When I wake up in the morning and my body is functioning properly–even if I don’t feel 100% awake before consuming my first cup of coffee–I perform my morning ablutions without much introspection. I guess most people are pretty complacent about their morning bathroom routines…until something goes wrong. When the body ceases to function properly–when just one organ isn’t pulling its weight–then we notice.

The early rabbis attempted to combat this complacency with a blessing which is often referred to as “the bathroom blessing,” though it is meant to be recited after one exits the bathroom. I remember being mildly amused when I learned about this blessing; as a teenager I had no frame of reference in my own life experience for such a blessing. Now, as a woman in my 40′s, I strive to recite these words every day:

“Praised are You, God, who with wisdom designed the human body, creating in it openings, arteries, glands and organs, marvelous in structure, intricate in design. You know that if only one of them, by being blocked or opened, should fail to function, it would be impossible to exist. Praised are You, God, healer of all flesh and marvelous designer.”

If I make the effort to recognize God’s intelligent design of my body on a daily basis, perhaps I will not take its functioning properly for granted.

Andy Borowitz recently posted this video of his personal story, which he shared in 2009 at The Moth. He speaks with humor and grace about a life experience that shook his complacency about his body. I wonder if his rabbi encouraged his recitation of the bathroom blessing as a spiritual practice.

Note about the video: Borowitz uses strong language. Recommended for mature audiences only.

Many months ago, I attended a program on Islamaphobia sponsored by a local Interfaith Fellowship.  The panel discussion was moderated by well-trained, well-spoken volunteers from the Islamic Speakers Bureau.  During the Q&A portion, an older Christian “gentleman” stood up to ask a question out-of-turn. He abruptly concluded his impromptu remarks—which were not really a question at all—with the familiar, anti-Jewish canard, “and we all know who controls the media.”  The hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention as I waited for someone, anyone, to tell him that he had violated the safe space of the Fellowship. The moderator moved the Q&A along without comment; the program organizer was silent.

Was I being oversensitive? A Christian woman at my table confirmed that I was not. She heard it, too, and whispered that she would address it later—at dinner, perhaps to avoid giving any more air-time to hate speech.  The irony was not lost on me: My sense of belonging to this fellowship was shattered by hateful words toward Jews at a session on hatred toward Muslims.

Recently, I found myself in the Roswell Community Masjid participating in an open, informal discussion between Muslims and Jews. One of the panel members from the Islamaphobia program—an attorney who is articulate and approachable—revisited the occasion with me.  He acknowledged that the remark was clearly pejorative and that he could completely understand my feeling hurt and uncomfortable.

Then he invited me to look through his lens.

He told me that, at the time, he thought the man must have been old and senile.  In Islam, he told me, “we look for 100 excuses, and if none of those is satisfying, then we look for one more.”  Indeed, the early rabbis counseled a similar method in Mishnah Avot: “Judge every person with the scales tipped toward innocence.” This is not meant to excuse or even explain the man’s offensive speech; only to deflate his power to offend.

I still believe that this man was insensitive and he may have intended to be hurtful. However, I now realize that by judging him as an anti-Semite and censoring my response, I not only allowed him to hurt my feelings; I also denied him the opportunity to be more sensitive in the future.

Despite that truth has many facets, in its raw and unpolished state it is often not pretty. People don’t want to see the unvarnished truth; we would rather gaze at shiny things which dazzle and delight us. We prefer our truth varnished.

Varnish is, according to the dictionary that I consulted, “a preparation consisting of resinous matter dissolved in oil, alcohol or other volatile liquid.  When applied to the surface of wood, metal, etc., it dries and leaves a hard, more or less glossy, usually transparent coating.”  It is used to improve the appearance of the object it covers.  In the case of truth, varnish not only provides a glossy sheen which makes the truth more attractive but also a protective coating against those who would impugn the message on its surface.

Varnish does not hide imperfections as it glosses over them. This makes it the perfect top-coat for truth, since there is no perfect truth. When viewed from various angles we can see that the truth is messy and unkempt, and deeply gouged by those who declaim it.  The unvarnished truth is defenseless—anyone can carve into its surface and later claim to have discovered it in its purest form. But we know better, as did Oscar Wilde, who once quipped, “The pure and simple truth is rarely pure and never simple.”

To grasp the tainted and complicated truth requires great strength.  Every layer must be stripped to reveal its essence hidden beneath the build-up that has accumulated over the years. Only then can we accept the many truths that others cherish.  So instead of striving for the unvarnished truth, I will continue to polish my truths until I am able to examine their smooth surfaces, carefully discerning and celebrating the imperfections beneath a perfect sheen of varnish.