god – Frank is Emptiness

WITS

September 7th, 2025

My friend, Ken, took me to WITS yesterday for the first time. WITS is the acronym for Wisconsin Institute of Torah Study. We walked there early on Shabbat to participate in Shacharit, the main religious service for the day. WITS is a yeshiva; in this case it’s kind of a Jewish prep school. Most of the students are of high school age. There are also some post-high school programs at WITS. According to the website, students come from all over Canada and the Midwest of the United States. This means that these young people live at the yeshiva as well as studying there.

By the way, the school is exclusively male.

That fact is obvious from the moment a person walks through the front door. I don’t know how to exactly describe it, but a place that allows only men and boys to be there tends to have a severely masculine vibe to it. I’m not talking about macho, although that might be part of this particular culture. I only got a glimpse into this world. However, in a universe defined by yin and yang, an organization like WITS is all yang.

I’m at an age where something new always reminds me of something old. WITS reminds me of two other places: Subiaco Abbey in Arkansas and the United States Military Academy at West Point, New York. I’ve spent time at both of those places, but mostly at West Point. I only visited Subiaco a few times, but I studied at West Point for four years. Subiaco Abbey runs a Catholic prep school, and West Point is an institution to train Army officers. Both Subiaco and USMA deal primarily with the education of boys on the cusp of manhood. Subiaco, like WITS, has an entirely male population. West Point started allowing women to join in 1976 when I first showed up there. Still, West Point is a majority men’s school. Only 24% of the student body is currently female. Fifty years ago, the percentage was much less.

The architecture at WITS bears a striking resemblance to the structures at Subiaco and West Point. The buildings are massive stone constructions. There is a heaviness at all three locations: the weight of long tradition. A sense of solidity and physical strength. There is a feeling of permanence. When a person arrives at any of those three campuses, they get the impression that these institutions have always been there, and they always will. The buildings seem to be both schools and fortresses, and maybe they are.

The synagogue at WITS looks like a study hall, which of course it is. The ark for storing the Torah scrolls is at the far end of the hall. The bimah, the table where the scrolls are laid for the reading of the parsha, is in the center of the room. The rest of place is filled with tables and chairs, and books. There are books everywhere. Somehow, when I first walked into the hall, it reminded me of a mosque. I’m not sure why. Mosques are places of study, and the main halls are only for men. Also, both mosques and synagogues eschew most visual art. In particular, images of human beings are shunned. A mosque may have calligraphy and geometric designs. This synagogue had stained glass pictures, but there were no renderings of people.

Ken and I sat at a table, and I looked at the stained glass. One picture immediately caught my eye. Actually, the Hebrew writing is what I noticed. Under an image of an olive tree was written אשר, which translates to Asher, the name of my little grandson. I have only a minimal understanding of Hebrew, but I figured out that the series of pictures on the wall all referred to the twelve tribes of Israel. Each image was a symbol for a tribe. The easiest one to identify was יוסף, Joseph, because it was a picture of his coat of many colors. After a struggle with my memory of the Hebrew alphabet, I recognized Gad, Dan, Benjamin, and Issachar.

During the service, the prayers were said rapidly, way too fast for me to follow. I have been going to Shacharit services for a long time, but at the old synagogue, things were done at a more leisurely pace. At WITS everybody is fluent in Hebrew, so they run with it. Most of the time I knew where we were at in the service, but often I just sat and listened to other people pray. Sometimes, words get in the way of prayer. I have found that listening to others pray in languages I don’t quite understand, like Latin or Arabic or Japanese, brings me closer to God than if I could comprehend the meaning of what is said. Just hearing the sound of Hebrew is a blessing to me. I love the language, although I cannot explain why.

The boys and young men in the synagogue were all in uniform. That was another throwback to my past life. They all wore dark suits with white shirts and ties. They all wore black fedoras. Their tzitzits stuck out from under their shirts. Maybe they were dressed up for Shabbat. I think they are a bit more informal during the week. Also, they were all cleanshaven, even though many of them could have sported beards. When I was a cadet at West Point, I was always cleanshaven. It was a rule.

Why wear uniforms? It is a way of maintaining discipline. I looked at the boys and I tried to remember what I was like back then. I’m sure that they are generally well-behaved, but they are teenagers. How much time do they spend on pondering the wonders of the Torah, and how much time do they spend pondering the mysteries of other gender? I was probably sitting in room full of devout young men with raging hormones.

