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Am I Your Password?

When was the last time you logged into your online banking account?

Did you answer that security challenge, "What is the name of your first employer?"

I love that question.
I type my first boss's name — which, by the way, is none of your damn business — and I always enjoy a momentary memory, a fleeting emotion, based on our interaction. I was young and impressionable. (Now I'm older and impressionable.)

My first boss was a substantial shaper of who I have become. I always type her name with a smile.

You always remember your first boss.
In my Vistage practice, I'm meeting many people who run businesses. Each time, surely, I am meeting someone else's first boss.

The baker. The undertaker. The widget maker. Each has at least one employee — perhaps dozens — for whom their employment is their first job. And so each of my friends is, therefore, someone's first boss. 

And I smile.
I smile at the thought that each of their names have become banking passwords.

Throughout the city — far beyond, around the world — their current and former employees log into their own bank accounts and enter the names of my entrepreneurial friends.

What a strange and whimsical legacy! The final paycheck is long ago spent or invested. The boss wields no power.

But the boss's name is still the key to the vault. That's rich. That's irony. That's justice.

Who types your name?
For whom are you the first boss? 

Can you imagine them typing your name? Is it with a smile? I do hope so.

To Those Who Type "Artie"
I hope our time together was useful in your journey. 

If it wasn't, I'm sorry. I hope I wasn't the best boss you have had.

I hope you did the best work of your career when we were together. Until, of course, your next job, where I hope you did even better.

And I hope, whenever you type "Artie," your discover your bank account is a little fuller than you had forecast — like finding a $20 in the pocket of an old pair of jeans.

Welcome to the Creativity Students

Doug Dangler is the coordinator for the Writing Center and the digital media specialist for The Ohio State University's Center for the Study and Teaching of Writing.

He recently asked me, "What do you wish all your students knew about your course — before they arrive for the first class?"

Here's what. 
Here is a video that Doug made to welcome my students to the first day of class.

 

Choosing Diversions

Different strokes for different folks.

Or, as my Australian friend Catherine says, "Horses for courses."

So what are your strokes?
I can tell you what is not a stroke of mine: violence.

I really don't like it. 

And I don't consider it entertainment.

So if your stroke includes violence that leads too often to a reckless result — like, say, permanent brain injury — I'm out. 

My friends who are sports fans will counter, "People get injured walking across the street."

Sure enough. But who cheers when that happens? I'm not standing in the way of people taking risks for their passions. I'm simply disappointed and somewhat depressed when everyone stands and cheers for violence.

Call me "old fashioned." If disdain for violence is a crime, let me be guilty.

The Big Question
To be fully human, we need to ask ourselves throughout the day, "What does this experience mean to me? How am I expressing myself? Does this experience lift me, making me my best potential self, or does it lower me, degrading my potential?"

It might seem like a ponderous question for most people. However, with frequent asking, it becomes a light and enjoyable question.

So ask yourself: "When I see two people punching each other, what is the feeling that is stirred within me? Is it sporting? Or just thirsty for violence?"

Perhaps the answer is: o.k., watching violence stirs the primitive within. That leads to this question: is that what you want? 

Will hockey truly attempt to reform? Probably not. Because the "cost to the sport," is really a cost to the wallets of those who own the gladiatorial contest.

When people speak of "the sport" as an ancient ideal, I think, "Give me a break. Your ideal is worth cheering for people who defend the game by inflicting damage on one another? If so, do tell: what are your other ideals? Are any of them in conflict with this one?" 

I love the strength and grace of college hockey. But, so long as the major league behaves like the bush league, I'll stick to baseball. Unless and until the players brawl with regularity on the diamond. Then I'll leave the ballpark and crawl back under my self-righteous rock.

But this isn't about sports.

It's about the Arts.
I don't consider violence against women to be entertainment. It nauseates me. 

And when violence against women is presented as "art," I am ever more disgusted.

The arts has a way of saying, "We don't like this. We abhor it. So let's get some popcorn and watch a lot of it."

