level antics from numerous college-age residents, a noticeable lack of neighborhood amenities, and the persistent feeling that once you step outside your lobby, the block belongs to hipsters lined up to get into the House of Blues and drunks stumbling home from Dick’s Last Resort, bring any sense of soul soaring right back down to earth.

So I suppose, at long last, these are my final words on Marina City. I was thrilled to move into Marina City in 2005, but in the end, I agree with my last last statement about living here. It’s cheap and well located, but it’s not worth the quality-of-life trade-off you have to make to be able to live here and keep your sanity. Unlike last time, though, this time I’m leaving on my own terms. I won’t be back.

We’re off to an apartment twice the size of our current one for only slightly more rent, in a Sheridan Road high-rise with a spectacular city and lake view. It’s near two of our favorite supermarkets, the Red Line is two blocks away, and an express bus is outside our front door. But what really matters to me is that we’ll be living on the same block as our synagogue. For at least one Reform Jew, gaining the ability to walk to synagogue on Shabbat–and in five minutes, too!–really will be a dream come true.

But far north side living is a far cry from a lot of my life that came before. Growing up in New York, it was my life’s goal to live as close to Manhattan as possible. Eight years living in Park Slope, Brooklyn, satisfied that urge. A graduate degree in urban planning sealed my then-permanent anti-suburban sneer.

During the past nine years in Chicago, it’s been much the same thing. First I tried to live as close to downtown as I could get. Then I moved into it, and for seven years downtown is where I’ve remained. A boyfriend moved to New York, but I stayed. I moved out of Marina City once already, but I still stayed downtown.

But life goes on, and while doing so it changes us, little by little, until it changes us a lot. For many years, I haven’t been an urban planner. Over time, I’ve realized how much more I like Chicago’s outer neighborhoods–and suburbs, too–than I ever liked their New York counterparts. And in converting to Judaism and joining a synagogue, I did something I never dared do back in my hometown. I put down roots. Those roots just happen to be planted in soil that isn’t in the 42nd Ward.

And so. I guess this is the point where Mike Doyle, the post-college, agnostic, pessimistic, inner-city, out-of-place Gothamite is finally let go of by Michael Doyle, the forty-something, religious, optimistic, city-as-neighborhood, where-he-belongs Chicagoan. Who I’ve been for a lot longer than I’ve let myself realize.

I guess I’ll never be an urban planner again. Or a New Yorker. Or maybe even someone with a 15-minute walk to work. I’ll never brag about living in a Goldberg building again, or meditate on my life from the panoramic roofdeck of one. There are a lot of “I’ll never agains” when you reach past forty, I’ve come to see now.

On the other hand, I’ll never again wonder where and how I’m supposed to fit in on this planet. I’ll never again feel lonely in a room alone. I’ll never again face a challenge, yell “Why?” in my head, and fear there’s no Eternal being out there to hear me cry out. I’ll never again hate the suburbs like I used to. I’ll never again fear outer neighborhoods like I used to.

And you know what else? I’ll never again fear moving on like I used to, either.

Not that I didn’t put a fine enough point on the matter in my previous post about taking ownership of your own Judaism, but after reading a recent post from a blog I follow written by a Jewish conversion candidate, I feel the urge to sharpen that point a bit more.

In this post from the Crystal Decadenz blog, blogger Laura Cooper expresses her profound sense of disconnection from the Orthodox community under whose aegis she wishes to convert. Why? Because she’s a lesbian, and the stridently literal interpretation of the Torah (Hebrew Bible) by the Orthodox movement leads the movement, essentially, to shun her–along with all other LGBT Jews or conversion candidates.

I’ll reserve my larger criticisms about Orthodox Judaism, its interpretation of Torah, its opinions regarding non-Orthodox Jews and non-Jews, and the widespread hypocrisy within the movement regarding public actions that don’t match up with private deeds for another time. Suffice it to say, if I wanted to be an Orthodox Jew, I would be one.

But it’s a very wide world and we’re a very vibrant and varied Klal Yisrael (Jewish community.) Just because Orthodox leaders say something is so–anything at all–does not make it so. Not within Orthodoxy and certainly not within Judaism as a whole–which, no matter how histrionically Orthodoxy jumps up and down, stamps its feet, and yells and screams that the opposite is so, Orthodox Judaism does not encompass or represent.

