Purim is this weekend — very early this year, and I am planning, God and gut willing, to enjoy a wonderful party at my synagogue tomorrow night. For those not in the know, Purim celebrates the book of Esther. This is one of my very favorite texts in the Bible. Ancient — and modern — stories are full of warnings about how women’s sexuality, boldness, curiosity turn the natural order of the world upside down. (Think of Eve, Pandora, Psyche and Eros …) In the book of Esther, it takes a woman’s sexuality, boldness, and curiosity to turn a disordered world right again. It reminds me of Sojourner Truth: “If the first woman God ever made was strong enough to turn the world upside down all alone, these women together ought to be able to turn it back, and get it right side up again!”

Esther is about coming out of the closet.

Esther is about being fabulous and unashamed.

Esther is about facing the music and dancing.

Esther is also my Hebrew name, and when I converted, I gave this talk at my naming ceremony:

I chose Esther as much for her weaknesses as for her strengths. She is the least heroic of heroines. Esther is not a judge or a warrior or a matriarch: Esther is a girly girl. She is pretty and charming and wants life to be easy. She wants other people to make the hard decisions, to wrestle the scary angels of history and destiny. The traditional role of women is not a burden or a constraint on Esther—rather, it is her greatest temptation. Women can get away with not taking ultimate responsibility for our lives. Women can get by on our charm and good looks. Women can sit in the boat admiring the scenery while the men do the heavy rowing. And this is what Esther wants to do.

And yet, when the dice are thrown, she does take responsibility, and when she does, she takes it all the way. Although Mordechai must convince her to take action, she is not simply his handmaiden or puppet. Independently, she assesses his arguments and is persuaded. Independently, she plans a course of action. Independently, she improvises brilliantly and bravely, with lipstick, dinner-party banter, and a bottle of wine.

I look at Esther and I see a warning about the temptations I face.

I look at Esther and I see an inspiration to take responsibility and improvise.

I look at Esther and I see a woman I would like to have as a friend.

Esther’s story is comic, it is improbable, it does not mention God.* The story of Esther teaches us to take control of our destiny, yet always be ready to accept the unpredictable turns of events. It teaches us to enjoy good times but never assume that they will last. It teaches us that we can do great things in diaspora, but that ultimately Jewish security rests on having our own land. It teaches us that sometimes we need another person to remind us to be a hero, and there is no shame in that. It teaches us that the one who is rescued can become the rescuer, that the student can educate the teacher. It teaches us that we must take responsibility without the luxury of signs and miracles, without a sense of being called. Finally, it teaches the most important ways for a Jew to serve God is not through ostentatious piety, but through fighting idolatry and working for the future of the Jewish people.

All of these things I believe.

For those of you who are interested in further thoughts on Esther, read my sermon here. Reverend Victoria Weinstein of Norwell First Parish Unitarian Church, whom I met through her wonderful and oft-referenced “Beauty Tips for Ministers” blog, graciously invited me to speak to her congregation three years ago. Her explanation of the role of image in the ministry is first, and my thoughts on style, beauty, and the book of Esther are second.

*If you are reading from a Catholic bible, this isn’t the case. Catholic bibles include verses about Mordechai praying that were deemed non-canonical by the compilers of the Hebrew and Protestant bibles. With due respect to the Catholic tradition, I find it very important that God and the concept of direct communication with the Divine are not mentioned in Esther. Sure, it may not have been easy to be Abraham (what with that self-circumcision and all) or Moses, but God was telling them what to do every step of the way. Mordechai and Esther must make very difficult decisions under conditions of uncertainty, believing they know God’s will but without the specific guidance of how to make that will come to pass. Like most of us.

Any pagans, Wiccans, pantheists, followers of Native American spirituality in da house? Now’s the time to throw your hands up and delurk. Tell me a little about yourself, what your tradition means to you, maybe toss in a link to a book or blog you like? I am down with the Abrahamic faiths, and I know a little bit about Buddhism and Hinduism, but the nature-based religions are, for the most part, a mystery to me. (I have read Margot Adler’s Drawing Down the Moon, so I know a bit about Wicca.) As someone who was raised Christian and converted to Judaism, the idea of non-text-based religion is a little hard to get my mind around.