So I walked Out.
This was about a year ago, when the movie was new. I was in our beloved Drexel Theatre. I bought my ticket. I bought my popcorn. I sat through the coming attractions before the feature presentation.

Up came The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. This movie — claimed to be a "film" because it has subtitles, was introduced in independent cinemas, and is based on a best-selling series of novels by the late Stieg Larsson —  didn't last 30 minutes. For me, it didn't. I walked out.

Walked out? Well, what else is the appropriate reaction to watching a woman being beaten and sodomized?

I'm not able to keep thinking, "This is art. I am a patron of the arts." Call me a philistine, but when I'm watching a young woman harassed, battered, restrained, and penetrated, I have very few choices:

• watch — and have the primitive within me fueled. (Really, now, honestly: what is the feeling within you when you watch Noomi Rapace raped? She's a fine actress, so it looks real enough. What are you feeling? Artistically inspired? Doubtful. Aroused? Hmmm. Nice.)
• leave — and sit outside the theatre on a nice summer evening.

Of course, if this weren't art, the third and most appropriate choice would be to call the police. (The Onion's coverage of the recent assault scandal in sports was brilliant. Here it is: "Nation's 10-Year-Old Boys: 'If You See Someone Raping Us, Please Call The Police'.")

I'm conflicted.
This is awkward. I'm on the board of trustees for Friends of The Drexel, Inc., the new not-for-profit organization founded to secure and sustain the future of the historic Drexel Theatre as a distinctive cultural asset to Bexley and the greater Columbus community.

Showing violence against women isn't part of the mission, but the Dragon Tattoo movie was great at the box office. And more articulate, more cultured people than I defend the movie with passion.

I can say only this: "I know what I'm seeing. It's a woman being beaten and raped. Watching that is not — anytime, anywhere, under any Cloak of Sophisticated Culture — a form of entertainment or enlightenment for me. Never."

Independent arts cinemas turn their noses up at showing what they consider low-brow, like Terminator. And, so, we are showing this?

What's The Big Deal?
The big deal is that we are what we eat. And we are who we know. And we are where we go.

Let me add: We are what we cheer for. And we are what arouses us.

Can we make a case for not being who we are when we are cheering for — or aroused by — something violent? (I've tried. It's a weak case.)

Where can we turn for wisdom?
Not to me. I'm not the arbiter of taste.

Now that you are an adult, you have to decide what is beneath you. I'm just asking you to draw the line — rather than letting popular culture draw the line for you. Because we all know where popular culture will draw that line.

Columbus's native son, James Thurber once said (I'm paraphrasing here, because I cannot find the original quotation): "I'm glad to be going blind, so I can't see where popular culture is headed."

Want something more helpful?

The actor Bill Murray: “When you become an adult, you get to choose your diversions. You should choose them carefully.” 

Where is God?

[This morning, the rabbi is out. So a friend and I will lead Shabbat services. The friend has skills and will do all the hard stuff: Hebrew, music. I'll do what I do best: distract people throughout the service. And I'll give the sermon. Here's the sermon.]

Shabbat shalom. The Rabbi is off the bima. You are about to learn that this would have been a good time for you to leave town. Here we go.

It's been more than a couple months since Simchat Torah, when Jews everywhere rewind every Torah scroll in the world. And we start over with Genesis. 

We've read about creation and the patriarchs and matriarchs. This week, in the portion of the Torah called Vayeishev, starting with Chapter 37, we still have Jacob and we are turning to Joseph and his brothers. The stories are interesting and, frankly, with Joseph, his brothers, Potiphar, Tamar and Onan, among the most salacious reality television the Bible offers.

This week is a religious school teacher's dream. The stories are fascinating to parse and debate. Why are they in the Torah? What do they mean for those of us who attempt to live Torah-centric lives?

There are great questions.

But I'm not going to discuss any of that.
I'd like to step away from those stories and contemplate the question: Where is God?

This seems like the time to do it because, as Gunther Plaut points out (The Torah: A Modern Commentary, page 244), this portion's long literary unit — which could be televised as Survivor: The Coat of Many Colors — is notable in a number of ways. One is the the increasing absence of divine revelation. Except in one small part — though the role of God is no small part — God has left the stage.