It’s like the joke from the musical, Gypsy, when one character says, “New York is the center of the world!” and Mama Rose responds, “New York is the center of New York.” Orthodox Judaism is not Judaism as a whole, no matter what its self-press would like the rest of the world to think. Orthodox Judaism represents Orthodox Judaism. No less, and certainly no more. Judaism’s Conservative, Reform, and Reconstructionist movements are equally valid interpretations of Judaism. And no matter the movement of Judaism with which one affiliates, any Jew can be as observant (or in-observant) as they want to be.

You don’t “need” to be an Orthodox Jew to be a highly traditional and observant Jew. And while you certainly don’t need to affiliate with a Jewish denomination that violates your sense of values, ethics, and personhood, that doesn’t mean there aren’t other Jewish options out there. There are. There always are. That’s part of the beauty of Judaism.

Here’s what I commented under Laura’s post:

“Judaism is not the issue. Your problem is you think Orthodoxy owns the definition of Judaism. Judaism precedes denominations. Orthodoxy is just really good at making people think (bullying people into thinking) that somehow the Orthodox approach to Judaism is the only authentic one. That is, to be blunt, a bunch of bullshit.

You can be as observant as your personal relationship with Hashem inspires–or requires–you to be in ANY stream of Judaism. And all non-Orthodox streams of Judaism will accept you as a gay person–even to the point of ordaining you as clergy.

“You write like you don’t have a say in this. You’re wrong. The choice is yours. You are the responsible party for your own Judaism, not anyone else. If Orthodoxy violates your personal ethics, go be a Jew in a denomination that your heart can agree with. I’m a gay Reform Jew with strong traditional tendencies. Why can’t you be the same thing in the Conservative movement? Of course you can!

“I also want to point out that my partner and I are both members and regular worshippers on Shabbat in our mainstream Reform shul. I sit there on Friday night with my arm around him listening to the rabbi’s sermon. No one bats an eye. Two dozen people from our congregation expressed concern on Facebook when he was in the hospital over Shabbat a couple of weeks ago. Everyone keeps asking when his conversion journey will be complete. After he decided not to go last year, this year the congregation is demanding that he come with us on our spring congregational retreat.

“At the same time, I am a deeply devout Jew in terms of prayer and observance. I daven in the morning with tefillin, try to pray three times a day, never miss a bracha, got my shul to adpot a silent Amidah (almost unheard of in Reform congregations), and can find myself on the verge of tears during the prayer’s final blessings.

“There’s no contradiction in there between my [last two paragraphs]. My sexuality and my deep spirituality coexist in a Jewish community that accepts and supports both. That’s how it should be.”

And that’s how it can be, too. Right now. Because you–yes, you, and no one else–are in charge of your Judaism. Every Jewish choice you will ever be faced with is yours to decide, not your movement’s to decide for you.

For prospective Jews-by-choice, that absolutely includes being in charge of deciding on the movement with which you want to affiliate and the type of Jew you want to be.

So choose wisely. Just remember, individual denominations did not stand before God at Sinai. Individual Jews did.

We still do.

Last month I wrote a post about my decision (actually, a decision made by both Ryan and me) to return pork and other forms of treyf (unpermitted foods) to our diets. Though most Reform Jews don’t follow kashrut, the Jewish dietary laws, anyway, and though we’d never gone fully kosher, those weren’t our reasons for making the change. We realized kashrut was starting to distance us from other important people in our lives, and came to the conclusion that a practice that built a wall between us and other people did not make us feel particularly closer to God.

A few days ago,  a commenter from Belgium, Bart-Jehoeda, asked this question (read the whole comment here):

“…do you think it is appropriate to eat pork while wearing a kippah? The yarmulke is a very visible form for Jews to exclude themselves from non-Jews. Our rabbi considers it as bringing shame to the Jewish people if you violate a mitzvah while wearing a kippah. I can only agree with him.”