If you’re in the broom closet, of course, you can post anonymously. I’m certainly not going to out you. And I’d really like to know who’s out there. I know I’ve got a fair number of Christian, Jewish, and atheist/agnostic/ignostic readers, and a handful of Muslims as well. Who else is out there? I’ll light a candle for you on this longest night if you’ll light one for me.

I’d mentioned that I had a difficult time finding meaning in Hanukkah. Here‘s an excellent article in Slate that looks at the awkward history behind the holiday, and might explain better to folks — Jewish or not — why a modern person might find some of its messages distasteful, and what meaning we can find in it. I love this paragraph:

Here we find the historical miracle that Hanukkah implicitly celebrates: the capacity to sustain intimate relations with another without totally ceding your own sense of self, the ability to love without permanently merging, to be enchanted by the exquisite beauty of another without losing sight of your own charms. This relational art is ritualized on Hanukkah by the lighting of separate wicks or candles that build daily toward a unison of illumination.

I was planning to blog today about your awesome comments on my “holiday joys and woes” post, and how although Hanukkah doesn’t do it for me on any level, what you wrote helped. Because I realized that all of your joys had to do with stuff you did — not consumed, not believed — so maybe I should just stop trying to figure out Hanukkah and fry a pancake already. And how this relates to a particular scene in the Torah and the concept of na’aseh v’nishma, and what it means to have “experiential learning” in a religion as intellectual and text-based as Judaism, and all that …

And then I saw this. Senator Orrin Hatch, a Mormon from Utah, has written a Hanukkah song.

Now, let me make two points:

1. His song actually doesn’t suck. (There’s a video linked, you can judge for yourself. It’s not great, but in the canon of Hanukkah music, there’s worse. Trust me.)
2. Irving Berlin wrote “White Christmas” (and also “Easter Parade”), so hey, it’s all good. This is America, buddy.

What is not all good is this:

At one point, Mr. Hatch unbuttons his white dress shirt to expose the golden mezuzah necklace he wears every day. Mezuzahs also adorn the doorways of his homes in Washington and Utah. Mr. Hatch keeps a Torah in his Senate office.

“Not a real Torah, but sort of a mock Torah,” he said. “I feel sorry I’m not Jewish sometimes.”

Well, dude, YOU AREN’T, so suck it the heck up. And I think “mock” Torah pretty well describes it. “Sort of a mock Torah”? How in the name of Ceiling Cat is this in any way showing honor to the Jewish people you claim to respect, Senator Hatch?

If you are not a member of a religious group, it does not honor the people who are to go using their sacred objects or religious symbols as freakin’ accessories. Got it? If you are given something as a gift, with the understanding that it is a cultural/artistic item representing a different faith, that is one thing. (I have a Ganesh statue that was given to everyone who attended a friend’s Big Fat Hindu Wedding a few years back, and some Ukranian Easter eggs from my Ukranian, Christian mother.) Otherwise, no. Religions are not sports teams. You don’t run around wearing the jersey because you like how we play the game. You can attend services, you can study the texts, you can join interfaith groups, you can eat the food, but you do not dress up like something you aren’t. (For more on that, see PeaceBang here.)

Senator Hatch of all people should know this. Interfaith pieties aside, we are not “all one.” Religions differ in fundamental ways. Senator Hatch is a Mormon, and Mormons apparently feel so strongly about protecting their own religious symbols and practices against the casual curiosity or faux-identification of “Mormons for a Day” that they don’t even allow non-Mormons into their temples or allow us to view certain ceremonies. And that’s their perfect right. What if I decided that I, a Jew, was nonetheless a big fan of the Mormonism, and wanted to express that by wearing temple garments under my clothes? Does that put it in perspective for you, Senator Hatch?

And yet, I must thank you. Because your offensive co-opting of my religion has, in fact, inspired me this Hanukkah. If you can celebrate my holiday, I sure as hell can. I am going to make those damn latkes, and I am going to get that wax off my menorah, probably by melting it off with the scorching gaze of my contemptuous laser-eyes and the hot breath of my profanity-laced rant at your discourtesy-masquerading-as-tolerance. (You folks think this is a profanity-laced rant? This is nothing. I can and do kick it “Deadwood“-style when necessary.)

