Rabbi Janet Marder

April 21, 2006

Guilt and Pleasure

       Last week, during Pesach, I was listening to “Fresh Air,” Terry Gross’ interview show on NPR. She was talking to two guys who form a Jewish musical comedy group called “What I Like About Jew.” They’ve been called “the Bart Simpsons of the Yeshiva” and “the Simon and Garfunkel of ethnic gag songs.”

         Anyway, one of them was grousing about the lousy food at Passover Seders. “Here it is, a big Jewish holiday,” he said. “And what do they give you to eat? A flat, dry, tasteless cracker. That’s the Jewish idea of a good time.”

         Of course, I had an immediate urge to reach into the radio, find this idiot and grab him by the neck so I could explain the true purpose of matzah to him, and tell him that if he hadn’t had a good time at a Passover seder, then he hadn’t ever experienced a real seder.

         After I calmed down, though, I realized that he was voicing what a lot of people think: religion is the antithesis of joy. It’s the opposite of a good time -- flat, dry and tasteless. Religion is about deprivation and guilt and shame; it’s about “thou shalts” and “thou shalt nots”; it’s sour, disapproving, Puritanical voices telling you all the reasons why you shouldn’t do what you want to do because you should be doing something else instead. Religion is about being “preached at” – maybe what you think is about to happen to you now.

         There’s a new magazine on the market, aimed primarily at young Jews, that’s called “Guilt and Pleasure.” It’s a very provocative title, because most of us ricochet a lot between those two poles. “I want to eat that brownie, but I shouldn’t.” “I want to stay in my warm, cozy bed, but I should get up early.” “I want to watch tv, but I should go work out.” “I want to…fill in the blank… but I shouldn’t.”

         Pleasure and guilt, guilt and pleasure. We associate both of them with food and alcohol and sex and money. Religion is, for some people, the thing that tries to make us feel guilty about enjoying life’s pleasures. It tries to tell us what to eat and when it’s ok to have sex; it tries to tell us what to do with our money and our time. It tells us that life is not about feeling good but doing good.

         I want to relax and enjoy myself, but my religion is always broadcasting the same message – utzing me, pushing me: do more, learn more, rise higher, be better. A religion is like the institutionalization of a nagging parent telling you to get up off your duff and do your chores.

         Nobody likes to be nagged. I certainly don’t. Why would anyone voluntarily put himself in a position to be nagged for life by a religion? People go into therapy to stop feeling bad about themselves. Why would anyone put up with a religion that makes them constantly feel inadequate?

          There are all kinds of religions, of course, and all kinds of reasons why people find meaning in them.  I’ll talk about Judaism, the one I know best, and what it has to say about guilt and pleasure.

          I’ll start by saying up front that Judaism is not about stripping life of its pleasures.  Our religion teaches that we are here to experience pleasure. Pleasures of the senses; pleasures of the mind; pleasures of the heart and spirit. Pleasure, in fact, is a gift from God. Take the creation story – a poetic expression of the deepest Jewish beliefs about human nature and our place in the universe.

         God puts Adam and Eve into a fertile garden full of luscious and beautiful fruits. God tells them that they may taste and enjoy the fruit of every tree in the garden – except one. We usually focus on that one forbidden fruit, from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. And we forget about all the fruit which is freely given. We forget that the Torah envisions the world as a garden of earthly delights prepared for us by a God who loves us and wants us to be happy.

         The Talmud returns to the image of that primeval garden in a famous passage which states that at the end of our life, God will hold us accountable for all the delicious foods we saw but did not taste – that is, for all the pleasures of this world in which we did not partake [TJ Kiddushin 4:12].

         If we took this passage literally, it would mean that we’d have to stuff our face with everything, including pork chops and pepperoni pizza. The Sages of the Talmud meant something different. They lived in a time following the destruction of the Second Temple by the Romans, when many pious Jews followed ascetic practices of penitence, abstaining from wine and meat [Bava Batra 60b].

         The rabbis wanted to condemn this ascetism in the strongest possible terms; so they turned, as they often did, to hyperbole. Above all they were troubled by a narrow, punitive attitude that seemed to spurn the bountiful gifts of God. They wanted to restore to a distraught people a sense that the world is good, and meant to be enjoyed.

         Here’s another example of this embrace of pleasure. In the Torah we meet a class of people called Nazirites, people who, in an effort to reach a higher spiritual level, voluntarily chose to abstain from wine and grape products for a specified length of time. The Torah says that after the period of abstention comes to an end, the Nazirite must bring an atonement offering to the sanctuary. The Sages of the Talmud were puzzled by this passage. Why, they asked, did Nazirites have to bring atonement offerings? The answer, according to one opinion, is that the Nazirite has sinned by renouncing one of the pleasures of God’s world.

         This does not mean that the Talmud is saying a recovering alcoholic can’t abstain from drinking. Again, the Talmud is reacting to a particular attitude of mind – a person who takes upon himself extra restrictions and prohibitions in an effort to be “more holy.” The Talmud wants to say that this is not the way to holiness.