The great thing about Judaism is that, besides that fact that every Jew has at least one opinion about everything, no single Jew–or single Jewish movement–gets to define what constitutes a “good” Jew, or “good” Jewish behavior. I respect Bart-Jehoeda’s take on things. I told him I’d respond in a blog post–so here’s my take on things…

Bart-Jehoeda, just comparing the reasons for my decision to eat pork again with your comment, it’s obvious we’re approaching the idea differently. I reject the idea that God wants Jews to wall themselves off from non-Jews. I also reject the idea that I am responsible for the opinions or feelings of other people. I believe have a right to live my Jewish life as I see fit, no matter what other people, Jewish or not, think about me or my Jewishness. I don’t believe anyone has a right to expect anyone else to abide by their personal comfort zone just to make them feel better.

We do have something in common, though. Both of our rabbis would probably prefer that I not wear a kippah and eat treyf in public. My rabbi’s practice is to remove his kippah (if he’s wearing one outside of synagogue, which is rare) if he’s eating something or doing something non-halachic (i.e. against Jewish law.) He feels wearing a kippah at those moments might signal to Jews of more traditional backgrounds that what he’s doing–or eating–is kosher, and lead them into situations that might challenge their own, more stringent, religious beliefs.

I think thinking like that just adds strength to the incredibly wrong but common assumption that traditional forms of Judaism are somehow better, more authentic, or more “correct” than liberal forms of Judasim. As a Reform Jew, I could not care less about leading, for example, an Orthodox Jew astray. Because we are all responsible for our own actions, and because I see no reason why I should lead my life in accordance with a Jewish movement of which I am not a part.

Those are my main reasons for disagreeing, but I have two more that I don’t want to leave out. First, I hold to the Jewish school of thought that believes following a mitzvah (a commandment) has worth in and of itself that cannot be canceled, and that it is better to follow some mitzvot than none at all. Observance grows and changes, and since half of the commandments cannot be performed in the (2,000-year-long) absence of the Second Temple, no one is capable of being perfectly observant, anyway. So I see nothing wrong with eating pork and wearing a kippah. In fact, since it’s my minhag (practice) to wear my kippah at all times, to my mind removing it would remove evidence of a Jew in the world, and that’s a chillul Hashem (a shame on the name of God) for which I don’t want to be responsible.

I don’t know your brand of Judaism, Bart-Jehoeda, but it’s worth noting that I adopted the beliefs about following mitzvot I shared above from the teachings/writings of Conservative and Orthodox rabbis, and that my practice of wearing a full-time kippah is highly unusual in Reform Judaism. So just because someone is a liberal Jew doesn’t mean they don’t find worth–sometimes great worth–in traditional practices and teachings.

Second, and finally, and not to kick the legs out of this whole discussion, but there’s one important thing that’s been left out so far. Wearing a kippah is not a mitzvah. There’s simply no commandment concerning Jewish head covering. It’s a longstanding traditional practice that in Orthodox Judaism has achieved the force of common law (for men, at least.) But when you get right down to it, you neither fulfill a commandment by wearing a kippah nor break a commandment by not wearing one. So in terms of observance, when wearing a kippah while eating pork, it’s likely the only important thing to God is the pork (if it’s important to God at all), not the kippah.

I think God cares that I go through the world as an unhidden Jew. But I don’t think God cares that I had a ham and cheese sandwich at my desk for lunch today while wearing a kippah. Does that make sense?

Near the beginning of my conversion journey in 2010, I decided to try out some elements of kashrut, the Jewish dietary laws. Included in and derived from the Hebrew Bible, the laws govern the types of foods Jews may and may not eat. I explored avoiding treyf (non-permitted foods) like pork and shellfish, as well as avoiding the mixing of milk and meat. The milk and meat thing fell by the wayside pretty quickly (the home cook in me rebelled almost instantly), but not eating treyf stuck around for well over a year.

The dietary laws are commandments, but they also had the effect of keeping Jews from eating at the tables of ancient Greek and Roman conquerors, as well as at the tables of  hostile peoples throughout two millennia. But I connected with them primarily from a cultural standpoint. As a Reform Jew, I don’t slavishly follow commandments for their own sake, but the act of being mindful about the foods I ate gave me a deep sense of connection to Jewish history and identity.

As time wore on and I completed my conversion, I had the opportunity to explore and discover many elements of Jewish ritual and tradition that spoke to me, and that I adopted into my daily Jewish observance (laying tefillin, praying daily, saying food blessings whenever I eat, wearing a full-time yarmulke, among others.) But I kept coming back to question kashrut.