So thank you, Senator Hatch, for teaching me the true meaning of Hanukkah. Which is, frankly, that we need to protect our religions. That we need to set boundaries. That courtesy is not only about acknowledging what binds us together, but about respecting what keeps us apart.

Since so many of you liked my writing on the first chapters of Genesis, I thought I’d share an essay I wrote on another Torah portion. I wrote this four years ago — we had just gotten Milo, and that year, this Torah portion came on the Saturday after Thanksgiving, which as you can tell rather affected my reading of it. Enjoy:

I need to get rid of the leftovers. It’s the Sunday after Thanksgiving, and the leftovers are weighing heavy on my mind, my belly, and my refrigerator shelves. It’s been a week of shopping and cooking and planning, but at least I have a wonderful cleaning lady and a nearby Trader Joe’s; my mother got along well with our new dog, and vice versa; and my husband and I are blessed to actually like our families, so that time spent with them is as much pleasure as it is duty.

And duty has its pleasures too. I felt competent and strong this Thanksgiving. I was proud of the dinner I made. I was proud of the warm, book-lined rooms my family ate in, that I worked so hard to arrange and decorate. I was proud to show the local museums off to my mother, and to take her to shops the likes of which they do not have in Nixa, Missouri. I was proud that I knew when she was too tired to walk home after a morning’s shopping, and too proud, herself, to say so immediately, so I took charge and sent my husband off to retrieve the car.

And I wonder about the danger of that pride.

In this week’s Torah portion, we meet Rebecca, the second matriarch of the Jewish people. Abraham is concerned about finding a wife for his son, Isaac: he doesn’t want one of these flashy Canaanite broads, he wants a nice homegirl from Aram-naharaim, his old neighborhood. So he sends his servant off to collect a bride for Isaac. Wanting a kind as well as beautiful woman, the servant devises a test. He will wait at the well outside of town with his camels, and when he sees a young woman, he will ask her for a drink. If she not only gives him a drink, but offers to water his camels too—all 10 of them—he will know that she is the one.

As soon as Eliezer has thought this up, Rebecca appears, and he asks her for water. “When she had let him drink his fill, she said, ‘I will also draw for your camels, until they finish drinking.’ Quickly emptying her jar into the trough, she ran back to the well to draw, and she drew for all his camels. The man, meanwhile, stood gazing at her, silently wondering whether the Lord had made his errand successful or not.” (Genesis 24:19-20.)

At this point in the story, we like Rebecca. We like her very much, even if we are intimidated by her scary biceps. (It takes a strong woman to draw enough water for 10 camels.) Isaac likes Rebecca too, when he meets her, and we are told that he “brought her into the tent of his mother Sarah, and he took Rebecca as his wife. Isaac loved her, and thus found comfort after his mother’s death.” (Genesis 24:67.)

Does anyone else find that a little creepy? Does anyone else think that maybe Isaac is going to turn into one of those men who calls his wife “mommy”? Is anyone else remembering at this point that while the Greeks may have invented the Oedipus complex, it took the Jews to identify it?

We’re supposed to understand by this that Rebecca is the spiritual daughter of Sarah, and like her will be God-fearing and loyal. We’re supposed to understand that drawing water for the camels is a sign of chesed (lovingkindness). We’re supposed to believe that the things that Rebecca does later on — when she stage-manages a deception to make Isaac, on his deathbed, bless her favorite son, Jacob, rather his, Esau — are a sign of her intelligence and superior understanding of God’s will.

But I’m not so sure about that. I think maybe Rebecca is a control freak.

Her final deception of Isaac is hard to justify, no matter how you twist it around. Rebecca begins her story as a kind and well-intentioned person, but I wonder if the role of caretaker, hostess, Competent Woman Who Does It All, doesn’t eventually go to her head. She takes care of others until she starts believing that they cannot take care of themselves. She knows better than anyone else. And she loves to complain.