So the question I would like to explore today is: Where is God?

Ask yourself: Is God near? What does it mean, "God is near"? What are the signs and your feelings that God is near?

Ask yourself: Is God far away? And what about "God is far — or gone"? What are the signs and your feelings that God is far or gone?

Moving Away
In the Torah, God starts near and gradually moves away. The sole actor at the beginning, God creates the earth and populates it, speaking directly with Adam in the Garden of Eden. Some years are spent in training the people. And then, God steps away. Eventually, later in Exodus, God retains a lawyer, Moses, who serves as local counsel in God's place.

God seems like a parent; humanity, the children. God creates humanity, raises them, then steps away and let's them live their lives. 

What do you think? How is God like a parent? How is parenting not like being God? When is God a good parent. When is, if I might ask, God not a good parent?

However we might judge our Parent, God, like a parent, starts out all powerful, or at least seeming all powerful. At the end, parents are left only all loving. The power is gone, eventually or sooner. God is left all loving, whether you look to the original Chasidic tradition or Christianity, which are both traditions based on an all loving God. 

A Disclaimer on Belief
When I was 12 years old, it was time to meet with the Rabbi for the first conversation about becoming Bar Mitzvah. Back then, as I recall (which might not be accurate), fewer students than today led a Bar Mitzvah service. So the rabbi started by asking my intentions.

Rabbi: What are you thinking about Bar Mitzvah?

Artie: Would it be wrong to do just for the presents?

Rabbi: Yes.

Artie: Would it be wrong to do it if I don't believe in God?

Rabbi: Yes.

Artie: Well then, Rabbi, I'm 0-for-2.

Within a few years, I had completely walked away from Judaism — a walk that spanned 26 years before returning in my late 30s.

What About The Professional Jew?
One of the few things I've learned about Judaism is that the Rabbi might have overstated the answer to the second question. Today, as I understand it, belief in God isn't a prerequisite to being a Jew. In fact, this is a case where some of our best, don't.

Years ago, I asked a beloved Rabbi, "Do you believe in God?" I was expecting the simple answer of a true believer.

"May I speak frankly and confidentially?" the Rabbi asked. I nodded. (I think enough years have passed for me to tell this story.) His answer: "That is a complex question."

Wha? "Do you believe in God?" is a complex question?

For me, it's a simple question when the answer is "no" and it's a complex question when the answer is "yes." Because for anyone whose faith is on-again/off-again, "yes" needs a complex qualification.

Personally, I don't consider my religion a faith. I consider it an ethical tradition that — from time to time — might achieve moments of faith. So, I think the Rabbi of my childhood, the one who told me that belief in God was necessary to be a Jew, offered me an easy exit.

Here's what I believe now:

1. Whether or not one believes in God, it is better to live as if (a.) we are all related and (b.) we are never alone. This way, even without belief, we won't abuse our neighbor and we won't behave as if our actions have no meaning.
2. The mind of God is very big. It's inconceivable that any one of us would know the one true way. As Mrs. Isaac says, "It is conceivable that everyone is right." That is, everyone except those who sacrifice people, literally or figuratively. This has led me to a humble preference: I prefer to believe in everything, rather than to believe in nothing. 
3. Facebook is, in at least one important way, playing God. (Here is my Theology of Facebook.)

So, where is God?
I don't know. But I know what I feel like when I feel that God is near or far. 

Does distance make the heart grow fonder? Or as the Roman poet, Sextus Propertius put it: "Always toward absent lovers love's tide stronger flows."

As God and humanity see distance growing between them, so must parents and children.

This year has one of our children off to college. I know how helpless I sometimes feel to have my power diminished by distance. It leaves me all loving, with little I can do about it.

In the late of the night, when I cannot sleep, when I am consumed with worry for our creation, all I can do is wonder if I still enter into my child's prayers.

God is near when we pray for the well being and healing of our friends and family.