At one point, I noticed a little boy standing near to us. He was Asher’s age, or maybe a bit older. The boy had sandy hair partially covered by his kippah. He was dressed in a suit like the older boys. The lad was looking confusedly at an open siddur. He seemed uncomfortable as I watched him. That’s understandable as I seldom smile. I suspect he was the son of one of the rabbis and was coerced into being at the service. He was probably eager for the prayers to end so that he could run around and raise hell like any other little boy.

The rabbis sat up front. They all had beards. Each one wore his tallis, his prayer shawl, over his head as he prayed. Each one nodded as he prayed. Some of them had their eyes closed. It felt like they were with us but also somewhere else.

There were many prayers during the service where each individual was praying more or less on his own. At those times, the spoken prayers were like a murmur in the background, audible but not necessarily understandable. At other times, the boys and men suddenly prayed loudly in unison, and that was like the roar of waves of the sea crashing against rocks on the shore. The prayers were powerful, and for me, deeply moving.

The service lasted for two hours. The time went by quickly. There was much that I did not understand.

I will have to go back again.

Martyrdom

August 17th, 2025

“In your struggle against sin you have not yet resisted to the point on shedding blood.” – Hebrews 12:4

The priest gave a homily (sermon) today based on the verse from the letter to the Hebrews that is shown above. Our pastor is originally from India and wanted to talk about Christians in various parts of the world whose lives are in danger because of their faith. He mentioned that there are some parts of India where being identified as a Christian can be life-threatening. He seemed to indicate that he had some personal experience with that kind of persecution. I would suppose that under Modi’s Hindu centric regime threats against any non-Hindu group would be common.

Our pastor emphasized that numerous Christians have in recent years chosen death before renouncing their faith. He summed up his sermon by pointedly asking the members of the congregation what they would do in such a situation. Would they abandon their religion or would they become martyrs. A “martyr” is by definition a “witness”. That is the original meaning of the word. So, a martyr is one who bears witness.

I had to think about the priest’s question. I feel like his choice is simplistic. So, what would I do if somebody was ready to kill me? The answer is, “I don’t know.” I have trouble even imagining that scenario. I doubt that, if I was threatened with death for being a Christian, I would raise my eyes to the heavens and make a noble and inspiring profession of faith. It is more likely that I would tell the persecutor to fuck off and let him or her do their job. Or maybe, I would tell them whatever they wanted to hear. I really don’t know what I would do, and I don’t want to find out.

I thought some more about it and, if somebody was ready and willing to kill me for my beliefs, I would probably first think about Asher, my little grandson. I would be asking myself, “Who will care for the boy if I die?” It’s one thing to surrender my life if I have no responsibilities toward others. It’s whole different matter if my grandson would be an orphan if I chose the martyr’s route.

Taking the thought experiment a step further, “What would I do if the persecutor told me, ‘Abandon your faith in Christ, or I’ll blow this kid’s head off’?” I am pretty sure that I would give up my religion to save Asher.

Jewish tradition deals in depth with the reality of martyrdom. Jews have lots of experience with that. The rule for Jews is that they should forfeit their lives if the alternative means committing idolatry, sexual immorality, or murder. To die instead committing those sins is kiddush hashem, meaning ‘sanctification of God’s name”. In all other cases, a Jew should do whatever is necessary to stay alive. Historically, during forced conversions, many Jews allowed themselves to be killed, others committed suicide, and some renounced Judaism to save themselves and their families. The rabbis and the scholars are divided on what is the best course of action.

The question that comes to my mind is: “What is more important? Dying for your faith or living it? Or are they two sides of the same coin?”

Scenes in religious movies usually show martyrdom in a heroic and dramatic fashion. The images are violent and bloody. People literally go out with a bang. What films don’t show are the people who give up their lives a little bit at a time. I know loving individuals who care for sick or disabled family members, and they do this work for years or decades. These folks are giving away their lives as a trickle of blood, a few drops every day until there is nothing left. They may not get recognized for it, but theirs is a slow-motion martyrdom. They die for God in the service of others. They will never get into a stained-glass window, but they are sacrificing just as much as the person who has “Jesus” on their lips just before they get a bullet in the head.

These people also bear witness.