I think all women are at least a little bit familiar with this phenomenon. With the glow that comes from providing for everyone else. With the martyred pleasure of putting everyone elses’ needs before your own. With the belief that there’s no point asking for help, because it’s easier to just do it yourself.

Rebecca is a warning about what that kind of attitude can lead to. How easily caretaking can slide into a subtle form of contempt.

Eliezer just stood there watching her as she went to the well, again and again and again, watering all those camels. Rebecca had a choice. She could have asked him to help. Would she have become a different person if she had? A little less generous, perhaps, but also less manipulative?

I did a good job this Thanksgiving. I took care of my husband, and my mother, and my dog. I brought pleasure and delight to my family. And I had a pretty good time in the process, myself. But I need to be watchful of that glow of pride. I need to remember that the people in my life are responsible and competent and can take care of themselves — and even of me, sometimes. I need to relax my hold, my desire for control.

I need to get rid of those leftovers.

Tomorrow is Milo’s fourth “Gotcha Day” with us! I wrote a little essay about him on his second, and a poem for him on his third. Digging through some old computer files, recently, I found something I’d written a couple of months after we got him, that will suffice as this year’s celebratory post:

Much as I often type “teh” instead of “the,” I’ve discovered–since the arrival of Milo, our adorable mixed-breed rescue dog–that I usually type “god” when I mean “dog.” I always manage to notice this and correct it, usually with an obscure feeling of guilt. However, if I hadn’t, here are some of the things I would have written in various e-mails to friends in the past month:

• If you’re really not up for having a god in the house along with the new baby that’s perfectly okay.

• He is a great god, bra fetish notwithstanding.

• And we have a new god, who is a constant source of puzzlement and delight, and who appears to find us much the same.

• He’s a gentle god but “calm” is not a word I would use to describe him.

• We are working on “quiet god” right now.

• My husband and my god like each other.

• If anyone is afraid of or allergic to gods be assured that he will be crated and upstairs during our meeting. If anyone likes gods you can go meet him after we’ve concluded our business.

• The important question is how are you doing these days, and the really important question is when are you going to come admire my new god?

• And can I force you all to admire the attached picture of my new god, bravely defending us against an evil, scary bunch of bananas?

• He doesn’t feel the need to mark his territory as male gods often do.

• On the upside, I LOVE MY NEW GOD! He is the BEST god ever and we just signed the adoption papers today.

Happy Gotcha Day, little man. While your humans are cavorting in Italy, you are staying with a friend in the country, and I hope you are having a wonderful time. We are probably looking at all of the Italian dogs and saying to ourselves, and sometimes each other, “That dog’s not as cute as Milo.” You remain a source of puzzlement and delight to us, and it appears we remain so to you, as well.

And here, for anyone who cares to see it, is the picture of Milo the second night we had him, defending his new home against that sleeper cell of terrorist bananas (he’d been barking at them, so we put them on the floor and let him investigate):

Whether they are Reform or Orthodox, all religious Jews are literally on the same page: we all read the same section of the Torah every week, broken up so that we read the entire Torah (i.e., the first five books of the Hebrew Bible) every year. Each Torah portion is named after its first word or phrase. We finished the Torah, this year, on October 10, and started it again in Genesis this past Saturday.

Genesis begins with “In the beginning,” which in Hebrew is Bere’shit, so that is what we call it. Four years ago, I’d started writing a little essay on Sundays, a personal reflection on that week’s portion. Because I couldn’t find anyone interested in publishing these, that didn’t last too long. But I thought I’d share the one I wrote on Bere’shit with you. Even if you’re not religious, I think it speaks to something about the nature of creativity and otherness. Or maybe it will leave you cold. I don’t expect every post to hit home with every reader.

This week’s Torah portion, Bere’shit, contains one of the oddest and funniest scenes in the Torah. In Genesis 2:18-21 we read, “The Lord God said, ‘It is not good for man to be alone, I will make a fitting helper for him.’ And the Lord God formed out of the earth all the wild beasts and all the birds of the sky, and brought them to the man to see what he would call them; and whatever the man called each living creature, that would be its name. And the man gave names to all the cattle and to the birds of the sky and to all the wild beasts; but for Adam no fitting helper was found.”