It isn’t as if I kept a kosher kitchen with separate sets of dishes for milk and meat, or even ever bought (expensive) kosher meat. But I was seeing the exclusionary point of the dietary laws in action in my interpersonal life. After a year of many thoughtful friends and coworkers worrying whether I could eat the foods they made at dinners, parties, and potlucks, I increasingly questioned whether my feeling of Jewish connection through treyf-avoidance was worth the stress induced on my non-Jewish, non-ancient Greek and Roman friends.

As 2012 approached, I started to question what cultural elements of Judaism the dietary laws made me feel connected to. When you get right down to it, the point of the dietary laws are to keep Jews in and non-Jews out–out of your inner circle, out of your love life, out of reach of influencing your Jewish practice. I can see the worth of that when the society in which you’re living is hostile to your continued existence. But why should I be using food to separate myself from non-Jews in 21st-century America?

The answer for most Reform Jews is not to use food that way. Many of us simply decline to follow kashrut. I would bet the answer is similar for some Conservative Jews. However, the Orthodox Jewish answer might be to follow kashrut exactly for those very reasons of cultural exclusivity. As a Reform Jew, I don’t carry around the same fear of cultural and religious pollution as might an Orthodox Jew. I respect their belief of being duty bound to the commandments. But to my mind, you can’t live in a hermetically sealed bubble of Judaism, nor should you. (After all, how could tikkun olam–God’s commandment to Jews to help fix the world–ever get accomplished that way?)

I came to see that avoiding treyf made me feel connected to Judaism in two ways: I felt Jewish pride in honoring laws that helped Judaism survive in ancient and medieval times; yet I also felt uncomfortable that modern Jews to whom I felt connected through kashrut themselves were observing the dietary laws for the exclusionary reasons that I reject. And in fact, many of those same Jews would likely exclude me–a fellow Jew–from their tables, for not being “Jewish enough” (i.e. for not being Orthodox.)

The haredim, or ultra-Orthodox Jews, might not see me as Jewish at all. The most extreme among them might see me and all non-haredim as being substandard in spiritual ways to their specific brand of Jew. Too often, more traditional Jews tend to denigrate less traditional Jews. If you don’t pray and observe the mitzvot exactly as they do–well you should, so get lost for now and come back when you do. it’s bad enough when the modern Orthodox in this country do it. But it’s brutal when the haredim do it in Israel.

During the final months of 2011, international media finally began to cover a long-standing and growing wave of ultra-Orthodox extremism in Israel, centered in and around Jerusalem. Women being forced to the back of buses that serve haredi neighborhoods? Little girls walking to school with “improperly” short sleeves being spat upon by adult men? Women ordered to walk on the opposite side of the street from men? Vandalism and harassment campaigns designed to scare non-haredi residents and business owners into compliance? Attacks on police and soldiers? Images of women banned from public advertising? Calls for Israeli democracy to be dismantled and replaced with Torah law?

Just Google it. It’s happening right now and it’s the greatest threat to Israeli democracy bar none. Hostile states won’t have to destroy Israel. If the government and overwhelming majority of non-haredi Israelis who have finally woken up to the issue (thanks to national TV coverage of the spat-upon little girls) don’t get their act together, haredi mischief will get there first.

It’s mischief in the name of blind adherence to faulty interpretation of ancient law aimed at excluding any other perspectives. It’s also the logical extreme of practices like kashrut. When the enemies that exclusionary commandments were originally aimed at no longer exist, it’s all too easy to turn those exclusionary laws back on fellow Jews. If your entire life is dictated by the commandments, then the commandments regarding exclusivity have to find an outlet somewhere.

No thanks. This far into my Jewish life, compared to kashrut, there are many other, far less exclusionary things that connect me to Jewish culture and history throughout my day. Kashrut need no longer be one of them. I really don’t like the example set by religious exclusion.

So I’m back on the pig.

Today at sundown and for the first time as a post-mikvah Jew, I mark the Hebrew calendar anniversary of my mother’s passing (her yahrzeit.) In keeping with widespread tradition, in her memory I will light a yahrtzeit candle for 24 hours and attend synagogue services tonight and tomorrow to stand and recite the Kaddish Yatom–the Mourner’s Kaddish prayer.