Too Tired to Live, Too Busy to Die

August 5th, 2025

I have a t-shirt with a picture and quotation on it from Hunter S. Thompson, the gonzo journalist who wrote Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. I have always been a fan of Thompson, especially since I did a short stint in the Las Vegas jail back in 2017. I won’t describe that episode in this essay. I have written extensively about it elsewhere in my blog. You can find those articles if really look for them. Instead, look at the quote on the t-shirt. (See above).

I was wearing this t-shirt a couple days ago. I was sitting at the dinner table with my wife, Karin. We were both exhausted from a busy day. She stared at the t-shirt for a while, and then she said,

” ‘Too tired to live, too busy to die’. That’s us.”

Indeed it is.

We care fulltime for our grandson, Asher. He’s four-and-a-half years old. He is smart, active, and bursting with energy. Karin and I are not. Karin is seventy years old. I am sixty-seven. There are many days when we feel our age quite clearly, especially if we have been chasing Asher around nonstop. We can keep up with the boy, but just barely. As is fitting for his age, Asher is headstrong, and he tends to oppose our wishes. We grow weary of fighting with him. We were able to deal with willful kids thirty years ago, but now it can be an overwhelming challenge.

I pray each day. I don’t long recite prayers from a book. My petitions are straight and to the point. God literally placed the Asher in our home. As far as I am concerned, God gave us the job of raising him. Karin and I made an open-ended commitment to do just that when Asher was just a little baby. It is our spiritual calling. We have been conscientious about fulfilling our duty as his guardians, but it gets tough at times. I figure if God wants us to do the work, He/She better give us the strength to do so. When I pray for strength, it is often more of a demand than a request. I need the resources to keep going.

I also need the gift of discernment. I am a mere mortal. I can only do so much. I need to know my limits. God is only going to give me the strength that I need, and maybe not even that. If what I think I need exceeds that allotment, then I have a problem. I have to understand what I need to do, as opposed to what I want to do. I have to know how hard I can push myself.

I have a friend, Ken, who I know from the synagogue. He’s an Orthodox Jew. I go to his house almost every week for beer and conversation. We discuss our respective struggles. Ken likes to say that each person has a “peckla” (that’s a Yiddish word that could mean a backpack or a burden. Imagine a “peckla” as a load that a person carries on their back). Each person has a particular peckla that is specific to them. God knows every person’s strength and each individual carries a load that only they can manage. The burden I carry might crush another man, and the load he bears might be beyond my strength. I sometimes think of this load as a cross that I carry. Ken probably would not use that analogy.

The peckla that I carry is like my wife’s. We bear the burden of caring for Asher and bringing him to adulthood. We carry this weight voluntarily. We could set it down and say, “That’s enough. No More.” But we don’t. We won’t get rid of the peckla until we are unable to walk any further with it. We carry it because we love Asher, and he needs us. Love gives us the power to continue the journey with the peckla on our backs.

Love is sacrifice, and it is also strength.

Pray Boldly!

July 27th, 2025

The three of us went to Mass this morning, like we do almost every Sunday. Karin, Asher, and I sat in a pew near the altar at the front of the church. We always sit there. Asher needs to see what is going on during the liturgy. We brought along some things to keep Asher busy during the Mass: snacks for him to eat and crayons for him to draw. Karin and I want to get something out of the service, so we do what we can to make sure our four-year-old grandson does not become bored and restless. He does anyway, but we have to try.

The priest who celebrated the Mass was relatively young. He was enthusiastic and clearly loved the old school ritual. This priest is new to our parish. He’s only been with our congregation for five weeks, which is not enough time to get to know hardly anyone. He definitely knew nothing about our family when the service started. Things were different by the end of Mass.

My wife and I are raising our grandson. We are his legal guardians, and we have an open-ended commitment to care for him in a fulltime capacity. We expect to be involved in his growth and development as long as we live. Asher is a wonderful little boy, but he is a little boy with a plethora of needs. Caring for him is an all-consuming endeavor. We haven’t had a day off since he got out of the NICU at the end of 2020. Things may change, but for right now, Karin and I are his sole support. The responsibility is at times intense, at least for me.

In addition to that, we also have other crises that flare up. I find it all difficult to handle. It’s overwhelming. They say that God never gives you more than you bear, and I have found that to be utter nonsense. I have known people to be crushed like Job by their burdens. I often wonder if God cares. The evidence of his love and mercy seems kind of iffy.