Now this, to me, clearly indicates that HaShem* may not have known exactly what it was He’d created when he made Adam. The issue of God’s omnipotence and omniscience, as well as the entire question of how we can have free will if God already knows everything we will do—that I will leave to theologians. But taking a purely literary or theatrical approach to the passage, there is no doubt that HaShem is, at this point, a bit confused about what he might have on His divine hands, if He seriously thinks that He can find Adam a suitable mate from all the animals in creation.

It’s a scene I’d love to see the old Monty Python crew perform (John Cleese as God, of course, and Michael Palin as Adam). “All right then, Adam, let’s get you some company, my boy. Giraffe? No, no, too tall. A tiger, perhaps? Erm, might be a bit dangerous, that. Sheep? No, you’re not from New Zealand, are you … Bother, I’m not quite sure what is going to work here …” And when He does finally decide He’d better just make another human, He creates her from the original model, as though He’s not quite sure what might happen if he tried that “breathing life into dust” thing again.

To suggest that God may have been a bit unclear about the nature of His creation is not to take away from His authority or wisdom. Parents, and artists, can all attest to the “shock of the new,” the awareness that this thing you made has a life, and a spirit, entirely of its own. I think this is what’s going on in Parashat Bere’shit, and it shed light, for me, on why, perhaps, God created us.

Here’s what I think: I think He wanted to be surprised. Look at verse 19, in which God brings the animals before Adam not just to see which might make him a suitable mate, but “to see what he would call them.” What’s he gonna do? That’s what God is asking Himself. I feel a sense of play, of experiment, in HaShem at this point. What will Adam make of all of this? It’s the same delight you see in a parent giving her baby a new toy. Will he like it? Will he be afraid of it? Will he do something utterly surprising and funny, and take my breath away with delight?

Of course, as the Canadian folk singer Jane Siberry so wisely noted, “Everything Reminds Me of My Dog.” And I suspect having gotten a new dog—on Simchat Torah, no less—is strongly influencing my reading of this passage. Milo pleases me when he obeys me. But he delights me when he surprises me—by doing something so purely and ineluctably him, that for all my superior wisdom and learning I could never have predicted it. When he jumps straight up in the air, almost as high as my shoulder. When he decides for his own obscure canine reasons that he must, right now, protect us from the evil, menacing bunch of bananas lying on the kitchen shelf. When he puts the side of his head on the floor and rotates himself around in a circle like Curly from the Three Stooges. His obedience pleases me, his affection warms me, but his ability to surprise, to always be the unique creature that he is, breaks me out of myself and into sheer joy.

So obey God. And love God. But just as importantly, always, always be yourself and hope that somewhere up there He is laughing in delight at you.

*HaShem is Hebrew for “The Name,” and is one of the ways we refer to God. So please, people, if you’re trying to be all interfaith and tolerant, stop writing things like “Whether you pray to God, Allah, or Yahweh …” For one thing, Allah is God. It’s the Arabic word for “God.” Arab Christians pray to Allah, too. It’s not like some whole different character. For another, no one prays to Yahweh, at least no Jews do. If you want to come up with a Jewish way of saying “God,” it’s “HaShem.” We don’t say “Yahweh,” and we don’t say “Jehovah,” either, except when we’re quoting “Life of Brian.”

Happy New Year!

(And sorry for the kind of high Jewish/religious content here lately. I try to keep mixing stuff up on the blog so there’s a nice variety, but sometimes you flip a coin and it just turns up heads ten times in a row, you know?)

One of the things I like about being Jewish is getting to celebrate New Year’s in the fall, which always feels like the start of the year to me anyway. A lifetime in the educational system will do that to you.

If you’re confused about all those Jewish holidays in the fall … you’re not the only one. (Even if you’re Jewish yourself!) There are plenty of books and guides online that can clear things up or mystify you even further, but here’s what it all means to me. I don’t know why the metaphor of an ocean voyage is the one I use for the holy days. I grew up in Kansas, for heaven’s sake. But this is what works. (Especially this year, when Rosh Hashanah falls on International Talk Like a Pirate Day!)