Last year, my mother’s yahrzeit fell on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, so the emotional impact of the day was muted by my need to navigate through my first December without a yuletide celebration. This year with nothing else in the way, I feel the date more deeply than I expected. (At least, if the tears that came out of nowhere while I was writing this post are any indication.)

The Mourner’s Kaddish is below in Aramaic transliteration and English translation. Although an all-important Jewish prayer, the Kaddish is not in Hebrew, and though a prayer of mourning, it is more a celebration of Deity than a prayer of sadness. The website, MyJewishLearning.com, offers good introductions to the Kaddish, yahrzeits, and why there’s a z”l (for zichronah livracha) in the title of this blog post for those unfamiliar with Jewish mourning customs.

Mom, I love you. I miss you. May your memory for a blessing.

_____

Yitgadal v’yitkadash sh’mei raba.

B’alma di v’ra chirutei,
v’yamlich malchutei,
b’chayeichon uv’yomeichon
uv’chayei d’chol beit Yisrael,
baagala uviz’man kariz. V’imru: Amen.

Y’hei sh’mei raba m’varach
l’alam ul’almei almaya.

Yitbarach v’yistabach v’yitpaar
v’yitromam v’yitnasei,
v’yit’hadar v’yitaleh v’yit’halal
sh’mei d’Kud’sha B’rich Hu,
l’eila min kol birchata v’shirata,
tushb’chata v’nechemata,
daamiran b’alma. V’imru: Amen.

Y’hei sh’lama raba min sh’maya,
v’chayim aleinu v’al kol Yisrael.
V’imru: Amen.

Oseh shalom bimromav,
Hu yaaseh shalom aleinu,
v’al kol Yisrael, v’al kol yoshvei tevel.
V’imru: Amen.

_____

Exalted and hallowed by God’s great name
in the world which God created, according to plan.
May God’s majesty be revealed in the days of our lifetime
and the life of all Israel–speedily, imminently, to which we say Amen.

Blessed be God’s great name to all eternity.

Blessed, praised, honored,exalted, extolled, glorified, adored, and lauded
be the name of the Holy Blessed One, beyond all earthly words and songs of blessing,
praise and comfort. To which we say Amen.

May there be abundant peace from heaven, and life, for us and all Israel.
To which we say Amen.

May the One who makes peace in the heavens bring peace to us and to all Israel, and to all who dwell on earth.
To which we say Amen.

It’s Chanukah again, my second and Ryan’s first. Last year my chanukiyah and I were itinerant, going from friend’s house to friend’s house each night of the Festival of Lights. This year, Ryan and I will light our chanukiyot on our own dining table, and sing Maoz Tzur in our own living room. It’s a nice feeling, and a miraculous change from the year before.

When I blogged about lighting candles last year, a born Jewish friend confided that I inspired him to light a menorah for the first time in many years. So I’ll note proudly, this year we’re two adult men about to light our menorahs for eight nights. To say the blessings, make latkes (my first ever from last night are pictured above), attempt sufganiyot. (Chicagoans, think: Jewish paczki; everyone else, think: jelly donuts.) To talk about the meaning of the holiday. To let ourselves publicly feel as commanded as Reform Jews sometimes let ourselves feel only behind closed doors.

We often forget that the amazing calendar of Jewish holidays is for everyone, young and old, families and singles, near and far. Especially at this time of year, we can lose sight of the fact that lighting a chanukiyah–or shaking a lulav, or witnessing a Torah unrolled, or recounting our Exodus–have meaning for all who participate in the ritual.

When many of us were small, we experienced the magic and wonder of our holidays. As adults, many of us experience them–and connect with the Eternal–through the smiling eyes of our children. But don’t forget to let your eyes smile, too. Preparing our kids to  participate in our religious holidays is an unfinished endeavor unless we make sure we adults are full participants, too. All in our families. All in our communities.

And the pain of cleaning wax out of a used chanukiyah aside (two words: hair dryer), you know how cool you thought lighting them was when you were young. As I said on Yom Kippur, our tradition teaches that first we do and then we hear. So you never know. You might feel silly giving yourself over to the spirit of this or any other Jewish religious holiday.

Or you might connect in ways you forgot that you could. Chag Orim Sameach to all, and to all eight good nights.