The priest gave a homily (sermon) at Mass about the power of prayer. One of the scripture readings was from the Book of Genesis. It was the part where Abraham haggles with God for the lives any innocent people in Sodom and Gomorrah. I’ve always liked that passage. Abraham had chutzpah. Somehow, the priest tied that Bible reading to the topic of prayer. He used the story of Abraham as an example of a person praying with confidence. In fact, he exhorted us,

“Pray boldly!”

One thing he mentioned was that congregants sometimes approached him saying that they were angry with God. He would always ask them ,

“So, have you told God about this?”

The point was that God already knows if you are angry with him, and He apparently can deal with that. God doesn’t necessarily want somebody to flatter him. He wants a person to be completely open and honest in prayer. He wants a relationship more than anything else. Relationships can be rocky.

The priest spoke about other aspects of prayer, but his words concerning honesty and authenticity resonated with me. I don’t recite long, involved prayers. I cut to the chase. For a long time, I have been angry with God. Mostly, I have upset that innocents suffer, that kids like Asher suffer. I don’t mind him hurting me that much. I’m an asshole, so I probably deserve it. But why allow kids in Gaza to starve? Why let children in Ukraine get killed? That sort of thing pisses me off.

After Mass, I approached the priest to talk about prayer. He was busy gladhanding congregants. I don’t think he wasn’t expecting somebody to actually talk to him about his sermon. He gave a great sermon, and I really did listen to it. I suspect priests sometimes assume that everybody in church suffers from amnesia as they head for the parking lot.

I had Asher with me. I tried to quickly explain our situation and what a struggle it is. He listened. I said to him,

“Regarding prayer, my prayer to God is simple: ‘Stop fucking with me and give me the strength to do this.”

I am sure he thought I was unhinged. I probably am. So be it. I spoke from the heart.

He looked at me and said, “Keep praying! Reach out to me if you want to talk.”

Pray boldly.

Do the Right Thing, if There is One

June 24th, 2025

“And I divvied up my anger into 30 separate parts
Keep the bad shit in my liver, and the rest around my heart
I’m still angry at my parents, for what their parents did to them
But it’s a start” – from Growing Sideways by Noah Kahan

Sometimes people like to talk about making a fresh start. I don’t think that such a thing is possible. We are always in the middle of a story, one that has been going on for decades or millennia or even longer. When somebody comes into the physical world as an infant, he is she is not a tabula rasa. That person already carries the history of all life in their DNA. Every human arrives as a unique version of a history book. We are never at the beginning, and we are never at the end.

As Faulkner wrote, “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.”

I have spent the last couple weeks fighting with ghosts and inadvertently wounding the living. The evil that I have done or that others did a quarter century ago has come back to the forefront, and there has been hell to pay. I am not done paying, not by a long shot.

There are three people whom I love dearly. They hate each other. I cannot help one of them without hurting the others. I found that out quite clearly a few days ago. I had to make a decision to do something that was essential for the health and wellbeing of one of the three. I knew when I made the decision that it would devastate one of the others. I also knew that more individuals, outside of those three I mentioned, would be affected negatively. It was, and still is, an impossible situation. It makes me angry.

I think about the story in Genesis when Abraham haggles with God to get Him to show mercy to the inhabitants of Sodom and Gomorrah. As God is planning to nuke those two cities, Abraham asks Hashem,

“Should not the judge of all the world act with justice?”

I have a similar question. If God wants me to do the right thing, then why put me in a position where there is no right thing?

I am at a point where I do not ask, “How can I make things better?” I ask, “How can I keep from making things even worse?”

I am blind to many things. I understand the consequences of my actions far too late. I have made people angry with me. They’re right to be angry. Maybe I am right to be angry too. At some point I will apologize and try to make amends, but not now. I’m not sorry yet, or not sorry enough.

Everybody is wounded. We all bear the scars of the past, and as long as we live, the sins of the past live within us. The good that was done to us or for us lives there too. It helps if I can see the suffering of others. I may still harm them, but perhaps not as much.

Sometimes, I am tempted to despair. But that is a luxury I cannot afford. Too many people depend on me. My wife needs me. Our grandson, Asher, needs me. I have to keep going.

For them.