The month before Rosh Hashanah is Elul. During Elul, we are supposed to do a kind of “spiritual accounting” of the past year, and reflect on what we have done right or wrong. This is like preparing for a big sailing trip. What questions would you be asking yourself if you were going on a long ocean voyage — I don’t mean a cruise, I mean the kind where you’re part of the crew? I think they’d be questions like this: What do I really need to take with me in order to survive? What should I throw out? Who should I say goodbye to, and what should I say? Do I owe anyone apologies? Do I owe anyone money, or favors, or their copy of The Yiddish Policemen’s Union back? Am I in good enough shape for the rigors of this journey? What do I need to do to prepare myself? Do I have illnesses or injuries that need tending before I go?

Then, Rosh Hashanah! The New Year! And our spiritual ship is launched. Rosh Hashanah is serious, but joyful. There is risk ahead but great adventure. We all wear our best clothes and wish each other a happy journey.

The 10 days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are known as “The Days of Awe.” Everything you do on these days is fraught with significance: we try to be as observant as possible, as strict with ourselves and forgiving of others as we can. Imagine living on a ship, where a mistake might cost you a limb or life, where you must get along with your shipmates at all cost. The Days of Awe are a time for being very care-full.

And then — shipwreck! Yom Kippur! The ship of our souls and our best intentions is not enough to keep us afloat, and we crash. We fast. We do not wash. We live the day, as much as possible, like walking dead, taking no food, no water, no joy in our own bodies or those of others. We allow ourselves to be shaken and wrecked. And yet, at the end of the day, we break our fast together, and celebrate that we have survived.

But survival after shipwreck isn’t easy. We’re on a desert island now, aren’t we? So we built huts! The next holiday — not properly considered one of the High Holy Days, but still connected — is Sukkot. Sukkot is a harvest festival, celebrated by building booths (the sukkahs) and eating and sleeping outdoors. Removed from its agricultural meaning, and put into the context of the HHDs, Sukkot can be seen as a kind of regrouping after the shipwreck of Yom Kippur. We are safe. We are alive. We are with our loved ones. But we are not comfortable yet. We’ve found a desert island to sustain us, but we haven’t claimed it as our land or built a civilization on it. Sukkot celebrates the joyful body, the joyful community. But it isn’t complete.

And then — Simchat Torah. Which literally means, “Happy Torah.” We read the Torah completely through every year, with a different portion for each Shabbat. Simchat Torah celebrates the end of one year’s Torah cycle, and the beginning of another. This — this is when we say, “We have survived. And we have built something. And that thing will continue beyond our short lives.” We celebrate living, not just surviving. Peoplehood, not just community. Civilization, not just culture. We aren’t refugees on a desert island any more. We are citizens and nation builders.

So there it is. We prepare for the voyage, we launch the ship, we sail as careful and true as we can, we wreck ourselves anyway, we drag our bodies to shore and find nourishment there, and then we begin to build something to be proud of.

Every year, we get to do this.

Every year, this wonderful adventure.

I set sail tonight.

If you can’t pronounce chag sameach, then wish me bon voyage.

Finally wrapping up a little series on religion and language. I talked about the use of magical/religious language even by non-religious folks here, and the magic of swearing and singing here.

When I think about religious language, one moment always comes to mind: our first trip to Australia, when we encountered a troop of kangaroos quite by surprise while exploring a park in Alice Springs. It was a magical moment, one of those little snatches of beauty that you’ll remember forever. And in a moment like that, you can say one of two things: a prayer, or “Duuuuude.”

I chose the prayer. I went with the Shehecheyanu, the Hebrew blessing for special occasions. I’m still grateful to my religion for giving me words in that moment, when no secular speech would do.

I’m not that damn reverent, though, so I repeated it afterwards in a heavy Crocodile-Dundee style accent, which sounds pretty funny if you know how it’s supposed to sound. I couldn’t make meeting those kangaroos into something so sacred that I could never approach the moment again in my own mind.