         We see this even more clearly in the Jewish attitude towards sexuality. Our tradition firmly rejected the notion that sex is shameful and the highest and holiest way of life is celibacy. Instead, our Sages called marriage “kiddushin,” which means “holiness.”  They encouraged couples especially to have sex on Shabbat, the holiest time in the week. They argued that women as well as men have the right to a satisfying and enjoyable sex life. And they issued explicit instructions to husbands about the need to give sexual pleasure to their wives.

         Money, too, was never condemned as evil by Jewish tradition.  Unlike the founders of other religions, our founder, Abraham, was a wealthy man. For Judaism, poverty is no virtue; prosperity is no curse; and holy living does not require giving away one’s material wealth.

         Rabbi Jonathan Eybeshitz, an 18^th century Talmudist, wrote: “Human beings require material things to live, and Judaism is not calculated to bring pain but joy and happiness. “

         Once a donkey stood at the side of a road – strong of bone, thick of hide and obstinate of mind, as all donkeys are. His master placed a heavy load on his back – goods and produce to take to the market. But the donkey just stood there, munching grass.

         A man walked by and said to the donkey’s master, “What a stubborn beast! Beat him with your whip!” But the donkey just dug his heels deeper into the ground and refused to budge. Another passerby said, “That donkey needs to be taught a lesson. His burden is too light – show him that you’re the boss!” So the master loaded on pots and pans and more and more bundles, until finally the donkey collapsed under the load.

         A third man walked by and said, “Who needs that stupid animal, anyway? He’s no good to you – just forget him.”

         The master didn’t know what to do. He was attached to his donkey, despite his frustration. Finally a fourth man, a teacher, arrived on the scene. “Don’t beat your animal,” he said to the donkey’s master. “Don’t overload him and don’t abandon him. Help him.”

         “Help him?” asked the man.

         “Help him carry his load. Show him that your burden is a shared burden – that it’s not just him doing the shlepping and you reaping the profits, but a joint venture in which you both toil and both benefit. When you regard him as a partner rather than a slave, your beast will be transformed.”

         The man removed some of the bundles and put his shoulder to the donkey’s burden. He helped the donkey rise to its feet; the man, too, heaved and strained. Together they transported their merchandise to the market.

         That’s a story told by the Baal Shem Tov, the founder of Hasidism, about the relationship of the body to the spirit. He takes the donkey (chamor in Hebrew) as a symbol of our material body (chomer in Hebrew). The body wants its pleasures: the body needs food and water, sex and sleep; it also needs respect and understanding and love.

         The Baal Shem Tov says that we’re not supposed to deny the body, or abuse or mistreat it or afflict it. We’re supposed to care for the body and lift it up to a higher place. Body and spirit can’t be at war; they have to work in partnership to accomplish something meaningful in life.

          How do you do that? How do you take bodily pleasure and lift it up to a higher place? Our tradition says we do it not through self-punishment or self-affliction, but by enjoying pleasure in a structure of beauty and responsibility.

         We know from experience that pleasure is enhanced by structure and discipline. If you eat a whole jumbo pizza (unless you’re a teenage boy) you’re not going to feel pleasure; you’re going to throw up. If you chug-a-lug whiskey all night long you’re going to make yourself sick. If you have compulsive, anonymous sex with strangers, it won’t fill up the empty place inside you; you’ll only feel emptier after it’s over.

         Judaism teaches us to enjoy the good things of life within a structure of beauty and responsibility – it tells us to celebrate life and its pleasures by consuming them with care and judgment, balance and moderation. Every aspect of ordinary life, enjoyed in this manner, can be elevated and made holy.

          The best metaphor for this mindset is the Kiddush cup. We Jews don’t drink wine, a symbol of pleasure, by guzzling it out of a paper bag on a street corner. We pour good wine into a beautiful goblet, we lift it up and say a blessing, we say “L’chayyim – to life!” --  and then we taste its sweetness.

         In the same way, our tradition teaches us that sex is best enjoyed within a beautiful container; within a structure of love and responsibility. It is elevated and made holy when shared by two partners who are united by deep caring, respect and commitment.

         So our tradition offers us structure and discipline to lift up our pleasures. We receive dietary laws to restrain the appetites, to teach us to eat thoughtfully, mindfully and ethically. Tradition offers us blessings before and after we eat to bring a sense of gratitude and holiness to our daily habits of consumption.

         And Jews are taught to enjoy the things that money can buy, but to be generous with others as well. Money, too, can be elevated to holiness when it’s used within a framework of love and responsibility.

         “I want to relax and enjoy myself, but my religion keeps asking me to do more.” That’s the philosophy that sees religion as a nagging parent whose business it is to make us feel guilty and inadequate.

         But we could think of it another way. Religion, our religion, is an invitation to a way of life, freely chosen and freely embraced, which offers us the opportunity to live more deeply, with greater meaning and joy.

         Tonight we begin Shabbat: the highlight of our week -- not a day of Puritan self-denial but a day for us to fill with pleasures of all kinds, a day to celebrate the goodness of this world. Relax! Enjoy yourself! Life is full of gifts, and the garden is full of delicious fruit, just waiting to be tasted.