And I wonder … is that what’s behind all the “Mary is My Homegirl” and Candy Torahs and all that? What do you think of religious kitsch, if you are a religious person?

You can become a “fan” of Jesus on Facebook, you know. What do you think of that? (Besides the obvious point that he probably doesn’t write his own updates.) I think I’d become a “fan” of Torah, but not of God. That just seems — unseemly. What do you think? Is this kind of domestication, kitschifying, joking around with the sacred a healthy way to relate to our religion? A fun in-joke among a particular faith community? Or does it diminish without adding?

So, let’s talk a little more about religion and language. As noted, we use magical talk to express our hopes for others (and for ourselves). I’m not really sure I have a point with any of the below–but hey, I’m blogging, I don’t have to have a point. These are just some ideas I’m batting at you.

So if I sneeze, perhaps you’ll say to me, “God bless you.” If I hit my thumb with a hammer, I know what I’ll be saying, and it will be rather on the opposite end of the devotional spectrum. And my blue streak might serve a purpose. A study published this summer indicated some scientific backing for the folk belief that yes, cursing up a storm does, in fact, help you cope with pain. Subjects could hold their hands in ice water, and reported less pain, if they got to swear while they did it. Words are magic. (The scientists point out, interestingly, that swear words can lose their mojo if overused–no, mojo wasn’t their exact word, but you know what I mean–and thus not have a pain-relieving effect.)

Profanity and religious language overlap in the category of “blasphemy.” Subjects in the experiment were allowed to chant the “expletive of their choice,” so we don’t know if any of them were using blasphemy as well as or in addition to profanity. I use both, myself, with frequency and no small degree of skill–but the time in my life during which I was most blasphemous was when I was working at a Catholic college, because I picked it up from the people around me. All the same, though, I don’t think the blasphemy would have worked, would have had any mojo in it, if Christian/Catholic imagery weren’t highly accessible to me. If I had been in that pain and profanity experiment, I bet I could hold my hand in icy water a lot longer if I got to chant “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”–which feels like blasphemy even though those names are not sacred to me–rather than “Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva!,” which doesn’t.*

Just as taking the names of Jesus or the saints in vain feels like blasphemy even though, for me, it isn’t, using Christian religious language feels like a declaration of faith, even when it’s not. There was a lot of gospel and country music in July when I visited my cousins in the Ozarks. And I noticed, as I have at the occasional Christmas party-slash-singalong, that I feel really strange singing about Jesus. Singing in general, of course, is not a good idea for me, but I don’t usually feel the need to assess the truth conditions of lyrics before firing up the karaoke machine; I’m not going to refuse to sing “My Boyfriend’s Back” on grounds that I am a faithful married woman. (“But they did not in fact try to make me go to rehab, nor is my father in any position to have an opinion on whether I am fine or not, having been dead these ten years.”) Songs with religious language in them feel different, though; it feels strange to sing something I don’t believe in.

As long as I’m singing it in English. I suspect I’d have no (spiritual) problem singing a Christian hymn in Latin, however vocally challenging I might find it. The Traveling Psychologist does research on this kind of thing: one’s native language feels real in a way that other languages, even if spoken fluently, do not. People have a stronger physiological response to seeing emotionally charged words (sexual, aggressive, religious, or otherwise taboo) in their native language. She told me once that in China, the words “I love you” are used very rarely, perhaps at one’s wedding and/or deathbed. Chinese pop songs about romance will often use the phrase “I love you” in their chorus–in English. You can say the deeply emotional, taboo phrase in a foreign language, even if people know perfectly well what it means.

We once had some young neighbors, foreign grad students, who had a rather tempestuous relationship, and we could often hear them arguing in their native language. Occasionally, the woman would yell at the man, “I hate you!” I was always tempted to tell him that as long as she was saying it in English, he was probably safe.

*One spring while I was teaching at Emmanuel College, I was helping to clean up after a Purim celebration at my synagogue and dropped a table–not on, but frighteningly close to, my foot, and gasped, “Holy Mother of God!” At which another woman on the cleaning committee looked up and said, “Oh, do you work in a Catholic school too?”